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 THE 
 
 WORK S 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 ALSO 
 
 A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 BY J. W. LAKE. 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 1867.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LIFE OF LORD b K RON. 
 
 HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 On leaving Newstead Abbey - - - Page 1 
 
 Epitaph on a Friend - - - - ib. 
 
 A Fragment - .......2 
 
 The Tear ..... - - - - ib. 
 
 An Occasional Prologue - - ib. 
 
 On the Death ol' Mr. Fox - - - 3 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady ... ..... ib. 
 
 To Woman - 
 i'o M. S. G. 
 
 To Mary 
 
 Damajtas - - 
 
 To Marion 
 
 Oscar ot'Alva ----- 
 To the Duke of D. - 
 
 7^-anslations and Imitations. 
 
 Adrian's Address to his Soul, when dying 
 
 1 ranslation --------- 
 
 Translation from Catullus ------ 
 
 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibulius 
 Translation liom Catullus- - - ... 
 Imitated from Catullus - - 
 
 Translation froru Anacreon - - - - 
 
 Ode HI - - 
 
 Fran.Tient from the Prometheus Vinctus - 
 The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 
 Translation from the Medea of Euripides 
 Fugitive Pieces. 
 
 Thoughts suggested by a College Examination 
 To the Earl of ***--- 
 
 (.'ran la, a Medley 
 
 Lachiri y Gair ....... 
 
 To Romance 
 
 Elegy on Newstead Abbey ------ 
 
 To E. N. L. Es<j - 
 
 To - 
 
 Stanzas- - -------- 
 
 Lines written beneatn an Elm in the Churchyard of Har- 
 row on the Hill. -------- 
 
 The death of Caltnar and Orla ------ 
 
 m 
 
 334 
 
 - 3fil 
 
 - 384 
 -427 
 
 - 445 
 
 - 4.S7 
 
 CRITIQUE extracted from the Edinburgh Review, No 
 22, for January, 1808 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS - 
 
 Postscript ---------- 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE - - - - 
 
 Notes 
 
 THE GIAOUR 
 
 Notes 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDO8 
 
 Notes ----- 
 
 THE CORSAIR - - 
 
 Notes 
 
 LARA 
 
 Note --------.-. 
 
 THE CURSE DF MINERVA 
 
 Notes - ......... 
 
 I'HE SIEGE C,? CORINTH - 
 
 Notes - 
 
 PARISINA - - - 
 
 Notes .-- 
 
 I'HE PRISONER OF CH1LLON 
 
 Notes --------- 
 
 BEPPO 
 
 Notes --.-.--. 
 
 MAZEPPA 
 
 MANFRED - - - 
 
 Notes - - 
 
 MARINO FALIERO 
 
 Notes 
 
 Appendix ---------- 
 
 SARDANA/r-ALUS 
 
 Note* - ... 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 Appendix ----... 
 
 CAIN 
 
 WERNER 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED - 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH - ... 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTB 
 
 Notes 
 
 THE ISLAND - . . 4$, 
 
 Appendix - - 476 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE - - . . . . 4^0 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 187 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE 495 
 
 WALTZ - -502 
 
 Notes - ---... 5j5 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO 500 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 She walks in beauty ------ 
 
 The harp the monarch minstre swept 
 
 It' that high world ---.-. 
 
 The wild gazelle ----.. 
 
 Oh ! weep lor those ----.. 
 
 On Jordan's banks .... 
 
 Juphtha's daughter ------ 
 
 Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom - 
 My si ml is dark ----.. 
 
 I saw thee weep -----.. 
 
 Thy days are done - 
 
 BUM of Saul before his last battle 
 
 Saul 
 
 " All is vanity, saith the preacher" - - - 
 YVheii coldness wraps this suffering clay 
 Vision of Belshazzar ------ 
 
 Sun uf the sleeple 
 
 - 50 
 
 - soy 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - in 
 
 - 510 
 
 - i b. 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - 511 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - ib. 
 
 Dim in inu sleepless - ----.. j|j 
 
 Were my busoni as false as thou dee.Ti'st it to be - - 5|-j 
 Herod's lament for Mariainne ------ ib 
 
 On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem by Titua - ib. 
 liy the rivers of Babylon we pat down and wept - - ib 
 The dt-giruct ion of Sennacherib ----- ,b 
 
 From Job - .... .513 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte -----. 
 MorrTidy on the death of the Right Hon H. B. Sheridan 
 The Irish Avatar ---.-.. 
 
 The Dream 
 
 Ode (to Venice) ------..- 
 
 Lines written in an Album ----.. 
 
 Romance mny doloroso del sitio y toma de Alhama - 
 
 A very mournful Ballad on the siege and conquest of 
 
 Alhama --------.. 
 
 Sonetio di Vittorelli. with translation - 
 Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf 
 
 composed in a thunder-storm near mount Pin- 
 
 dus 
 
 Lines written at Athens ---._. 
 
 written beneath a picture ----- 
 
 written after swimming from Scstos to Abydoi 
 
 Z<ir; uuv aas ayairia ---... 
 
 Translation of a Greek war eong ... 
 
 Translation of a Romaic song ----- 
 
 On parting ------. 
 
 5IS 
 514 
 515 
 5lfi 
 51H 
 SIU 
 5L.'0 
 
 ih. 
 5-.S 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 Sit 
 
 ib. 
 
 Thyr 
 
 Sian/as 
 
 To Thyrza - 
 
 Euthanasia - 
 
 Stanzas - 
 
 On a cornelian heart which was broken - 
 To a ynnthful friend - .... 
 
 ]' ****** -----... 
 
 From the Portuguese ------ 
 
 Impromptu, in reply to a friend - - - - 
 
 Address, spoken at the opening of Drury-lane 
 To Time -----.-. 
 
 Translation of a Romaic love song 
 
 A Sng - - . 
 
 On beine ask'd what was the "origin of love" 
 Remember him, etc. ------ 
 
 Lines inscribed upon a cup formed from a skull 
 On the death of Sir Peter Parker Bart - 
 
 ib. 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 \n 
 
 9994fiT 
 
 /C/C^ itJJL..
 
 IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To & I, ady weeping 
 Fron the Turkish 
 fonni.t to Genevra 
 
 - 532 
 
 - ib. 
 
 - ib. 
 ib 
 
 Inscription on the monument of a Newfoundland dog - ih. 
 Farewell ---------- 5;>3 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ------ ih. 
 
 When we two p rtod -------- ih. 
 
 S;mizas for muni.: -------- jb. 
 
 Fare thuewt.. ih. 
 
 To *** ib. 
 
 O,le (from the French) 535 
 
 From the French - Si 
 
 On the Star ot'tbe Legion of Honour (from the French) ib. 
 Napoleon's Farewell (from the French) - - - - 537 
 
 S'nnel ih. 
 
 Written on a blank leaf of "The Pleasures of Memory ib. 
 Stanzas to*** --------- ib. 
 
 Darkness ..-....-- 53^ 
 
 Churchill's Grave -------- ib. 
 
 Prometheus --------- 539 
 
 Ode ih. 
 
 Windsor Poetics 540 
 
 A sketch from private life - - .... j|,. 
 
 Carmina Byronis in C. EUin ------ 541 
 
 Lines to Mr. Moore -------- jli. 
 
 "On this day 1 complete my thirty-sixth year" - - ib. 
 
 LETTER TO**** ***** ON BOWLES'S STRIC- 
 TURES ON POPE 542 
 
 A FRAGMENT 552 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES - - - 553 
 
 DON JUAN - - - 561 
 
 Notes 704 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 711 
 
 ADDITIONS TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 On a distant view of the Village and School of Harrow 
 on the Hill - - - - 722 
 
 To D. ib. 
 
 To Eddlcston --- -.-.-ib. 
 
 Reply to sum-! Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq. - - ih. 
 
 To the siuhing Birephon ------ -723 
 
 To Miss Pi-ot - - - - - - - - - ib. 
 
 Lines written in "Letters of an Italian Nun and an 
 English Gentleman 724 
 
 The Cornelian --------- jb. 
 
 (In the Death of a Young Lady ----- j|>. 
 
 To Emma ---------- jb. 
 
 To M. S. G. - - - - .... 725 
 
 To Caroline - - - - - ih. 
 
 To Caroline --- ..... j|,. 
 
 To Caroline - - 721! 
 
 The First Kiss of Love ... - ih. 
 
 To a beautiful Quaker - ih. 
 
 To Lesbia -- ------ 7.37 
 
 Lines addressed to a Young Lady - - !>. 
 
 The. Last Adieu ih. 
 
 Translation from Horace ------- 7'jy 
 
 Fugitive Pieces 
 
 Answer to Verse* sent by a Friend - - - - - 728 
 
 On a Change of Masters at a great public School - 729 
 
 Childish Recollections ih. 
 
 Answer to a Poem written by Montgomery - - -733 
 
 To the Rev. J. T. Becher 734 
 
 To MissChaworlh --.---.-ih. 
 
 Remembrance -------- -ib. 
 
 VfSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Blues 735 
 
 The Third Act of Manfred, in its oricinal shape - - 738 
 To my dear Mary Anne - - - - - - -741 
 
 To Miss Chaworth -----. - jb. 
 
 fragment ---------- jh. 
 
 The I raycr of Nature - - - - - - ib. 
 
 'Idrrow 742 
 
 L'Amitie est I' Amour suns Ailes 
 To my Son 
 
 Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell 
 
 Fragment 
 
 To Mis. *** 
 A Love-Song 
 
 -18 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 Sum/us t *** on leaving England - - - 
 
 Lines tu Mr. Hoficnun - 
 
 Lines in the Traveller' Book at Orchomenus 
 
 On M.ior.. 1 " last ()|>i-ialic Farce - - - 
 Epistle to Mr. II. 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 -74: 
 -741 
 
 ib 
 
 f 
 
 Do Lord Thnrlow's I'm ms 
 T.. Lord Thnrlow - - 
 
 T.-Tlic 
 
 -Me 
 
 Fragiwni ol 'an Epistle to Thomas Moore 
 
 Tn-' Devil's Drive - 
 
 Additional Stanza** to the Ode to Napoleon Bnnaod/le 
 
 To Lady Canine Lainb 
 
 Stanzas for Mu>ic 
 
 intended to be recited at the Caledonian Meet- 
 - - 
 
 On the Prince Regent's returning the Picture of Sarah. 
 Countess of Jersey, to Mrs. Nice 
 
 To BelstMzznr 
 
 They say that Hope is Happiness 
 Lines intended for the opening of "The siege of Cornth" 
 l-'xiract from an unpublished Poem - - - - - 
 To AUIMI--!:I ---------- 
 
 To Thomas Moore 
 
 Stanzas to the river Po 
 
 Sonnet to George the Fourth ---... 
 Francfsca of Rimini ------- 
 
 Stanzas to her who best can understand them 
 
 To the Counless of BleninftOB 
 
 Stanzas written on the Road between Florence <iOd Pisa 
 
 Impromptu ------- -. 
 
 To a Vain Lnily 
 
 Farewell to the Muse - - - 
 
 To Anne - 
 
 To the same ------- - - 
 
 To the Author of a Sonnet - - 
 
 On tindiii; a Fan - ----- . 
 
 To an Oak at Ncwstead - - - - - 
 
 Dedication to Dun Juan - - - - 
 
 Parenthetical Address by Dr. Plagiary - - - - 
 
 Oh never talk again to me - - 
 
 Farewell to Malta 
 
 Endorsement to the Deed of Separation - - - - 
 
 Who kill'd John Keats 
 
 Song for the Luddites 
 
 The Cham I gave 
 
 Epitaph for Jowph Blacked ------ 
 
 S.i we 'II go no more a roving ----.. 
 
 Lines nn hearing that Lady Byron was ill - 
 
 T.I *** - 
 
 Marl al. Lib. I. Epig. I. 
 
 T>> Dives ------... 
 
 Verses t'uunrt in H Summer- House at Hales Owen 
 From the French ------ 
 
 New Duet 
 
 Answer -------.. 
 
 F.pigrams 
 
 IV Conquest 
 
 Vehicles --------. 
 
 Epivram. from the French of Rulhieres - 
 
 To Mr. Murray - - - - . 
 
 Episilr from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori 
 fpis'leto Mr. Murray ---.-. 
 
 To Mr. Murray 
 
 To Thomas Moore 
 
 Sianzss- 
 
 Fpitaph t'.r VVillinm Pitt 
 
 On my Wedding-day ------ 
 
 Fpigram -------- 
 
 The Charity Ball - .... 
 
 Kpieram 
 
 To Mr. Murray - 
 
 Stanzas, to a Hindoo Air -' - 
 
 On the birth of John William Rizzo Hopr er 
 
 Stanzas ----.- 
 
 ih 
 75t 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 75J 
 
 ib. 
 75? 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 75 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 751 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 75t 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 75t 
 ib. 
 
 75!, 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 7fiC 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 761 
 ib. 
 ih. 
 ih. 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 ih. 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 
 7S 
 ib 
 ih. 
 
 7(53 
 ib. 
 ib 
 ib. 
 ib 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 >b 
 il, 
 1.4 
 ib
 
 acfe ot Eottr 
 
 BY J. W. LAKE 
 
 O'er the Iwrp, from earliest years beloved, 
 He threw his fingers hurriedly, and tones 
 Of melancholy beauty died away 
 Upon its strings of sweetness. 
 
 IT was reserved for the present age to pro- 
 uce one distinguished example of the Muse 
 laving descended upon a bard of a wounded 
 spirit, and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of 
 no ordinary description; afflictions originating 
 probably in that singular combination of feel- 
 ing iviih imagination which has been called 
 the poetical temperament, and which has so 
 often saddened the days of those on whom it 
 lias been conferred. If ever a man was enti- 
 tled to lay claim to that character in all its 
 strength and all its weakness, with its un- 
 bounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite 
 sensibility of pleasure and of pain, that man 
 was Lord Byron. Nor does it require much 
 time, or a deep acquaintance with human na- 
 ture, to discover why these extraordinary 
 powers should in so many cases have con- 
 tributed more to the wretchedness than to the 
 happiness of their possessor. 
 
 The " imagination all compact," which the 
 greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as 
 the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in 
 every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, 
 indeed, our expectations, and can often bid 
 its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason; 
 but the delusive pleasure arising from these 
 visions of imagination, resembles that of a 
 child whose notice is attracted by a fragment 
 of glass to which a sunbeam has given mo- 
 mentary splendour. He hastens to the spot 
 wilh breathless impatience, and finds that the 
 object of his curiosity and expectation is 
 equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the 
 man of quick and exalted powers of imagina- 
 tion : his fancy over-estimates the object of 
 his wishes; and pleasure, tame, distinction, 
 are alternately pursued, attained, and despised 
 when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit 
 m 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 hal- 
 lucination under the influence,of which it was 
 undertaken. The disproportion between hope 
 and possession, which is felt by all men, is thus 
 doubled to those whom nature has endowed 
 with the power of gilding a distant prospect 
 by the rays of imagination. 
 
 We think that many points of resemblance 
 may be traced between Byron and Kousseau. 
 Both are distinguished by the most ardent and 
 vivid delineation of intense conception, and 
 by a deep sensibility of passion rather than of 
 affection. Both too, by this double power. 
 
 have held a dominion over the sympathy of iscrutahle nature. 
 
 A 2 
 
 their readers, far beyoud the rar.se of those 
 ordinary feelings which are usually excited 
 by the mere efforts of genius. The impression 
 of this interest still accompanies the perusal 
 of their writings; but there is another interest, 
 of more lasting and far stronger power, which 
 each of them possessed, which lies in the 
 continual embodying of the individual charac- 
 ter, it might almost be said of the very person 
 of the writer. When we speak or think of 
 Rousseau or Byron, we are not conscious of 
 speaking or thinking of an author. We have 
 a vague but impassioned remembrance of men 
 of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power, 
 of prodigious capacity both of misery and 
 happiness. We feel as if we had transiently 
 met such beings in real life, or had known 
 them in the dim and dark communion of a 
 dream. Each of their works presents, in suc- 
 cession, a fresh idea of themselves ; and, while 
 the productions of other great men stand out 
 from them, like something they have created. 
 theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures 
 busts of their living selves, clothed, no doubt, 
 at different times, in different drapery, and 
 prominent from a different back-ground, but 
 uniformly impressed with the same form, and 
 mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken 
 for the representations of any other of the 
 children of men. 
 
 But this view of the subject, though univer- 
 sally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a 
 little explanation. The personal character of 
 which we have spoken, it should be under- 
 stood, is not altogether that on which the seal 
 of life has been set, and to which, therefore, 
 moral approval or condemnation is necessa- 
 rily 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 writers 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 nimself, 
 though not for another; and they have made 
 disclosures to th'e 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 untroubled, the lofty and the 
 low, the strongest and the frailest, are linked 
 together by the bonds of a common bul in
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Thus, each of these wayward and richly- 
 gifted spirits made himself the object of pro- 
 Found interest to the world, and that too dur- 
 ing periods of society when ample food was 
 e^ery where spread abroad for the meditations 
 and passions of men. 
 
 Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and 
 birth, a close resemblance in their passions 
 and their genius may be traced too between 
 Byron and Robert Burns. Their careers 
 were short and glorious, and they both perish- 
 ed 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 the richness of her 
 benefactions : the genius of Burns raised him 
 to a level with the nobles of the land; by na- 
 ture, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. 
 Thoy 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 vehe- 
 mence 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 differ- 
 ent from each other as from their own, has 
 given to their productions the inexpressible 
 charm of variety, and has often secured them 
 from that neglect which in general attends 
 what is technically called mannerism. But it 
 was reserved for Lord Byron (previous to his 
 Don Juan) to present the same character on 
 the public stage again and again, varied only 
 oy the exertions of that powerful genius, 
 which, searching the springs of passion and 
 of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew 
 how to combine their operations, so that the 
 interest was eternally varying, and never 
 abated, although the most important person 
 of the drama retained the same lineaments. 
 
 " 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. That voice is silent for ever, which, 
 bursting so frequently on our car, was often 
 heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes 
 with regret, but always \vit\\ the deepest in- 
 terest." Yet the impression of his works still 
 remains vivid and strong. The charm which 
 cannot pass away is there, life breathing in 
 dead words the stern grandeur the intense 
 power and energy the fresh beauty, the un- 
 dimrned lustre the immortal bloom, and ver- 
 dure, and fragrance of life, all those still are 
 Ihere. 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. 
 
 H might, at first, seem that his undisguised 
 (evelation of feelings and passions, which the 
 l-ecorninCT pride of human nature, jealous of 
 ils own dignity, would in general desire to 
 hold in unviolated silence, could have pro- 
 duced in the public mind only pity, sorrow, 
 or repugnance. But in the case of men of 
 -<:al genius, like Bvron it is otherwise: they 
 
 are not felt, while we read, as declarations 
 published to the world, but almost as secrets 
 whispered to chosen ears. Who is there'that 
 feels for a moment, that the voice which 
 reaches the inmost recesses of his heart is 
 speaking to the careless multitudes around 
 him? Or if we do so remember, the words 
 seem to pass by others like air, and to find 
 their way to the hearts for whom they were 
 intended ; kindred and sympathetic spirits, 
 who discern and own that secret language, 
 of which the privacy is not violated, though 
 spoken in hearing of the uninitiated, because 
 it is not understood. A great poet may ad- 
 dress 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 repel- 
 led, by real, living, breathing features. He 
 con updraw just as much of the curtain as he 
 chooses, that hangs between his own solitude 
 and the world of life. He there pours his soul 
 out, partly to himself alone," partly to the ideal 
 abstractions and impersonated images that 
 float around him at his own conjuration; and 
 partly to human beings like himself, moving 
 in the dark distance of the every-day world. 
 He confesses himself, not before men, but 
 before the spirit of humanity ; and he thus 
 fearlessly lays open his heart, assured that 
 najture never prompted unto genius that which 
 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 believing that 
 his own mind has gone through those states 
 of disorder, in its own experience of life. We 
 merely conceive of it, as having felt within 
 itself the capacity of such disorders, and there- 
 fore 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 themselves in the cha- 
 racters which they pourtray. Their poetical 
 personages have no references to themselves, 
 but are distinct, independent creatures ol 
 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. Charac- 
 ter is first, and all in all ; it is dictated, com- 
 pelled by some force in his own mind ne- 
 cessitating him, and the events obey. Hi 
 poems, therefore, excepting Don Juan, are 
 not full and complete narrations of some one 
 definite story, containing within itself ;\ pic- 
 ture of human life. They are merely bold, 
 confused, and turbulent exemplifications of 
 certain sweeping energi"? and irres/stiblo 
 passions; they r.re fragments cf a poet 1 :.'. dark 
 dream of life.' The very perjonages, riv'vdl)
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 vil 
 
 as they are pictured, are yet felt to be ficti- 
 tious, 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 feelings 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 in- 
 tense sensibility of passion, an almost bound- 
 less capacity of tumultuous emotion, a boast- 
 ing admiration of the grandeur of disordered 
 power, and, above all, a soul-felt, blood-felt 
 delight in beauty a beauty, which, in his 
 wild creation, is often scared away from the 
 agitated surface of life by storrnie'r passions, 
 but which, like a bird of calm, is for ever re- 
 turning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere the 
 black swell has finally subsided into sunshine 
 and peace. 
 
 These reflections naturally precede the 
 sketch we are about to attempt of Lord By- 
 ron's literary and private life : indeed, they 
 are in a manner forced upon us by his poetry, 
 by the sentiments of weariness of existence 
 and enmity with the world which it so fre- 
 quently expresses, and by the singular analo- 
 gy which such sentiments hold with the real 
 incidents of his life. 
 
 Lord Byron was descended from an illus- 
 trious line of ancestry. From the period of 
 the Conquest, his family were distinguished, 
 not merely for their extensive manors in Lan- 
 cashire 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 
 jervice in Bosworth field to the Earl of Rich- 
 mond, and contributed by his valour to trans- 
 fer 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 as a brave 
 warrior. He was very intimate with his neigh- 
 bour SirGervase Clifton; and, although By- 
 ron fought under Henry, and Clifton under 
 Richard, it did not diminish their friendship, 
 but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test. 
 Previous to the battle, the prize of which was 
 a kingdom, they had mutually promised that 
 whichever of them was vanquished, the other 
 should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of 
 his friend's estate. While Clifton was bravely 
 fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck 
 off his horse, which Byron perceiving, lie 
 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 kin^: the estate was pre- 
 served to the Clifton family, and is now in the 
 possession of a descendant of Sir Gervase. 
 
 In the wars between Charles the First and 
 .'he Parliament, the Byrons adhered to the 
 royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest 
 brother and representative of the family, was 
 an eminent loyalist, who, having distinguished 
 himself in the wars of the Low Countries, 
 was. appointed governor of Chelsea, in 1642. 
 
 He had two sons, who both died without issue: 
 and his youneer brother, Sir John, became 
 their heir. Tin's person was made a Knight 
 of the Bath, at the coronation of Jame Ilifi 
 First. He had. eleven sons, most of v!;uin 
 distinguished themselves for their loyaii / and 
 gallantry on the side of Charles the I- 1 -rsr 
 Seven of these brothers were engaged ^i the 
 battle of Marston-moor, of whom four fell i.. 
 defence of the royal cause. Sir John Byron, 
 one of the survivors, was appointed to many 
 important commands, and on the 26th of Oc- 
 tober, 1643, was created Lord Byron, with a 
 collateral remainder to his brothers. On the 
 decline of the king's affairs, he was appointed 
 governor to the Duke of York, and ? in this 
 office, died without issue, in France, in 1652; 
 upon which his brother Richard, a celebrated 
 cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He 
 was governor of Appleby Castle, and distin- 
 guished himself at Newark. He died in 1 697, 
 aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his 
 eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, 
 the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of 
 the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five 
 sons, allof 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 par* 
 of his life in the navy. In 1763, he was made 
 master of the stag-hounds ; and in 1 765, was 
 sent to the Tower, and tried before the HOUSP 
 of Peers, for killing his relation and neigh- 
 bour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel. The follow 
 ing 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 Nottingham- 
 shire 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. Cha- 
 worth, having paid his share of the bill, retired. 
 Lord Byron followed him out of the room in 
 which they had dined, and, stopping him on 
 the landing of the stairs, called to the 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 mor- 
 tally wounded. He said that Lord Byron and 
 he entered the room together, Lord Bvron 
 leading the way; that his lordship, in walking 
 forward, said something relative to the lonnei 
 dispute, on which he proposed fastening the 
 door; that on turning himself round from this 
 act. he perceived his lordship w>th his sword 
 half drawn, or nearly so: on which, knowinq 
 his man, he instantly drew his own, and made 
 a thrust at him, which he thought had wound- 
 ed 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 )iis body, and go
 
 vn 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 <eep Ihrowgh his back; that lie struggled, and 
 neirijr the stronger man, disarmed his l 
 
 lordship, 
 
 and expressed a concern, as under the appre- 
 hension of having mortally wounded him; 
 that Lord Byron replied by saying something 
 (o the like effect, adding at the same time, 
 that he hoped " he would now allow him to 
 be as brave a man as any in the kingdom." 
 
 For this offence he was unanimously con- 
 victeu of manslaughter, but, on being brought 
 up for judgment, pleaded his pri v ilege as a 
 peer, and was, in consequence, discharged. 
 After this affair he was abandoned by his rela- 
 tions, 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 
 with his neighbours and tenants, and sufficient 
 punishment in their hatred. One of his amuse- 
 ments 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 which he was aware it must pass at his 
 death, all his own children having descended 
 before him to the grave. 
 
 John, the next brother to William, and born 
 in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a 
 very different disposition, although his career 
 in life was almost an unbroken scene of mis- 
 fortunes. The hardships he endured 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 
 eceived an excellent education, and whose 
 father procured for him a commission in the 
 euards, was so dissipated that he was known 
 by the name of" mad Jack Byron." He was 
 one of the handsomest men of his time ; but 
 his character was so notorious, that his father 
 " is obliged to desert him, an! his company 
 was shunned by the better Dart of society. 
 'n his twenty-seventh year, he seduced the 
 ivl arc hioness 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 remor&e on hers, was dissolved 
 in two years, by her sinking to the grave, the 
 victim of a broken heart. About three years 
 subsequently, Captain Byron sought to recruit 
 his fortunes by matrimony, and having made 
 a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an 
 Aberdeenshire heiress (lineally descended 
 from the Eail of Huntley and the Princess 
 Jane, daughter of James II. of Scotland,} he 
 united himself to her, ran through her proper- 
 ty in a few ^ears, and, leaving her and her 
 only chilo, the subject of this memoir, in a 
 .lest'tute and defenceless state, fied to France 
 
 to avoid his creditors, and died at Valencien, 
 nes, in 1791. 
 
 In Captain Medwin's " Conversations o* 
 Lord Bvron," the following expressions ars 
 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 say- 
 ing, ' 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 
 ' Coelebs in search of a wife.' He would have 
 made a bad hero for Hannah More. He ran 
 out three fortunes, and married or ran away 
 with three women ; and once wanted a guinea 
 that he wrote for : I have the note. He seem- 
 ed born for his own ruin, and that of the other 
 sex. He began by seducing Lady Carmar- 
 then, and spent for her four thousand pounds 
 a-year ; and, not content with one adventure 
 of this kind, afterwards eloped with Miss 
 Gordon. This marriage was not destined to 
 be a very 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 flitch.' " 
 
 George Byron Gordon (for so he was called 
 on account of the neglect his father's family 
 had shown to his mother) was born at Dover 
 on the 22d of January, 1 788. On the unnatu- 
 ral 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 natu- 
 rally 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 
 affectionate scene, would laugh and ridicule 
 him about it. This excessive maternal indul- 
 gence, and the absence of that salutary disci- 
 pline and control so necessary to childhood, 
 doubtless contributed to the formation of the 
 less pleasing features of Lord Byron's charac- 
 ter. 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, na 
 turally solicited for him in the heart of a mo 
 ther a more than orci nary portion of tender 
 ness. For these latter reasons, he was not soul 
 very early to school, but was allowed to ex 
 pand his lungs, and brace his limbs, v.pon the 
 mountains of the neighbourhood. This was 
 evidently the most judicious method for im 
 parting strength to his bodily frame ; and tlu; 
 sequel showed that it was far from the worst 
 for giving tone and t gour to his mil 1. The
 
 ^ OF LORD BVRON. 
 
 ravage grandeur of nature around him ; the 
 feeling that he was upon hills where 
 
 " Foreign tyrant never trod, 
 But Freedom with her faulchion bright, 
 Swept the stranger from her sight ;" 
 
 nis intercourse with a people whose chief 
 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. 
 
 AVhen George was seven years of age, his 
 mother sent him to the grammar-school at 
 Aberdeen, where he remained till his removal 
 to Harrow, with the exception of some inter- 
 vals of absence, which were deemed requisite 
 for the establishment of his health. His pro- 
 gress beyond that of the general rim of his 
 class-fellows, was never so remarkable as 
 after those occasional intervals, when, in a few 
 days, he would master exercises which, in the 
 school routine, it had required weeks to ac- 
 complish. But when he had overtaken the 
 rest of the class, he always relaxed his exer- 
 tions, and, contenting himself with being con- 
 sidered 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 thine: 
 in all boyish games and amusements, he would 
 be first if possible. For this he was emi- 
 nently 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. 
 shooting, swimming, and managing a horse, 
 or steering and trimming the sails of a boat, 
 constituted his chief delights, and, to the super- 
 ficial observer, seemed his sole occupations. 
 
 He was exceedingly brave, and in the ju- 
 venile wars of the school, he generally gained 
 the victory; upon one occasion, a boy pur- 
 sued by another took refuge in Mrs. Byron's 
 house : the latter, who had been much abused 
 *>y the former, proceeded to take vengeance 
 m him even on the landing-place of the draw- 
 ing-room stairs, when George interposed in 
 his defence, declaring that nobody should be 
 ill-used while under his roof and "protection. 
 Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight : 
 and, although the former was by much the 
 stronger of tte two, the spirit of youriir Byron 
 was so determined, that after the combat had 
 lasted for nearly two hours, it was suspend- 
 ed because both the boys were entirely ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 A school-fellow of Byron had a very small 
 .Shetland pony, which his father had bought 
 him: and one day they went to the banks of 
 the Don to hathf; but havine only one pony. 
 they were obliged to follow the good old prac- 
 tice relied in Scotland " ride and tie." When 
 they cainc to the bridsre over that dark ro- 
 mantic stream, Byron bethoueht him of the 
 irophccv which he has quoted in Don Juan : 
 
 " Brig of Balgounie, black's your wo'; 
 Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's ae fouL 
 Doun ye shall fa'." 
 
 He immediately stopped his companion, win 
 was then riding, and asked him if he remem 
 bered the prophecy, saying, that as they were 
 both only sons, and as the pony might be " s 
 mare's ae foal," he would rather ride over first; 
 because he had only a mother to lament him, 
 should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling 
 of the bridge, whereas the other had both a 
 father and a mother to grieve for him. 
 
 It is the custom of the grammar-schcol at 
 Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes 
 of which it is composed, should be assembled 
 for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock 
 in the morning; after prayers, a censor calls 
 over the names of all, and" those who are ab- 
 sent are punished. The first time that Lord 
 Byron had come to school after his accession 
 to his title, the rector had caused his name to 
 be inserted in the censor's book, Georgius 
 Dominus de Byron, instead of G?orgius Byron 
 Gordon, as formerly. The boys, unaccus- 
 tomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud 
 and involuntary shout, which had such an ef- 
 fect on his sensitive mind that he burst into 
 tears, and would have fled from the school, 
 had lie not been restrained by the master. 
 
 An answer which Lord Byron made to a 
 fellow scholar, who questioned him as to the 
 cause of the honorary addition of " Dorninus 
 de Byron" to his name, served at that time, 
 when he was only ten years of age, to point 
 out that lie would be a man who would think, 
 speak, and act for himself who, whatever 
 might be his sayings or his doings, his vice? 
 or his virtues, would not condescend to takp 
 them at second-hand. This happened on the 
 very day after lie had been menaced with being 
 Hogged round the school for a fault which he 
 had not committed ; and when the question 
 was put to him, he replied, " it is not my do- 
 ing; Fortune was to whip me yesterday fe" 
 what another did, and she has this day made 
 me a lord for what another lias ceased to do. 
 I need not thank her in either case, for I have 
 asked nothing at her hands.'' 
 
 On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fih 
 Lord Byron, departed this life at Newstead. 
 As the son of this eccentric nobleman had died 
 ivhen George was five years old, and as the 
 descent both of the titles and estates was to 
 heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded 
 his great-uncle. Upon this change of fortune, 
 Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was re- 
 moved from the immediate care of his mother 
 and placed as a ward under the guardianship 
 of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had mar- 
 ried Isabella, the sister of the preceding Lord 
 Byron. In one or two points of character 
 this great-aunt resembled the bard: she also 
 wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorning the 
 gav and fashionable world for many years, she 
 left it without any apparent cause, and with 
 perfect indifference, and in a great measure 
 secluded herself from society. 
 
 The young nobleman's guardian decided 
 that he should receive the usual education 
 given to England's titled sons, and that be
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 should, in 1lie first instance, be sent to the 
 public schoil at Harrow. He was accord- 
 ingly placel 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 does 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 hoy, out 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 considera- 
 ble, it is by no means surprising that he should 
 have been betrayed into every sort of extrav- 
 agance : none of them appear, however, to 
 have been of a very culpable nature. . 
 
 " Though he was lame," says one of his 
 school-fellows, " he was a great lover of sports, 
 and preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished 
 even Helicon for ' duck-puddle,' and gave up 
 the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for 
 a game of cricket on the common. He was 
 not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learn- 
 ing, 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 with Pitt?' (a brewer's 
 son) said I to him in a letter (for I had wit- 
 nessed it), but it seems that he had forgotten 
 it. ' You are mistaken, I think,' said he in 
 reply ; ' it must have been with Rice-Pud- 
 ding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the 
 Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce 
 (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses 
 Moore (the ctod), or with somebody else, and 
 not with Pitt; for with all the above-named, 
 and other worthies of the fist, had I an inter- 
 change of black eyes and bloody noses, at 
 various and sundry periods ; however it may 
 have happened for all that.' " 
 
 The annexed anecdotes are characteristic : 
 
 The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in 
 their wisdom had resolved to set fire to the 
 scene of all their ills and troubles the school- 
 room : Byron, however, was against the mo- 
 tion; and by pointing out to the young rebels 
 the names of their fathers on the walls, he 
 prevented the intended conflagration. This 
 early specimen of his power over the passions 
 of his school-fellows, his lordship piqued him- 
 self not a little upon. 
 
 Byron long retained a friendship for several 
 of his Harrow school-fellows ; Lord Clare was 
 one of his constant correspondents ; Scroopc 
 Davies was also one of his chief companions, 
 before his lordship went to the continent. 
 This gentleman and Byron once lost all their 
 money at "chicken hazard," in one of the 
 bells of St. James's, and the next morning 
 l)nvies sent for Byron's pistols to shoot him- 
 tclf with; Byron sent a note refusing to give 
 them, on the ground that they would be for- 
 feited as a deodand. This comic excuse had 
 !he desired effect. 
 
 Byron, whilst living at Newstead during 
 
 the Harrow vacation, saw and became en 
 amoured of Miss Chaworth : she is the Mary 
 of his poetry, and his beautiful " Dream n re"- 
 lates to their loves. Miss Chaworth was oldei 
 than his lordship by a few years, was light 
 and volatile, and though, no doubt, highly flat 
 tered by his attachment, yet she treate'd oui 
 poet less as an ardent lover than as a youngei 
 brother. She was punctual to the assignations 
 which took place at a gate dividing the grounds 
 of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and ac- 
 cepted his letters from the confidants; but hei 
 answers, it is said, were written with more ot 
 the caution of coquetiy than the romance ol 
 "love's young dream;" she gave him, how 
 ever, 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 guardianship of Mr. White. 
 This gentleman particularly wished that his 
 wards should be married together ; but Miss 
 C., as young ladies generally do in such cir- 
 cumstances, differed from him, and was re- 
 solved 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, and Miss C. was not subtle 
 enough to conceal the penchant she had for 
 this jack-a-f/flw/y; 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 off the lady 
 to the great grief of Lord Byron. The mar 
 riage, however, was not a happy one ; J.he 
 parties soon separated, and Mrs. M. ter- 
 wards proposed an interview with her 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 es- 
 teem 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 con- 
 tempt. Persons of real genius are seldom 
 candidates for college prizes, and Byron left 
 " the silvercup" for those plodding characters 
 who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon 
 of the unceasing labour necessary to over- 
 come the all but invincible natural dullness 
 of their intellects. Byron, instead of reading 
 what pleased tutors, read what pleased him- 
 self, and wrote what could not fail to displease 
 those political weathercocks. He did not ad- 
 mire their system of education ; and they, an 
 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 tc 
 show his contempt for academ> tl honour*
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 he kept a vounw bear in his room for some 
 time, which he told all his friends lie was train- 
 ing up for a fellowship; but, however much 
 the fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance 
 w ith the " ursa major," they were by no means 
 desirous of associating with his lordship's Hive. 
 
 When about nineteen years of age, Lord 
 ByroTi bade adieu to the university, and took 
 up his residence at Newstead Abbey. Here 
 his pursuits were principally those of amuse- 
 ment. Among others, he was extremely fond 
 of the water. In his aquatic exercises he had 
 Geldom any other companion than a large 
 Newfoundland dog, to try whose 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. (See page 
 53"2 of this edition.) 
 
 The following descriptions of Newstead's 
 hallowed pile will be found interesting: 
 
 This abbey was founded in the year 1170, 
 hy Henry II., as a priory of Black Canons, 
 and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It con- 
 tinued in the family of the Bvrons until the 
 time of the late lord, who sold it first to Mr. 
 Claughtoa 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 for- 
 feit, 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 this beautiful 
 specimen of architecture. The late Lord 
 Byron repaired a considerable part of it ; 
 but, forgetting the roof, he had turned his at- 
 tention to the inside, and the consequence 
 was, that in a few years, the rain paying a 
 visit to the apartments, soon destroyed all 
 those elegant devices which his lordship had 
 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 recommitted to the earth. A writer, 
 ivho visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold 
 't, says : " In one corner of the servants' 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 let- 
 ters. ' Waste not want not.' During the mi- 
 nority 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 
 vere 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 re- 
 sollect the si ightesf trace of culture or im- 
 provement. The late lord, a stern and despe- 
 
 rate character, who is never mentioned by tne 
 neighbouring peasants without a significant 
 shake of the head, might have returned and 
 recognised every thing about 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 mas- 
 ter, and chastised him for his barbarity. There 
 still, at the end of the garden, in a grove of 
 oak, two towering satyrs, he with his goat ana 
 club, and Mrs. Satyr with her chubby cloven 
 footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter 
 sections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, 
 struck for a moment with their grim visages 
 and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your 
 bosom which is felt by the neighbouring pea- 
 santry at ' th' oud laird's devils.' I have fre- 
 quently asked the country people near New- 
 stead, what sort of 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, wlio had visited Newstead. gives, 
 in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the fol- 
 lowing account of it : 
 
 u As I returned I saw Newstead and Al- 
 thorpe ; I like both. The former is the very 
 abbey. The great cast window of the church 
 remains, and connects with the house ; the 
 hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister 
 untouched, with the ancient cistern of the 
 convent, and their arms on it : it has a private 
 chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still 
 charming, has not been so much unprofaned. 
 The present lord has lost large sums, and paid 
 part in old oaks, five 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 collection 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 the 
 seat of the Byrons, old, majestic, and venera- 
 ble : but he saw nothing of that magic beauty 
 which fame sheds over the habitations of ge 
 nius, and which now mantles every turret of 
 Newstead Abbey. He saw it when decay 
 was doing its work on the cloister, the refec- 
 tory, and the chapel, and all its honours seemed 
 mouldering into oblivion. He could not know 
 that a voice was 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 fc.te, 
 Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a memo- 
 rable abode. Time may shed its wild flower* 
 on the walls, and let the fox in upon the roirt-
 
 XII 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON*. 
 
 yard and the t, lambnrs ; it may even pass into 
 Uie hands cf unlettered pride, or plebeian 
 opulence: biu it has been the mansion of a 
 mighty poet. Its name is associated with glo- 
 ries 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 advan- 
 tages 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 vounjs; such loss to know, 
 Lord of himself, that he.ivage of woe." 
 
 His first literary adventure, and its fate, are 
 well remembered. The poems which he pub- 
 lished in his minority had, indeed, those faults 
 of conception and diction which are insepara- 
 ble from juvenile attempts, arid 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 con- 
 ception and expression. It was like the first 
 essay of the singing-bird, catching at and imi- 
 tating the notes of its parent, ere habit and 
 time have given the fulness of tone, confi- 
 dence, and self-possession which render assist- 
 ance 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 off their own wit, and of seeking 
 to entertain their readers with a flippant ar- 
 ticle, without much respect to the feelings of 
 the author, or even to the indications of merit 
 which the work displayed. The review was 
 read, and excited mirth; the poems were 
 neglected, the author was irritated, and took 
 his revenge in keen iambics, which, at the 
 same time, proved the injustice of the offend- 
 ing 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 after- 
 wards 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 contemplated 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 
 nis plan of travelling upon very different 
 grounds from those which he afterwards ad- 
 vanced. All men should travel at one time or 
 another, he thought, and he had then no con- 
 nexions to prevent him; when he returned 
 he migtit enter into political life, for which 
 
 travelling would noi incapacitate him, and 
 he wished to judg_e of men by experience. 
 
 At lengvh, in July, 1809, in company with 
 John Cam Iiobhouse,Esq. (with whom his ac- 
 quaintance commenced at Cambridge), Lord 
 Byron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and 
 thence proceeded, by the southern 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 wrote to his 
 mother from thence contains no indication of 
 them, but, on the contrary, much playful de- 
 scription of the scenes through which he had 
 passed. At Seville, Lord Byron lodged in the 
 house of two single ladies, one of whom, how- 
 ever, was about to be married. Though he 
 remained there only three days, she paid him 
 the most particular attentions, and, at their 
 parting, embraced him with great tenderness, 
 cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him 
 with one of her own. With this specimen of 
 Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Ca- 
 di/., where various incidents occurred to con- 
 'firrn the opinion he had formed it Seville of 
 the Andalusian belles, and whici made him 
 leave Cadiz with regret, and determine to re- 
 turn to it. Lord Byron wrote to his mother 
 from Malta* announcing his safety, and again 
 from Previsa, in November. Upon arriving 
 at Yanina, Lord Byron found that Ali Pacha 
 was with his troops in Illyrium, besieging 
 Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vi/.ier. 'hay- 
 ing heard that an English nobleman was in 
 his country, had given orders at Yanina to 
 supply him with every kind of accommoda- 
 tion, free of expense. From Yanina, Lord 
 Byron went to Tepaleen. Here lie 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 Previsa, intending to sail for 
 Patras. Lord Byron was very near being lost 
 in but a moderate gale of wind, from the igno- 
 rance 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 Hussien Boy 
 and Mahomet Pacha, two young children of 
 Ali Pacha. Subsequently, he visited Smyrna 
 whence he went in the Salsette frigate t 
 Constantinople. 
 
 On the 3d of May, 1810, while this frigate 
 was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord 
 Byron, accompanied by lieutenant Eken- 
 head, swam the Hellespon* from the European
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XI.) 
 
 shore to the Asiatic about two miles wide. 
 The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, 
 thai it is impossible either to swim or to sail 
 to any given point. Lord Byron went from 
 the castle to Abydos, and landed on the oppo- 
 site shore, full thr re miles below his meditated 
 place of approach. He had a boat in attend- 
 ance all the way ; so that no danger coul^ be 
 apprehended even if his 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, 
 lie was so much exhausted, that he gladly ac- 
 cepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and 
 reposed in his hut for several hours; he was 
 then very ill, and as Lieutenant Ekenhead 
 was compelled to go on board his frigate, he 
 was left alone. The Turk had no idea of the 
 rank or consequence of his inmate, but paid 
 him most marked attention. His wife was 
 his 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 Allah to 
 bless him, and wished him safe home. His 
 lordship made him no return to this, more than 
 saying he felt much obliged. But when he 
 arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Ste- 
 fano, to the Turk, with an assortment of fish- 
 ing-nets, a fowling piece, a brace of pistols, 
 and twelve yards 01 silk to make gowns for 
 his wife. The poor Turk was astonished, and 
 said, " What a noble return for an act of hu- 
 manity!" He then formed the resolution of 
 crossing the Hellespont, and, in proprin 
 persona, thanking his lordship. His wife ap- 
 proved of the plan ; and he had sailed about 
 half way across, when a sudden squall upset 
 his boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman 
 found a watery grave. Lord Byron was 
 much distressed when he heard of the catas- 
 trophe, and, with all that kindness of heart 
 which was natural to him, he sent to the 
 widow fifty dollars, and told her he would 
 ever be her friend. This anecdote, so highly 
 honourable 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 recollected 
 the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, 
 his dress and appearance having so altered 
 him. 
 
 It was not until after Lord Byron arrived 
 at Constantinople that he decided not to go 
 on to Persia, but to pass the following summer 
 in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr. Hob- 
 douse left him to return to England. On losing 
 bis companion. Lord Byron Vent again, and 
 alone, over much of the old track which he had 
 already visited, and studied the scenery and 
 manners, of Greeoeespecially, with the search- 
 ing eye of a poet and a painter. His mind 
 Appeared occasionally to have some tendency 
 rewards a recovery from (lie morbid state of 
 moral apathy which he had previously evinced, 
 
 and the gratification which he manifested OD 
 observing the superiority, in every respect, of 
 England to other countries, proved that patri- 
 otism was far from being extinct in his bosom 
 The embarrassed state of his affairs at length 
 induced him to return home, to endeavour tf 
 arrange them ; and he arrived in the Volagt 
 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 
 interrupted 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 (o 
 IVewstead, in consequence of the serious ill- 
 ness of his mother ; but on reaching the ab- 
 bey, found that she had breathed her last. He 
 suffered much from this loss, and from the dis- 
 appointment of not seeing her before her death; 
 and while his feelings on the subject were 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 
 effect on Lord Byron's feelings. 
 
 Towards the termination of his " English 
 Bards and Scotch Ileviewers," the noble au- 
 thor 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 the " Minarets" of 
 Constantinople, the " Maidens" of Georgia, 
 and the " Sublime Snows of Mount Cau- 
 casus, nothing on earth should tempt him to 
 resume the pen. Such resolutions are seldom 
 maintained. In February, 1812, the first two 
 cantos of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (with 
 the manuscript of which he had presented his 
 friend Mr. Dallas,) made their appearance, 
 producing an effect upon the public, equal to 
 that of any work which has 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 Min 
 strel than Paradise Lost though the former 
 pi'oduction vsas in the noble author's mind 
 when first thinking of Childe Harold. A great 
 poet, who gives himself up free and uncon- 
 fined 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 Shakspeare him- 
 self submits to the shackles of history and 
 society. But here Byron has traversed the 
 vhole earth, borne along by the whirlwind of 
 his own spirit. Wherever a forest ftowned, 
 or a temple glittered there he was privi- 
 leged to bend Tiis flight. He suddenly start 
 up from his solitary dream, by the secret foun- 
 tain of the desert, and descends at once into 
 the tumult of peopled or the silence of de- 
 serted cities. Whatever actually lived had 
 perished heretofore or that had within it a 
 [,>wft- lu kindle passion, became the material 
 of his all-embracing song. There are no unit.*-
 
 11 V 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON 
 
 of time or pKce to fetter him and we fly 
 with him Iroui hill-too to hill-top, and from 
 tower to tower, over all the solitude of nature, 
 and all the magnificence of art. When the 
 past pageants of history seemed too dim and 
 faded, he would turn to the splendid spe'cta- 
 cles that have dignified our own days, and the 
 images of kings and conquerors of old gave 
 place to those that were yet living in sove- 
 reignty 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 wholly 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 ex- 
 istence he 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 those great political events which were 
 objects of such passionate and universal sym- 
 pathy. 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, which glanced through every 
 line of Childe Harold, electrified the mass of 
 reader?, and placed at once upon Lord By- 
 ron'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 rigor- 
 ously 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 Harpld 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 feel- 
 ings of admiration that Lord Byron fully en- 
 tered 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 trenius had flung around him ; and 
 those admitted to his conversation, far from 
 finding, that the inspired poet sunk into ordi- 
 nary mortality, felt themselves attached to him 
 not only by many noble qualities, but by the 
 .merest of a mysterious, undefined, and almost 
 >ainful curiosity 
 
 It is well known how wide the doors of so- 
 ciety 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 honourably 
 distinguished by the public voice, to move as a 
 
 denizen in the first circles. This passport was 
 not necessary to Lord Byron, who possessed 
 the hereditary claims of birth and rank. But 
 the interest which his genius attached to his 
 presence, and to his conversation, was of v 
 nature far beyond what these hereditary 
 claims could of themselves have conferred, 
 and his reception was enthusiastic beyond 
 any thing imaginable. Lord Byron was not 
 one of those literary men of whom it may be 
 truly said, minuit prcEsentlafamam. A coun- 
 tenance, exquisitely modeled to the expres- 
 sion of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the 
 remarkable contrast of very dark hair and 
 eyebrows, with light and expressive eyes, 
 presented to the physiognomist the most in- 
 teresting subject for the exercise of his art. 
 The predominating expression was that of 
 deep and habitual thought, which gave way to 
 the most rapid play of features when he en- 
 gaged in interesting discussion ; so that a 
 brother poet compared them to the sculpture 
 of a beautiful alabaster vase, only seen to per 
 fection when lighted up from within. The 
 flashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, or sa- 
 tirical dislike, which frequently animated Lord 
 Byron's countenance, might, during an even- 
 ing's conversation, be mistaken 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 fea- 
 tures for a length of time, and upon various 
 occasions, both of rest and emotion, knew 
 that their proper language was that of melan 
 choly. Sometimes shades of this gloom inter- 
 rupted even his gayest and most happy mo- 
 ments ; and the following verses are said to 
 have dropped from his pen to excuse a tran- 
 sient 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 be- 
 longing neither to the rank, the age, noi the 
 success of this young nobleman, witnout 
 feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain 
 whether it had a deeper cause than habit or 
 constitutional temperament. It was obviously 
 of a degree incalculably more serious than thai 
 alluded to by Prince Arthur 
 
 I remember when I was in France, 
 
 Vour^' 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 fc't that 
 his sphere was far above the fashionable ind 
 frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave 
 a strong effect of colouring to a charact- 
 whose tints were otherwise decidedly roman' 
 tic. Noble and far descended, the pilgrim of 
 distant and savage countries, eminent >.s a 
 poet among the first whom Britain has pro
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 duceJ, and having besides cast around him a 
 mysterious charm arising from the sombre 
 tone of his poetry, and the occasional melan- 
 choly of his deportment, Lord Byron occu- 
 pied 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, perhaps, 
 this age is more free than any other, forgave 
 the man whose splendour dimmed the fame of 
 his competitors. The generosity of Lord By- 
 ron's disposition, his readiness to assist merit 
 in distress, and to bring it forward where un- 
 known, deserved and obtained general re- 
 gard ; while his poetical effusions, poured forth 
 with equal force and fertility, showed at once 
 a daring confidence in his own powers, and a 
 determination to maintain, by continued ef- 
 fort, 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 By- 
 ron 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 presenta- 
 tion took place ; the Regent expressed his 
 admiration of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," 
 and entered into a conversation which so fas- 
 cinated the poet, that had it not been for an 
 accident which deferred a levee intended to 
 have been held the next day, he would have 
 gone to court. Soon after, however, an un- 
 fortunate influence counteracted the effect of 
 royal praise, and Lord Byron permitted him- 
 self to write and speak disrespectfully of the 
 Prince. 
 
 The whole of Byron's political career may 
 be summed up in the following anecdotes: 
 
 The Earl of Carlisle having declined to in- 
 troduce Lord Byron to the House of Peers, 
 he resolved to introduce himself, and accord- 
 ingly went there a little before the usual hour, 
 when he knew few of the lords would be 
 present. On entering, he appeared rather 
 abashed, and looked very pale, but, passing 
 the woolsack, where the Chancellor (Lord 
 Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordinary 
 routine of the house, he went directly to the 
 fable, where the oaths were administered to 
 him in the usual manner. The Lord Chan- 
 cellor then approached, and offered his hand 
 in the most open familiar manner, congratu- 
 lating him on his taking possession of his seat. 
 Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers 
 m the Chancellor's hand ; the latter returned 
 to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a few 
 minutes on one of the opposition benches, re- 
 tired. 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 intended to have no- 
 thing at all to do with 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 Cath- 
 
 olic claims, which gave good hopes of his be- 
 coming an orator; and the other related to a 
 petition from Major Cartwright. Byron him- 
 self says, the Lords told him " his manner 
 was not dignified enough for them, and would 
 better suit the lower house ;" others say, they 
 gathered round him while speaking, listening 
 with the greatest attention a sign at any rate 
 that he was interesting. He always voted 
 with the opposition, but evinced no likelihood 
 of becoming the blind partisan of either side. 
 
 The following is a pleasing instance of the 
 generosity, the delicacy, and the unwounding 
 benevolence of Byron's nature : 
 
 A young lady of considerable talents, but 
 who had never been able to succeed in turn- 
 ing them to any profitable account, was re- 
 duced to great hardships through the misfor- 
 tunes of her family. The only persons from 
 whom she could have hoped for relief were 
 abroad, and so urged on, more by the suffer- 
 ings 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 
 disposition. Experience did not disappoint 
 her, and though she entered the apartment 
 with faltering steps and a palpitating heart, 
 she 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 keenest 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 fascinating, and tones so gentle, 
 that she hardly perceived he had been writ- 
 ing, 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 rather 
 than good." The young lady, overpowered 
 by the prudence anil 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, w as owing to two causes : 
 the Earl had spoken rather irreverently o' 
 the " Hours of Idleness," when Byron ex 1 
 pected, as a relation, that he would have 
 countenanced it. He had moreover refused 
 to introduce his kinsman to the Houae of 
 Lords, even, it is said, somewhat doubting his 
 right to a seat in that honourable house. 
 
 The Earl of Carlisle was a great admirer 
 of the classic drama, and once published a 
 sixpenny pamphlet, in which he strenuously 
 argued in behalf of the propriety and neces- 
 sity of small theatres : on the same day that 
 this weighty publication appeared he snt
 
 XVI 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 scribed 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 thus the difference 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 stuff: 
 Let not seven stanzas written by a bore 
 Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff." 
 
 Sir Lumley Skeffington had written a tra- 
 gedy, called, if we remember right, "The 
 Mysterious Bride," which was fairly damned 
 on the first night : a masquerade took place 
 soon after this fatal catastrophe, to which went 
 John Cam Hobhouse, as a Spanish nun who 
 had been ravished by the French army, and 
 was under the protection of his lordship. 
 Skeffington, compassionating the unfortunate 
 young woman, asked, in a very sentimental 
 manner, of Byron, "who isshe?" " The Mys- 
 terious Bride," replied his lordship. 
 
 On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr. 
 Dallas called upon him, and, after the usual 
 salutations had passed, inquired if he was pre- 
 pared with any other work to support the 
 fame winch he had already acquired. Byron 
 then delivered for his examination a poem, 
 entitled " Hints from Horace," being a para- 
 phrase of the art of poetry. Mr. Dallas prom- 
 ised to superintend the publication of this 
 piece as he had done that of the satire, and, 
 accordingly, it was carried to Cawthorn the 
 bookseller, and matters arranged ; but Mr. 
 Dallas, not thinking the poem likely to in- 
 crease his lordship's reputation, allowed it to 
 linger in the press. It began thus : 
 " Who would not laugh if Lawrence, hired to grace 
 His costly canvas with each fiatter'd face, 
 Abused his art, till Nature with a blush 
 Saw cits orow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
 Or should some iimner join, for show or sale, 
 A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ; 
 Or LowT) + ** (as once the world has seen) 
 Degrade Go-l's creatures in his graphic spleen 
 Not all that forced politeness which defends 
 Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
 Kn'.ieve me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
 The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
 Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
 Poetic nightmares, without head or feet." 
 
 Mr. Dallas expressed his sorrow that his 
 lordship hnr! written nothing else. Byron then 
 told him that he had occasionally composed 
 some verses in Spenser's measure, relative to 
 the countries lie had visited. " They are not 
 worth troubling you with,' =;aid his lordship, 
 but you shall have them all with vou:" he 
 
 then took " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" from 
 a trunk, and delivered it to him. Mr. Dallas, 
 having read the poem, was in raptures with 
 it ; he instantly resolved to do his utmost in 
 suppressing the " Hints from Horace," and 
 to bring out Childe Harold. He urged Byron 
 to publish this last poem ; but he was unwill- 
 ing, and preferred to have the " Hints" pub- 
 lished. He would not be convinced of the 
 great merit of the " Childe," and as some per- 
 son had seen it before Mr. Dallas, and ex- 
 pressed disapprobation, Byron was by no 
 means sure of its kind reception by the world. 
 In a short time afterwards, however, he agreed 
 to its publication, and requested Mr. Dallas 
 not to deal with CaAvthorn, but offer it to Mil- 
 ler of Albemarle street : he wished a fashion- 
 able publisher ; but Miller declined it, chiefly 
 on account of the strictures it contained on 
 Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Long- 
 man had refused to publish the " Satire," and 
 Byron would not suffer any of his works to 
 come from that house : the work was there- 
 fore carried to Mr. Murray, who then kept a 
 shop opposite St. Dunstan's church in Fleet 
 street. Mr. Murray had expressed 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 
 after its success. 
 
 Byron fell into company with Hogg, the 
 Ettrick Shepherd, at the Lakes. The Shep- 
 herd was standing at the inn-door of Amble- 
 side, when forth came a strapping young man 
 from the house, and off 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. Hoeg, I hope you will 
 excuse me; my name is Byron, and I cannot 
 help thinking that we ought to hold ourselves 
 acquainted." The poets accordingly shook 
 hands immediately, and, while they continued 
 at the Lakes, were hand and glove, drank 
 furiously together, and laughed at their brother 
 bards. On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent 
 Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, which the 
 Shepherd was so mischievous as to show to 
 them. 
 
 When residing at Mitylene in the year 
 1812, he portioned eight young girls very libe- 
 rally, and even danced with them at the mar- 
 riage feast ; he gave a cow to one man, horses 
 to another, and cotton and silk to several girls 
 who lived by weaving these materials : he also 
 bought a new boat for a fisherman who had 
 lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek 
 testaments to the poor children. 
 
 While at Metaxata, in 1823, an embank- 
 ment, at which several persons had been en- 
 sragad digging, fell in, and buried some of 
 them alive : he was at dinner when he heard 
 of the accident, and, starting up from the ta- 
 ble, ran to*the spot, accompanied by his phy- 
 sician, who took a supply of medicines with 
 him. The labourers who were employed to 
 extricate their companions, soon became 
 alarmed for themselves, and refused to so on, 
 saving, they believed they had dug out all the 
 bodies which had been covered by the rums. 
 Lord Byron endeavoured to induce them to
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 xvu 
 
 continue their exertions, but finding menaces 
 hi vain, he seized a spade and began to dig 
 most zealously ; at length the peasantry joined 
 him, ajid 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 himself principal in an 
 " affair of honour" with Hobhpuse, and would 
 have been so in another with Moore, if the 
 Bard of Erin's challenge had been properly 
 forwarded 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 
 Millbank (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he 
 had made a proposal twelve months before, 
 but was rejected : well would it have been for 
 their mutual happiness had that rejection been 
 repeated. After their marriage, Lord and 
 Lady Byron took a house in London ; gave 
 splendid dinner-parties ; kept separate car- 
 na jes ; and, in short, launched into every sort 
 of fashionable extravagance. This could not 
 last long ; the portion which his lordship had 
 received with Miss Millbank (ten thousand 
 pounds] soon melted away ; and, at length, an 
 execution was actually levied on the furniture 
 of his residence. It was then agreed that 
 Lady Byron, who, on the 10th of December, 
 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 en- 
 sued, 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 ex- 
 pected, a wonderful sensation was excited at 
 the time, and every description of contra- 
 dictory rumour was in active circulation. 
 
 Byron was first introduced to Miss Mill- 
 bank at Lady 's. In going up stairs he 
 
 stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who ac- 
 companied 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 com- 
 panion 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 unfortunate marriage, are given from 
 Lord Byron's Conversations, in his own words: 
 
 " There was something piquant, and what 
 we term pretty, in Miss Millbank ; her fea- 
 tures were 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 stiffness, which is called fashion : 
 sne interested me exceedingly. It is unne- 
 cessary to detail the progress of our acquaint- 
 ance : I became daily more attached to her, 
 and it ended in my making her a proposal that 
 was rejected ; her refusal was couched in 
 lenrtd that could not offend me. I was besides 
 B 2 3 
 
 persuaded that in declining my offer, she was 
 governed by the influence of her mother ; and 
 was the more confirmed in this opinion by he r 
 reviving our correspondence herself, twelve 
 months after. The tenor of he/ letter was, 
 that although she could not love me, she de- 
 sired 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 feeling came 
 over me very strongly at my wedding. Some- 
 thing whispered me that I was sealing my own 
 death-warrant. I am a great believer in pre- 
 sentiments; Socrates' demon was not a fic- 
 tion ; Monk Lewis had his monitor ; and Na- 
 poleon many warnings. At the last moment, 
 I would have retreated if I could have done 
 so ; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had 
 married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and 
 yet was miserable; he had strongly urged me 
 against putting my neck in the same yoke : 
 and, to show you how firmly I was 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, I had 
 no idea of doing so. 
 
 "It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams, 
 that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age 
 for me ; the fortune-telling witch was right, 
 it was destined to prove so. I shall never for- 
 get 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 re- 
 sponses, and, after the ceremony, called her 
 Miss Millbank. 
 
 " There is a singular history attached to the 
 ring ; the very day the match was concluded, 
 a ring of my mother's that had been lost, was 
 dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I. thought 
 it was sent on purpose for the wedding ; but 
 my mother's marriage had hot been a fortu- 
 nate one, and this ring was doomed to he the 
 seal of an unhappier union still. 
 
 " After the ordeal was over, we set off for a 
 country-seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was sur- 
 prised at the arrangements for the journey, 
 and somewhat out of humour to find a lady's 
 maid stuck between me and my bride. It was 
 rather too early to assume the husband, so I 
 was forced to submit ; but it was not with a 
 very good grace. 
 
 " I have been accused of saying, on getting 
 into the carriage, that I had married Lady 
 Byron out of spite, and because she had re- 
 fused me twice. Though I was for a moment 
 vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be 
 called, if 1 had made so uncavalier, not to say 
 brutal, a speech,' I am convinced Lady Byron 
 would instantly have left the carriage to me 
 and the maid, (I mean the lady's) ; she had 
 spirit enough to have done so, and vould prop- 
 erly have resented the affront. 
 
 " Our honey-moon was not all sunshine ; 
 it had its clouds ; and Hobhouse has some let- 
 ters which would serve to explain the rise MM*
 
 XVlll 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 fall in the barometer; but it was never down 
 :it zero. 
 
 " A curious thing happened to me shortly 
 after the honey-moon, which was very awk- 
 ward at the time, but has since amused me 
 much. It so happened that three married 
 women were on a wedding visit to my wife, 
 (and in the same room at the same time), 
 whom I had known to be all birds of the same 
 nest. Fancy the scene of confusion that en- 
 sued. 
 
 The world says I married Miss Millbank 
 for her fortune, because she was a great heir- 
 ess. All I have ever received, or am likely 
 to receive, (and that has been twice paid back 
 too), was 10,000/. My own income at this 
 period was small, and somewhat bespoke. 
 Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and 
 brought me in a bare 1500/. a-year ; the Lan- 
 cashire property was hampered with a law- 
 suit, which has cost me 14,000. and is not yet 
 finished. 
 
 " I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlment 
 had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's 
 mind against me ; that she had employed her- 
 self 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 such a confidante ; 
 F allude to the breaking open my writing- 
 desk : a book was found in it th&c 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 un- 
 justifiable, whatever may be thought of the 
 breach of confidence that led to their discov- 
 ery. Lady Byron sent them to the husband 
 of the lady, who had the good sense to take 
 no notice of their contents. The gravest ac- 
 cusation that has been made against me, is 
 that of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in 
 my own house, introduced her to my own ta- 
 ble, etc. ; there never was a more unfounded 
 calumny. Being on the Committee of Drury- 
 Lane Theatre, I have no doubt that several 
 actresses called on me ; but as to Mrs. Mar- 
 dyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might 
 have been a dangerous visitress, I was scarcely 
 acquainted (to speak) with her. 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 Lon- 
 don, 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 ; 1 did not know till after- 
 wards the real object of their visit. 1 thought 
 Jheir questions singular, frivolous, and some- 
 what importunate, if not impertinent; but 
 what should I have thought if I had known 
 that they were sent to provide proofs of my 
 insanity ? I have no doubt that my answers to 
 fhese 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 t J his employers. The 
 
 doctor said afterwards he had been told that 
 I always looked down when Lady Byron bent 
 her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms 
 equally infallible, particularly those that mark 
 ed the late kind's case so strongly. I do not 
 however, tax Lady Byron with this transac- 
 tion : 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 tha't 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 !' 1 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, that a per- 
 son may be better known in the first hour than 
 in ten years. She had the habit of drawing 
 people's characters after she had seen them 
 once or twice. She wrote pages on pages 
 about my character, but it was as unlike as 
 possible. She was governed by what she 
 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 obloquy and oppro- 
 brium 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 dif- 
 ferent 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, tooli 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 suffering 
 angel, an incarnation of all the virtues and 
 perfections of the sex. I was abused in the 
 public prints, made the common talk of pri- 
 vate companies, hissed as I went to the House 
 of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to rr 
 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 tl.at did 
 not look upon me as a monster." 
 
 " In addition to all these mortificat ons, my 
 affairs were irretrievably invo l ved, t.nd almost 
 so as to make me what Ihev wished i wai
 
 LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 
 
 XIX 
 
 compelled to part with Newstead, which I 
 never could have ventured to sell in my moth- 
 er's lifetime. As it is, I shall never forgive 
 myself for having done so, though I am told 
 that the estate would not bring half as much 
 as I got for it : this does not at all reconcile 
 me to having parted with the old Abbey. I 
 did not make up my mind to this step but from 
 the last necessity; I had my wife's portion to 
 repay, and was determined to add 10,000/. 
 more of my own to it, which I did : I always 
 hated-being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. 
 The moment I had put my affairs in train, and 
 in little more than eighteen months after my 
 marriage, I left England, an involuntary ex- 
 ile, intending it should be for ever." 
 
 We shall here avail ourselves of some ob- 
 servations by a powerful and elegant critic, 1 
 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 fell a victim to 
 excessive temptations, and a combination of 
 circumstances, which it required a rare and 
 extraordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, pru- 
 dence, and steadiness to surmount ; but that 
 he abandoned a situation of uncommon ad- 
 vantages, and fell weakly, pusillanimously, 
 and selfishly, when 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 share. I should falsify my own senti- 
 ments, if I treated lightly the gift of an an- 
 cient English peerage, and a name of honour 
 and venerable antiquity; but without a for- 
 tune competent to that rank, it is 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 calculated to meet at any 
 rate, least calculated to meet under the pecu- 
 liar collateral circumstances in which he was 
 placed. His income was very narrow ; his 
 Newstead property left him a very small dis- 
 posable surplus; his Lancashire property was, 
 in its condition, etc., unproductive. A pro- 
 fession, such as the army, might have lessened, 
 or almost annihilated the difficulties of his pe- 
 culiar position ; but probably his lameness 
 rendered this impossible. He seems to have 
 had a love of independence, which was noble, 
 and probably even an intractability; but this 
 temper added to his indisposition to bend and 
 adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, 
 or intriguing man, without a single good 
 quality of head or heart, might have managed 
 it much better; he might have made himself 
 subservient to government, and wormed him- 
 self into some lucrative place ; or he might 
 have lived mean'v, conformed himself stu- 
 pidly or cnngingly to all humours, and been 
 
 1 Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart, who has written so 
 iffi.-- v and so ably on Lord B> on's genius and 
 enaraotw 
 
 borne onward on the wings of society with 
 little personal expense. 
 
 "Lord Byron was of another quality and 
 temperament. If the world would not con 
 form 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 then 
 wealth, and their means of generosity, hospi- 
 tality, and patronage. He Had the will, alas ! 
 without the power. 
 
 " With this temper, these feelings, this ge 
 nius, exposed to a combination of such un- 
 toward and trying circumstances, it would 
 indeed have been inimitably praiseworthy 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 en- 
 ergies, 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 re- 
 mained placid, and unaffected by the attack 
 of any blameable emotion ; that is, it would 
 have been admirable if he had been an angel, 
 and not a man ! 
 
 " Unhappily, the outrages he received, the 
 gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, 
 even in the time of his highest favour with the 
 public, turned the delights of his very 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 be- 
 tween him and his assailants. There was a 
 daring spirit in his temper and his talents 
 which was always inflamed rather than cor- 
 rected by opposition. 
 
 " In this most unpropitious state of things, 
 every thing that went wrong was attributed 
 to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, 
 was assumed and argued upon as an undenia- 
 ble fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, 
 quite unattended by a particle of doubt, that 
 in many things in which he has been the most 
 blamed, he was the absolute victim of misfor- 
 tune; that 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 * hat 
 in which Lord Byron met it. 
 
 " It is not easy to conceive a character less 
 fitted to conciliate general society by his man- 
 ners 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 endnred 
 him without opening their mouths, because li 
 had a frown and a lash which they were riot 
 willing to encounter ; but when his back was 
 turned, and they thought it safe, 1 do not 
 doubt that they burst out into full cry ! 1 have 
 heard complaints of his vanity, his peevish- 
 ness, his desire to monopolize distinction, Inn 
 dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is P'.-'
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 improbaolt that there may have been some 
 foundation for these complaints : I am sorry 
 for it if there was; I regret such littlenesses. 
 And then another part of the story is proba- 
 bly left untold : wa hear nothing of the provo- 
 cations given him ; sly hints, curve of the 
 lip, side looks, treacherous smiles, flings 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's falling castle ; the 
 d d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud 
 and the best hounds in the country out of the 
 snippings and odds and ends of his contract ; 
 and the famous good match that the duke's 
 daughter is going to make with Dick Wigly, 
 the son of the rich slave-merchant at Liver- 
 pool ! We do not hear the clever dry jests 
 
 whispered round the table by Mr. , eldest 
 
 son of the new and rich Lord , by young 
 
 Mr. , only son of Lord , the ex-lords 
 
 A., B., and C., sons of the three Irish Union 
 earls, great borough-holders, and the very 
 
 grave and sarcastic Lord , who believes 
 
 that he has the monopoly of all the talents, 
 and all the political and legislative knowledge 
 of the kingdom, and that a poet and a bell- 
 man 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 though it was the land of his 
 nativity, the land of a thousand noble ances- 
 tors, 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 connu- 
 bial state are thus related by Captain Parry: 
 
 " There are," 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 im- 
 possible for the public, or the best friends of 
 the parties, to judge between man and wife. 
 Theirs is a relation about which nobody but 
 themselves can form a correct idea, or have 
 any right to speak. As long as neither party 
 commits gross injustice towards the other ; as 
 long as neither the woman nor the man is 
 guilty of any offence which is injurious to the 
 community ; as long as the husband provides 
 for his offspring, and secures the public against 
 the dangers arising from their neglected edu- 
 cation, or from the charge of supporting them ; 
 by what right does it censure him for ceasing 
 to dwell under the same roof with a woman, 
 who is to him, because he knows her, while 
 others do not, an object of loathing? Can any 
 thing be more monstrous than for the public 
 voice to compel individual* who dislike each 
 otner to continue their cohabitation ? This is 
 at least the effect of its interfering with a re- 
 btionsrnp, of which it has no possible means 
 of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to 
 b woman's bed by physical force ; but it does 
 
 exert a moral force continually and effective!} 
 to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody can 
 escape this force but those who are too high, 
 or those who are too low, for public opinion t<? 
 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 propensi- 
 ties in secret. I have suffered amazingly from 
 this interference; for though I set it at defi 
 ance, I was neither too high nor too lo^ to bo 
 reaci }d by it, and I was not hypocrite enough 
 to guard myself from its consequences. 
 
 " What do they say of my family affairs in 
 England, Parry? My story, I suppose, like 
 other minor events, interested the people for a 
 day, and was then forgotten?" I replied, no; 
 I thought, owing to the very great interest the 
 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, when I married her, that I had possess- 
 ed 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. 
 1 knew the society of London ; I knew the 
 characters of many of those who are called 
 ladies, with whom Lady Byron would neces 
 sarily have to associate, and I dreaded her 
 contact with them. But I have too much of 
 my mother about me to be dictated to : I like 
 freedom from constraint; I hate artificial regu- 
 lations : my conduct has always been dictated 
 by my own feelings, and Lady Byron was 
 quite the creature of rules. She was not per- 
 mitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as 
 the physician prescribed. She was not suf- 
 fered to go out when I wished to go ; and then 
 the old house was a mere ghost-house ; I 
 dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking. 
 It was an existence I could not support." 
 Here Lord Byron broke off abruptly, saying, 
 " I hate to speak of my family affairs ; though 
 I have been compelled to talk nonsense con 
 cerning them 1 to some of my butterfly visitors, 
 glad on any terms to get rid of their importu- 
 nities. I long to be again on the mountains. I 
 am fond of solitude, and should never talk non- 
 sense 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 sur- 
 vey of the field of Waterloo. He then pro 
 ceeded to Coblentz, and up the Rhine to 
 Basle. He passed the summer on the banks 
 of the lake of Geneva. With what enthusi- 
 asm he enjoyed, and with what contemplations 
 he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry 
 soon exhibited to the world. His third canto of 
 Childe Harold ins Manfred, and his Prisoner 
 of Chillon. *\ere composed at the Campugna 
 Diodati. at Coligny, a mile from Geneva
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XX' 
 
 These productions evidently proved, that 
 the unfortunate events which had induced 
 Lord Byron to become a voluntary exile from 
 his native land, however tney might have ex- 
 acerbated his feelings, had in no measure chill- 
 ed his poetical fire. 
 
 The anecdotes that follow are given as his 
 lordship related them to Captain Medwin : 
 
 " Switzerland is a country I have been satis- 
 fied with seeing once ; Turkey I could live in 
 for ever. I never forget my predilections. I 
 was in a wretched state of health, and worse 
 spirits, when I was at Geneva ; but quiet and 
 the lake, physicians better than Polidori, soon 
 set me up. I never led so moral a life as during 
 my residence in that country ; but I gained 
 no credit by it. Where there is a mortifica- 
 tion, there ought to be reward. On the con- 
 trary, there is no story so absurd that they did 
 not invent at my cost. I was watched by 
 
 f lasses on the opposite side of the lake, and 
 y glasses too that must have had very dis- 
 torted optics. I was waylaid in my evening 
 drives I was accused of corrupting all the 
 rriseltes in the rue Basse. I believe that they 
 looked upon me as a man-monster worse than 
 the piqueur." 
 
 "I knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh 
 was very civil to me ; and I have a great re- 
 spect for Sismondi. I was forced to return 
 the civilities of one of their professors by ask- 
 ing 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 pre- 
 vented 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 
 acquaintances; Shelley, Monk Lewis, and 
 Hobhouse, were almost the only English peo- 
 ple 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 Shelley 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 
 have 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 opinion of my immorality. I used occa- 
 sionally 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 
 it 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 ^e Stael took the 
 iiberty to read me a lecture before this crowd, 
 to which I only made her a low bow." 
 
 His lordship's travelling equipage was 
 -ather a singular one, and afforded a strange 
 catalogue for the Dogana: seven servants. 
 
 five carriages, nine horses, a monkey, a bull- 
 dog and mastiff, two cats, three pea -fowls, and 
 som& 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 modern 
 works, (for he bought all the best that camo 
 out), together with a vast quantity of furni- 
 ture, might well be termed, with Caesar, " im- 
 pediments." 
 
 From about the commencement of the yea. 
 1817 to that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal 
 residence was Venice. Here he continued to 
 employ himself in poetical composition 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 ; Beppo, Mazeppa, arid the 
 earlier cantos of Don Juan, etc. 
 
 Considering these only with regard to in- 
 tellectual activity and force, there can be no 
 difference of opinion ; though there may be 
 as to their degree of poetical excellence, the 
 class in the scale of literary merit to which 
 they belong, and their moral, religious, and 
 political tendencies. The Lament of Tasso, 
 which in every line abounds in the most per- 
 fect poetry, is liable to no countervailing ob- 
 jection on the part of the moralist. 
 
 In the third canto of the " Pilgrimage," the 
 discontented and repining spirit of Harold 
 had already become much softened : 
 
 " Joy was not always absent from his face, 
 Bui o'er it in such scenes would steal with tranquQ 
 grace." 
 
 He is a being of still gentler mould in the 
 fourth canto ; his despair has even sometimes 
 assumed a smilingness, 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 imagina- 
 tion. He represented himself, from the be- 
 ginning, as a ruin; and when we first gazed 
 upon him, we saw indeed in abundance the 
 black traces of recent violence and convul- 
 sion. The edifice was not rebuilt ; but its 
 hues were softened by the passing wings of 
 Time, and the calm slow ivy had found leisure 
 to wreath the soft green of its melancholy 
 among the 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 fiendish 
 in the air with which he surveyed the first 
 scene of his wanderings ; and no proof of the 
 strength of genius was ever exhibited so 
 strong and unquestionable as the sudden 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 which ennobles the spirit of the 
 soldier, and to delight in scattering the dust 
 and ashes of his derision over all the most sa- 
 cred resting-places of the soul of man. Even 
 then, we must allow, the original spiril it" th
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 HngLshman ind the poet broke triumphantly, 
 at times, thiough the chilling mist in which it 
 had been spontaneously enveloped. In Greece, 
 above all, the contemplation of Actium, Sa- 
 lamis, Marathon, Thermopylae, and Platsea, 
 subdued the prejudices of him who had gazed 
 unmoved, or with disdain, upon fields of more 
 recent glory. The nobility of manhood ap- 
 peared to delight this moody visitant ; and he 
 accorded, without reluctance, to the shades 
 of long departed heroes that reverent homage 
 which, in the strange mixture of envy and 
 scorn wherewith the contemplative so often 
 regard active men, he had refused to the liv- 
 ing, or to the newly dead. 
 
 But there would be no end of descanting 
 on the character of the Pilgrim, nor of the 
 moral reflections which it aw akens ; we there- 
 fore 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, which 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 of Lord Byron's dra- 
 matic poems, and, we think, the finest. The 
 spirit of his genius seems there wrestling with 
 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, but they drop under the 
 weight of his thoughts ; his intellect, too, is 
 strongly at work in it, and the stern haughti- 
 ness 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 imagina- 
 tion, he assumes a shape of height and inde- 
 pendent dignity, shining in its own splendour 
 amongst the snowy summits which he was ac- 
 customed to climb. The passion, too, in this 
 composition, is fervid and impetuous, but at 
 the same time deep and full, which is not al- 
 ways the case in Byron's productions ; it is 
 serious and sincere throughout. The music 
 of the language is as solemn and as touching 
 as that of the wind coming through the bend- 
 ing 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 
 Appearance than are the supernatmal crea- 
 tions of the poet's fancy, whose magical agen- 
 cv is of mighty import, but is nevertheless 
 tionnnually surmounted by the high intellec- 
 tual power, invincible will, and intrepid phi- 
 htsopby of Manfred. 
 
 The first idea of the descriptive passages of 
 this beautiful poem will be easily recognised 
 in the following extract from Lord Byron 8 
 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 Newhouse. Passed Interlachen entered 
 upon a range of scenes beyond all description 
 or previous conception. Passed a rock bear- 
 ing an inscription two brothers one mur- 
 dered the other just the place for it. After 
 a variety of windings, came to an enormous 
 rock arrived at the foot of the mountain (the 
 Jungfrawj glaciers torrents one of these 
 900 feet visible descent lodge at the curate's 
 set out to see the valley heard an avalanche 
 fall, like thunder ! glaciers enormous storm 
 comes on thunder~and lightning, and hail ! 
 all in perfection and beautifu 1 . The torrent 
 is in shape, curving over the rock, like the 
 tail of the white horse streaming in the wind 
 just as might be conceived would be that of 
 the ' Pale Horse,' on which Death is mounted 
 in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor wa- 
 ter, but a something between both ; its im- 
 mense height gives it a wave, a curve, a 
 spreading here, a condension there wonder- 
 ful indescribable. 
 
 " Sept. 23. Ascent of the Wingren, the 
 Dent d'argent shining like truth on one side, 
 on the other the clouds rose from the opposite 
 valley, curling up perpendicular precipices, 
 like the foam of the ocean of hell during a 
 spring tide ! It was white and sulphury, and 
 immeasurably deep in appearance. The side 
 we ascended was of course not of so precipi- 
 tous a nature, but on arriving at the summit 
 we looked down on the other side upon a boil- 
 ing sea of cloud, dashing against the crag on 
 which we stood. Arrived at the Greender- 
 wold : mounted and rode to the higher glacier 
 twilight, but distinct very fine glacier 
 like a frozen hurricane starlight beautiful 
 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 na- 
 ture of their tragic character, that the effect 
 of them all is rather grand, terrible, and ter- 
 rific, than mollifying," subduing, or pathetic. 
 As dramatic poems, they possess much beauty 
 and originality. 
 
 The style and nature of the poem of Don 
 Juan forms a singularly felicitous mixture of 
 burlesque and pathos, of humorous observa 
 tion, and the higher elements of poetical com 
 position. Never was the English language 
 festooned into more luxurious stanzas than in 
 Don Juan : like the dolphin sporting in its na 
 five waves, at every turn, however grotesque 
 displaying a new hue and a now beauty, so 
 the noble author there shows an absolute con- 
 trol over his means, and at every cadence, 
 rhyme, or construction, however whimsical 
 delights us with novel and mag.cil associ*
 
 LIFE OF LORD JBYROA'. 
 
 xxi i 
 
 tions. We wish, we heartily wish, that the 
 fine poetry which is so richly scattered through 
 the sixteen cantos of this most original and 
 most astonishing production, had not been 
 mixed up with very much that is equally frivo- 
 lous as foolish ; and sincerely do we regret, 
 that the alloying dross of sensuality should run 
 BO freely through the otherwise rich vein of 
 the author's verse. 
 
 Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a most 
 noble instance 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 the greatest 
 indigence and %vant. When Lord Byron as- 
 certained the afflicting circumstance? of that 
 calamity, he not only ordered a new and su- 
 perior habitation to be immediately built for 
 the sufferer, the whole expense of which 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 intercourse with his countrymen at Ven- 
 ice ; this seems to have been in a great mea- 
 sure necessary, in order to prevent the intru- 
 sion of impertinent curiosity. In an appendix 
 to one of his poems, written with reference to 
 a book of travels, the author of which dis- 
 claimed any wish to be introduced to the no- 
 ble lord, he loftily and sarcastically chastises 
 the incivility of such a gratuitous declaration, 
 expresses his " utter abhorrence of any con- 
 tact with the travelling English;" and thus 
 concludes: "Except Lords Lansdowue, Jer- 
 sey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Ham- 
 mond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr. 
 Lewis, W. Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas 
 Moore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, 
 and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have 
 exchanged a word with another Englishman 
 since I left their country, and almost all these 
 I had known before. The others, and God 
 knows there were some hundreds, who bored 
 me with letters or visits. I refused to have any 
 communication with ; and shall be proud and 
 happy when that wish becomes mutual." 
 
 After a residence of three years at Venice, 
 Lord Byron removed to Ravenna, towards the 
 close of the 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 
 Sardanapalus unfit for the English state, it is, 
 on the whole, the most splendid specimen 
 which our language affords of that species of 
 Tragedy which was the exclusive object of 
 _<ord Byron's admiration. Cain is one of the 
 productions which has subjected its noble au- 
 thor to the severest denunciations, on account 
 of the crime of impiety alleged aerainst it; as 
 it seems to have a tendency ito call in question 
 the benevolence of Providence. Tn answer 
 to the lod and general outcry which this pro- 
 
 duction occasioned. Lord Byron observed, ir 
 a letter to his publisher, " If ' Cain' be blag- 
 phemous, ' Paradise Lost' is blasphemous, anil 
 the words of the Oxford gentleman, ' Evil, be 
 thou my good,' are from that very poem from 
 the mouth of Satan ; and is there any thing! 
 more in that of Lucifer in the mystery . 
 ' Cain' is nothing more than a drama, not fc 
 piece of argument: if Lucifer and Cain speak 
 as the first rebel and first murderer may be 
 supposed to speak, nearly all the rest of the 
 personages talk also according to their char- 
 acters ; 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 unin- 
 spired men must fall short in, viz. giving an 
 adequate notion of the effect of the presence 
 of Jehovah. The old mysteries introduced 
 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 im- 
 pression on him, and to which he alludes in 
 the fifth canto of Don Juan. The military 
 commandant of the place, who, though sus- 
 pected of being secretly a Carbonaro, was 
 too powerful a man to be arrested, was assas- 
 sinated opposite to Lord Byron s palace. His 
 lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the usual 
 hour of exercise, when his horse started at 
 the report of a gun : on looking up, Lord By- 
 ron 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 di- 
 rected 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 en- 
 tertained, of his belonging to the same party. 
 Such an apprehension could have no effect on 
 Byron's mind, when an act of humanity was 
 to be performed ; he assisted in bearing the 
 victim of assassination into the house, and 
 putting him on a bed. He was already dead 
 from several wounds : " he appeared to have 
 breathed his last without a struggle," said his 
 lordship, when afterwards recounting the af- 
 fair. " 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, anchc 
 ad un cane.' " The following were the noble 
 writer's poetical reflections (in Don Juan) ou 
 viewing the dead bod/. 
 
 " 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 faitn ; 
 But it was all a mystery : here we are, 
 
 And there we go : but where 1 Five bit* of lead 
 Or three, or two, or one, send very far. 
 
 And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shea '' 
 Can every element our elements mar 1 
 And air, earth, water, fire, live, and we dead *
 
 XXIV 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 We whoso minds comprehend all things ? No more : 
 But let us to the story as before." 
 
 That a being of such glorious capabilities 
 should abstractedly, and without an attempt 
 to throw the responsibility on a fictitious per- 
 sonage, have avowed such startling doubts, 
 was a daring which, whatever might then have 
 been his private opmion, he ought not to have 
 hazarded. 
 
 " It is difficult," observes Captain Medwin, 
 " to judge, from the contradictory nature of 
 his writings, what the religious opinions of 
 Lord Byron really were From the conver- 
 sations 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,' 
 
 vet his wavering never amounted to a disbe- 
 lief 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 somebody has 
 sent me about Christianity, that has made me 
 very uncomfortable ; the reasoning seems to 
 me very strong, the proofs are very stagger- 
 ing. I don't think you can answer it, Shelley, 
 at least I am sure I can't, and what is more, I 
 don't wish it.' 
 
 " Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said : 
 
 ' L B thought the question set at rest 
 
 in the History of the Decline and Fall, but I 
 am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter 
 of volition to unbelieve. Who likes to own 
 that he has been a fool all his life, to unlearn 
 all that he has been taught in his youth, or 
 can think that some of the best men that ever 
 lived have been fools ? I don't know why I am 
 considered an unbeliever. I disowned, the 
 other day, that I was of Shelley's school in 
 metaphysics, though I admired his poetry; 
 not but what he has changed his mode of 
 thinking very much since he wrote the notes 
 to " Queen Mab," which I was accused of 
 having a hand in. I know, however, that / 
 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, a writer of bad sonnets, 
 and a lecturer in worse prose, he tried to 
 convert me to some new sect of Christianity. 
 He was a great anti-materialist, and abused 
 Locke.' 
 
 " On anofnet occasion he said : ' I have just 
 received a letter from a Mr. Sheppard, in- 
 closing a prayer made for my welfare by his 
 wife, :i few days before her death. The letter 
 states that he has had the misfortune to lose 
 'his amiable woman, who had seen me at 
 Ramsgate, many years ago, rambling among 
 the cliffs ; that she had been impressed with a 
 sense of my irreligion from the tenor of my 
 works, and had often prayed fervently for my 
 conversion, particularly in her last moments. 
 Tbe prayer is beautifully written. I like de- 
 
 votion in women. She must have been a en 
 vine creature. I pity the man who has los 1 , 
 her ! I shall write to him by return of the 
 courier, to condole with him, and tell him that 
 Mrs. S. need not have entertained any con- 
 cern for my spiritual affairs, for that no man 
 is more of a Christian than I am, whatevei 
 my writings may have led her and others to 
 suspect.' " 
 
 We have given the above extracts from a 
 sense of justice to the memory of Lord By- 
 ron ; they are redeeming and consolatory evi- 
 dences that his heart was far from being 
 sheathed in unassailable scepticism, and, as 
 such, ought not to be omitted in a preface to 
 his works. 
 
 In the autumn of 1821, the noble bard re- 
 moved to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his 
 residence there in the Lanfranchi palace, and 
 engaged in an intrigue with the beautiful 
 Guiccioli, wife of the count of that name, 
 which 'connexion, with more than his usual 
 constancy, he maintained for nearly three 
 years, during which period the countess was 
 separated from her husband, on an applica- 
 tion from the latter to the Pope. 
 
 The following is a sketch of this " fair en- 
 chantress," as taken at the time the Hainan 
 was formed between her and Byron. " The 
 countess is twenty-three years of age, though 
 she appears no more than seventeen or eigh- 
 teen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her 
 complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, 
 large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by 
 the longest eyelashes in the world, and her 
 hair,, which is ungathered on her head, plays 
 over her falling shoulders in a profusion of 
 natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her 
 figure is, perhaps, too much embonpoint for 
 her height; but her bust is perfect. Her 
 features want little of possessing a Grecian 
 regularity of outline ; and she has the most 
 beautiful mouth'and teeth imaginable. It is 
 impossible to see without admiring to hear 
 the Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. 
 Her amiability and gentleness show them- 
 selves in every intonation of her voice, which, 
 and the music of her perfect Italian, gives a 
 peculiar charm to every thing she utters. 
 Grace and elegance seem component parts 
 of her nature. Notwithstanding that she 
 adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the ex- 
 ile and poverty of her aged father sometimes 
 affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melan- 
 choly on her countenance, which adds to the 
 deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her 
 conversation is lively without being learned ; 
 she has read all the best authors of her own 
 and the French language. She often conceals 
 what she knows, from the fear of being thought 
 to know too much, possibly from being aware 
 that Lord Byron was not fond of blues. He 
 is certainly very much attached to her, with- 
 out being actually in love. His description 
 of the Georgioni in the Manfriui palace at 
 Venice, is meant for the countess. Tne beau- 
 tiful sonnet prefixed to the '1'ropheoy of 
 Dante' was addressed to her." 
 
 The annexed lines, written }y Rvnn \viea
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXV 
 
 uo was about to quit Venice to join the count- 
 ess at Ravenna, will show the state of his 
 feelings at that time : 
 
 " River ' that rollest by the ancient walls 
 
 Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 
 
 Walks by the brink, and there perchance recalls 
 A faint and fleeting memory of me : 
 
 " What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
 A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
 
 The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
 Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ? 
 
 " What do I say a mirror of my heart ? 
 
 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
 Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 
 
 And such as thou art, were my passions long. 
 
 " Time may have somewhat tamed them; not for ever 
 Thou overflow's! 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 I to loving one I should not love. 
 
 " The current I behold will sweep beneath 
 Her native wails, and murmur at her feet ; 
 
 Her eyes will look on ihee, 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 mom'jnt ne'er 
 
 Thv waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
 Without the inseparable sigh for her. 
 
 " Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream ; 
 
 Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 
 Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 
 
 That happy wave repass me in its flow. 
 
 ** The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
 Will she return by whom 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, 
 
 Bat the distraction of a various lot, 
 
 As various as the climates of our birth. 
 
 " A stranger loves a lady of the land, 
 
 Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
 
 Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
 
 By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 
 
 " My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
 I had not left my clime ; I shall not be, 
 
 In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
 A slave again of love, at least of thee. 
 
 " 'T is vain to struggle let me perish young 
 Live as 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." 
 
 It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried 
 fife than Lord Byron led at this period in the 
 society of a few select friends. Billiards, con- 
 ^ersation, or reading, filled up the intervals 
 ill it was time to take the evening-drive, ride, 
 nd pistol-practice. 
 
 He dined at half an hour after sunset, then 
 drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guic- 
 cioli's father, passed several hours in her so- 
 ciety, returned to his palace, and either read 
 
 IThePo. 
 
 4 < 
 
 or wrote till two or three in the morning 
 occasionally drinking spirits diluted with wa 
 ter as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic 
 complaint, to which he was, or fancied him- 
 self, subject. 
 
 While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a sen 
 ous affray occurred, in which he was person- 
 ally concerned. Taking his usual ride, with 
 some friends, one of them was violently jostled 
 by a serjeant-major of hussars, who dashed, 
 at full speed, through the midst of the party. 
 They pursued and overtook him near the 
 Piaggia gate ; but their remonstrances were 
 answered only by abuse and menace, and an 
 attempt, on the part of the guard at the gate, 
 to arrest them. This occasioned a severe 
 scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's party 
 were wounded, as was also the hussar. The 
 consequence was. that all Lord Byron's ser- 
 vants (who were warmly attached to him, and 
 had shown great ardour in his defence), were 
 banished from Pisa ; and with them the Counts 
 Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was him- 
 self advised to leave it; and as the countess 
 accompanied her father, he soon after joined 
 them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at 
 Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was occa- 
 sioned by a new persecution of the Counts 
 Gamba. An order was issued for them to 
 leave the Tuscan states in four days; ana 
 after their embarkation for Genoa, the count- 
 ess and Lord Byron openly lived together, a* 
 the Lanfranchi palace. 
 
 It was at Pisa that Byron wrote " Werner," 
 a tragedy ; the " Deformed Transformed," 
 and continued his " Don Juan" to the end ol 
 the sixteenth canto. We venture to intro- 
 duce here the following critical summary of 
 this wonderful production of genius. 
 
 The poem of Don Juan has all sorts of 
 faults, many of which cannot be defended., 
 and some of which are disgusting; but it has, 
 also, almost every sort of poetical merit : there 
 are in it some of the finest passages Lord By- 
 ron ever wrote ; there is amazing knowledge 
 of human nature in it; there is exquisite hu- 
 mour; there is freedom, and bound, and vig- 
 our of narrative, imagery, sentiment, and style, 
 which are admirable ; there is a vast fertility 
 of deep, extensive, and original thought ; and 
 at the same time, there is the profusion of a 
 prompt and most richly-stored memory. The 
 invention is lively and poetical ; the descrip- 
 tions are brilliant and glowing, yet nol over- 
 wrought, but fresh from nature, and faithful 
 to her colours ; and the prevalent character 
 of the whole, (bating too many dark spots) 
 not dispiriting, though gloomy , not misan- 
 thropic, though bitter; and not iepulsive to 
 the visions of poetical enthusiasm, though 
 indignant and resentful. 
 
 Lord Byron's acquaintance with Leign 
 Hunt, the late editor of the Examiner, origin- 
 ated in his grateful feeling for the manner in 
 which Mr. Hunt stood forward in his uistifi 
 cation, at a time when the current of public 
 opinion ran strongly against him. This feel 
 ing. induced him to invite Mr. Hunt to the 
 Lanfranchi palace, where a suite of apart- 
 ments were fitted up for him. On his arriva
 
 XXM 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 ii. thn spnng of 1822, a periodical publication 
 was projected, under the title of "' The Lib- 
 eral,' of which Hunt was to be the editor, 
 and to which Lord Byron and Percy Shelley 
 (who had been residing for some time on terms 
 of great intimacy with his lordship) were to 
 contribute. Three numbers of the "Liberal" 
 were published in London, when, in conse- 
 quence of the unhappy fate of Mr. Shelley, 
 (who perished in the Mediterranean by the 
 upsetting of a boat), and of other discouraging 
 circumstances, it was discontinued. 
 
 Byron attended the funeral of his poet- 
 friend ; the following description of which, 
 by a person who was present, is not without 
 interest : 
 
 " 18th August, 1822. On the occasion of 
 Shelley's melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, 
 and on the day of my arrival, learnt that Lord 
 Byron was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in 
 performing the last offices to his friend. We 
 came to a spot marked by an old and withered 
 trunk of a fir-tree, and near it, on the beach, 
 stood a solitary hut covered with reeds. The 
 situation was well calculated for a poet's grave. 
 A few weeks before, I had ridden with him 
 and Lord Byron to this very spot, which I af- 
 terwards visited more than once. In front 
 was a magnificent extent of the blue and 
 windless Mediterranean, with the isles of Elba 
 and Guyana, Lord Byron's yacht at anchor 
 ,n the offing: on the other side an almost 
 boundless extent of sandy wilderness, uncul- 
 tivated and uninhabited, here and there inter- 
 spersed in tufts with underwood curved by 
 the sea-breeze, and stunted by the barren and 
 dry nature of the soil in which it grew. At 
 equal distances along the coast stood high 
 square towers, for the double purpose of guard- 
 ing the coast from smuggling, and enforcing 
 the quarantine laws. Thfs view was bounded 
 by 'an immense extent of the Italian Alps, 
 which are here particularly picturesque from 
 their volcanic and manifold appearances, and 
 which, being composed of white marble, give 
 their summits the appearance of snow. As a 
 foreground to this picture appeared as extra- 
 ordinary a group. Lord Byron and Trelawney 
 were seen standing over the burning pile, with 
 some of the soldiers of the guard ; and Leigh 
 Hunt, whose feelings and nerves could not 
 carry him through the scene of horror, lying 
 back in the carriage, the four post-horses 
 ready to drop with the intensity of the noon- 
 day sun. The stillness of all around was yet 
 moie felt by the shrill scream of a solitary 
 curlew, which, perhaps attracted by the body, 
 wheeled in such narrow circles round the 
 pile, that it might have been struck with the 
 liand, and was so fearless that it could not be 
 driven away. Looking at the corpse. Lord 
 Byron said : ' Why, that old black silk hand- 
 k< i.rchief retains its form better than that hu- 
 nun body !' Scarcely was the ceremony con- 
 cluded, when Lord Byron', agitated by the 
 spectacle he had witnessed, tried to dissipate 
 in some degree the impression of it by his fa- 
 rourite recreation. He took off his clothes, 
 therefore, and swam to the yacht, which was 
 
 riding a few miles distant. The heat of the 
 sun and checked perspiration threw him into 
 a fever, which he felt coming on before he left 
 the water, and which became more violent 
 before he reached Pisa. On his return, he 
 immediately took a warm bath, and the next 
 morning was perfectly recovered." 
 
 The enmity between Byron and Southey, 
 the poet-laureate, is as well known as that be- 
 tween Pope and Colley Gibber. Their poli 
 tics were diametrically opposite, and the noblt 
 bard regarded the bard of royalty as a rene- 
 gado from his early principles. It was not. 
 however, so much on account of political 
 principles that the enmity between Byron and 
 Southey was kept up. The peer, in his satire, 
 had handled the epics of the laureate *' too 
 roughly," and this the latter deeply resented. 
 Whilst travelling on the continent, Southey 
 observed Shelley's name in the Album, at 
 Mont Anvert, with " Afltoj" written after it, 
 and an indignant comment in the same lan- 
 guage written under it; also the names of some 
 of Byron's other friends. The laureate, it is 
 said, copied the names and the comment, and, 
 on his return to England, reported the whole 
 circumstances, and hesitated not to conclude 
 Byron of the same principles as his friends. 
 In a poem he subsequently wrote, called the 
 ' ; Vision of Judgment," he stigmatized Lord 
 Byron as the father of the " Satanic School 
 of Poetry." His lordship, in a note appended 
 to the "Two Foscari," retorted in a very se- 
 vere manner, and even permitted himself to 
 ridicule Southey's wife, the sister of Cole- 
 ridge's wife, they having been at one time 
 " two milliners of Bath." The laureate wrote 
 an answer to this note in the Courier news- 
 paper, which, when Byron saw it. enraged 
 him so much, that he consulted with his friends 
 whether or not he ought to go to England to 
 answer it personally. In cooler moments, 
 however, he resolved merely to write hu 
 " Vision of Judgment," which was a parody 
 on Southey's, and appeared in one of the num- 
 bers of the " Liberal," for which Hunt, the 
 publisher, was prosecuted by the " Constitu- 
 tional Association," and found guilty. 
 
 As some of our readers may be curious to 
 know the rate at which Lord Byron was paid 
 for his productions, we annex the following 
 statement, by Mr. Murray, the bookseller, of 
 the sums given by him for the copy-rights ot 
 most of his lordship's works : 
 
 Childe Harold, I. II 6002. 
 
 , III 1,575 
 
 , IV 2,100 
 
 Giaour 525 
 
 Bride of Abydos 525 
 
 Corsair 525 
 
 Lara 700 
 
 Sie^e of Corinth 625 
 
 Parisina , 125 
 
 Lament of Tasso 'U5 
 
 Manfred SI/. 
 
 Beppo 525 
 
 Don Juan, I. II 1,525 
 
 , III. IV. V 1,525 
 
 Doge of Venice 1,050
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari, 
 
 Mazeppa 
 
 Prisoner of Chillon 
 
 Sundries 
 
 1,1001. 
 525 
 525 
 430 
 
 Total 
 
 As is the case with many men in affluent 
 ci, cunistances, Byron was at times more than 
 generous; and again, at other times, what 
 might be called mean. He once borrowed 
 5UO/. in order to give it to the widow of one 
 who had been his friend : he frequently dined 
 on five Pauls, arid once gave his bills to a lady 
 to be examined, because he thought he was 
 cheated. He gave 1000/. for a yacht, which 
 lie sold again for 300/., and refused to give the 
 sailors their jackets. It ought, however, to be 
 observed, that generosity was natural to him, 
 and that his avarice, if it can be so termed, 
 was a mere whim or caprice of the moment 
 a role he could not long sustain. He once 
 borrowed 100/. to give to the brother-in-law 
 of Southey, Coleridge, the poet, when the 
 latter was in distress. In his quarrel with the 
 laureate, he was provoked to allude to this 
 circumstance, which certainly he ought not 
 to have done. 
 
 Byron was a great admirer of the Waverley 
 novels, and never travelled without them. 
 " They are," said he to Captain Mcdwin one 
 day, " a library in themselves, a perfect lite- 
 rary treasure. I could read them once a-year 
 with new pleasure." During that morning, 
 lie had been reading one of Sir Walter's nov- 
 els, and delivered, according to Medwin, the 
 following criticism : " How difficult it is to 
 say any thing new ! Who was that voluptuary 
 of antiquity, who offered a reward for a new 
 pleasure? Perhaps all nature and art could 
 not supply a new idea." 
 
 The anxious and paternal tenderness Lord 
 Byron felt for his daughter, is expressed with 
 unequalled beauty and pathos in the first 
 stanza of the third canto of Childe Harold. 
 " What do you think of Ada ?" said he to Med- 
 win, looking earnestly at his daughter's minia- 
 ture, that hung by the side of his writing-ta- 
 ble. " They tell me she is like me but she 
 lias her mother's eyes. It is very odd that my 
 mother was an only child ; I am an only child ; 
 my wife is an only child ; and Ada is an only 
 child. It is a singular coincidence; that is 
 the least that can be said of it. I can't help 
 thinking it was destined to be so ; and perhaps 
 it is best. I was once anxious for a son ; but, 
 after our separation, was glad to have had a 
 daughter ; for it would have distressed me too 
 much to have taken him away from Lady By- 
 ron, and I could not have trusted her with a 
 son's education. I have no idea of boys being 
 brought up by mothers. I suffered too much 
 from that myself: and then, wandering about 
 the world as I do, I could not take proper care 
 of a child ; otherwise I should not have left 
 Alleura, poor little thing! at Ravenna. She 
 has been a great resource to me, though I am 
 not so fond of her as of Ada : and yet I mean 
 to^ make their fortunes equal there will be 
 enough f or them both. I have desired in my 
 will that Allegra shall not marry an English- 
 
 man. The Irish and Scotch make oetter mis 
 bands than we do. You will think it was an 
 odd fancy ; but I was not in the best o f hu- 
 mours with my countrymen at that momenl 
 you know the reason. I am told that Ada 
 is a little termagant ; I hope not. I shall write 
 to my sister to know if this is the case : per- 
 haps I am wrong in letting Lady Byron have 
 entirely her own way in her education. I hear 
 that my name is not mentioned in her pres- 
 ence ; that a green curtain is always kept 
 over my portrait, as over something forbidden ; 
 and that she is not to know that she has a 
 father till she comes of age. Of course she 
 will be taught to hate me ; she will be brought 
 up to it. Lady Byron is conscious of all this, 
 and is afraid that I shall some day carry off 
 her daughter by stealth or force. I might 
 claim her of the Chancellor, without having 
 recourse to either one or the other; but I haa 
 rather be unhappy myself than make her 
 mother so; probably 1 shall never see her 
 again." Here he opened his writing-desk 
 and showed Captain Medwin some hair, which 
 he told him was his child's. 
 
 Several years ago, Lord Byron presented 
 his friend, Mr. Thomas Moore, with his 
 " Memoirs," written by himself, with an un- 
 derstanding that they were not to be publish- 
 ed until after his death. Mr. Moore, with the 
 consent, and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold 
 the manuscript to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, 
 for the sum of two thousand guineas. The 
 following statement by Mr. Moore, will how- 
 ever show its fate: "Without entering into 
 the respective claims of Mr. Murray and my- 
 self to the property in these memoirs, (a 
 question which now that they are destroyed 
 can be but of little moment to any one), it is 
 sufficient to say, that, believing the manuscript 
 still to be mine. I placed it at the disposal of 
 Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. Leigh, with the sole 
 reservation of a protest against its total de 
 struction ; at least, without previous perusal 
 and consultation among the parties. The ma- 
 jority of the persons present disagreed with 
 this opinion, and it was the only point upon 
 which there did exist any difference between 
 us. The manuscript was accordingly torn 
 and burnt before our eyes, and I immediately 
 paid to Mr. Murray, in the presence of the 
 gentlemen assembled, two thousand guineas, 
 with interest, etc., being the amount of what 
 I owed him upon the security of my bond, 
 and for which I now stand indebted to my 
 publishers, Messrs. Longman and Co. 
 
 "Since then, the family of Lord Byron have, 
 in a manner highly honourable to themselves, 
 proposed an arrangement, by which the sum 
 thus paid to Mr. Murray might be reimburp 
 ed me ; but from feelings and consideration*, 
 which it is unnecessary here to explain, 1 have 
 respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their 
 offer." 
 
 One evening, after a dinner-party at the 
 Lanfranchi palace, his lordship wrote the fol- 
 lowing drinking-song : 
 
 " Fill the goblet again, for I never beforp 
 
 Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to it co
 
 xxvni 
 
 LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 
 
 i>ei us drink who would not ? since, through life's 
 
 varied round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 ' 1 have tried, in its turn, all that life can supply ; 
 i have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; 
 I have loved who has not 1 but what tongue will 
 
 declare 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there 1 
 
 " In the days of our youth, when the heart 's in its 
 
 spring, 
 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 I had friends who has not ? but what tongue will 
 
 avow 
 That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou ? 
 
 " The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sun-beam, thou never canst 
 
 change ; 
 Thou grow'st old who does not ? but on earth what 
 
 appears, 
 Whose virtues, like thine, but increase 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 jollity 's 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 confined 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." 
 
 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 
 pei formed in his brilliant but brief career 
 we beg leave to introduce the following sum 
 mary of his character : 
 
 There seems to have been something of a 
 magical antidote in Lord Byron's genius to 
 the strange propensities to evil arising botl 
 from his natural passions and temper, and thi 
 accidental unpropitious circumstances of hi 
 life. In no man were good and evil minglec 
 in such strange intimacy, and in such strange 
 proportions. His passions were extraordina 
 rily violent and fierce ; and his temper, un 
 easy, bitter, and capricious. His pride wa 
 deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent an 
 uncontrollable. All these were exactly sue 
 as the fortuitous position of his infancy, boy 
 hood, and first manhood, tended to aggravat 
 by discouragements, crosses, and rnortifica 
 tions. He was directly and immediately sprunc 
 from a stock of old nobility, of a historf 
 name, of venerable antiquity. All his alii 
 ances, including his father, had moved in hig 
 society. But this gay father died, improviden 
 or reckless of the future, and left him to wast 
 his childhood in poverty and dereliction, i 
 Jie remote town of Aberdeen, among the fev 
 iiaternal relations who yet would not utterl 
 aSando*. his mother's shipwrecked fortunes 
 
 it the age of six years he became presump- 
 
 ive heir to the family peerage, and at the age 
 
 f ten the peerage devolved on him. He then 
 
 ras sent to the public school of Harrow ; but 
 
 either his person, his acquired habits, his 
 
 cholarship, nor his temper, fitted him for this 
 
 trange arena. A peer, not immediately is- 
 
 uing from the fashionable circles, and not as 
 
 ich as foolish boys suppose a peer ought to 
 
 >e, must have a wonderful tact of society, and 
 
 a managing, bending, intriguing temper, to 
 
 jlay his part with eclat, or with comfort, or 
 
 even without degradation. All the treatment 
 
 which Lord Byron now received, confirmed 
 
 he bitterness of a disposition and feelings 
 
 naturally sour, and already augmented by 
 
 ihilling solitude, or an uncongenial sphere of 
 
 ociety. 
 
 To a mind endowed with intense sensibility 
 and unextinguishable ambition, these circum- 
 stances operated in cherishing melancholy, 
 and even misanthropy. They bred an intract- 
 ability to the light humours, the heartless 
 cheerfulness, and all the artillery of unthink- 
 ng emptiness by which the energies of the 
 josom are damped and broken. There were 
 implanted within him the seeds of profound 
 reflection and emotion, which grew in him to 
 such strength, that the tameness, the petty 
 passions, and frivolous desires of mankind in 
 their ordinary intercourses of pleasure and 
 dissipation, could never long retain him in 
 their chains without weariness 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 which they were actuated, and 
 by which they judged. He never, therefore, 
 enjoyed their blandishments, and, ere long, 
 broke like a giant from their bonds. 
 
 There can be no doubt, that disappoint- 
 ments, working on a sombre temper, and the 
 consequent melancholy and sensitiveness, aid- 
 ing, and aided by, the spells of the muse, were 
 Lord Byron's preservatives; at least, that they 
 produced redeeming splendours, and moments 
 of pure and untainted 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 prosperity and ease. had 
 nothing occurred capable of stimulating to 
 strong personal exertions, the mighty seeds 
 within him had probably been worse than 
 neutral they had worked to unqualified mis- 
 chief! In many cases, this is not the effect of 
 prosperity; but Lord Byron's qualities were 
 of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense and 
 unrivalled in degree. 
 
 When, in the spring of 1816. Lord Byron 
 quitted England, to return to it no more, he 
 had a dark, perilous, and appalling prospect 
 before him. The chances against the due lu- 
 ture use of his miraculous and fearful shifts of 
 genius, poisoned and frenzied as they w ere b 
 blighted hopes, and all the evil incident; n\V'-ti
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 nad befallen him, *vere too numerous to b 
 calculated without overwhelming dismay 
 Few persons, of a sensibility a little above tin 
 common, would have escaped the pit of black 
 and unmitigated despondence ! But Lord By- 
 ron's elasticity of mind recovered itself, anc 
 soon rose to far higher conceptions and per- 
 formances than before. He passed the sum 
 mer upon the banks of the lake of Geneva 
 With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with 
 what contemplations he dwelt among its scene- 
 ry, his own poetry soon exhibited tolhe world 
 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 of the rank to which he belonged. He 
 might have pleaded, that the world rejectee 
 him, and he the world ; but the charge is idle 
 in itself, admitting it to have originated witf 
 his own will. A man has a right to live in 
 solitude, if he chooses it; and, above all, he 
 who gives such fruits of his solitude ! 
 
 Inlhe autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quittec 
 Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remainec 
 throughout the winter. A Idtter written by 
 his lordship, while at Genoa, is singularly 
 honourable to him, and is the more entitled to 
 notice, as it tends to diminish the credibility 
 of an assertion made since his death, that he 
 could bear no rival in fame, but instantly be- 
 came animated with a bitter jealousy and ha- 
 tred of any person who attracted the public 
 attention from himself. If there be a living 
 being towards whom, according to that state- 
 ment. Lord Byron would have experienced 
 such a sentiment, it must be the presumed 
 a ithor of " Waverley." And yet, in a letter 
 to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the 
 following r\re the just and liberal expressions 
 used by Lord Byron, in adverting to a pam- 
 phlet which had been recently published by 
 Monsieur Beyle : 
 
 " There is one part of your observations in 
 the pamphlet which I shall venture to remark 
 upon : it regards Walter Scott. You say that 
 his character is little worthy of enthusiasm,' 
 at the same time that you mention his produc- 
 tions 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 char- 
 acter is worthy of admiration; that, of all 
 men, he is the most open, the most honour- 
 able, the most amiable. With his politics I 
 have nothing to do: they differ 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. You may, perhaps, at- 
 tribute 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 Wal- 
 ter 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 inducH Lord 
 Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, 
 k.-.-uggling for emancipation, are sufficiently 
 c a 
 
 obvious. It was in Greece that his high po 
 etical faculties had been first fully developed 
 Greece, a land of the most venerable ana* il 
 lustrious history of peculiarly grand ana 
 beautiful scenery, inhabited by various race 
 of the most wild and picturesque manners 
 was to him the land of excitement, never- 
 cloying, never-wearying, never-changing ex~ 
 citement. It was necessarily the chosen and 
 favourite spot of a man of powerful and orig 
 inal intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, 
 of a restless and untameable spirit, of various 
 information, and who, above all, was satiated 
 with common enjoyments, and disgusted with 
 what appeared to him to be the formality, hy- 
 pocrisy, and sameness of daily life. Dwelling 
 upon that country, as it is clear from all Lord 
 Byron's writingsie did, with the fondest so- 
 licitude, and being, as he was well known to 
 be, an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very sys- 
 tematic lover of freedom, he could be no un- 
 concerned spectator of its recent revolution : 
 and as soon as it seemed to him that his pres- 
 ence might be useful, he prepared to visit 
 once more the shores of Greece. It is not 
 improbable, also, that he had become ambi- 
 tious of a name as distinguished for deeds as 
 it was already by his writings. A glorious and 
 novel career apparently presented itself, and 
 he determined to try the event. 
 
 Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- 
 rived in Cephalonia in the early part of Au- 
 gust, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven 
 friends, in an English vessel, (the Hercules 
 Captain Scott), which he had chartered for 
 the express purpose of taking him to Greece. 
 His lordship had never seen any of the vol- 
 canic mountains, and for'this purpose theves 
 sel deviated from its regular course, in order 
 to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that 
 place a whole night, in the hopes of witness- 
 ing the usual phenomena, but, for the first time 
 within the memory of man, the volcano emit- 
 ted no fire. The disappointed poet was obliged 
 :o proceed, in no good humour with the fabled 
 forge of Vulcan. 
 
 Greece, though with a fair prospect of ulti- 
 mate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled 
 state. The third campaign had commenced, 
 with several instances of distinguished suc- 
 cess her arms were every where victorious, 
 )ut her councils were distracted. Western 
 Greece was in a ciitical situation, and although 
 he heroic Marco Botzaris had not fallen in 
 /ain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he 
 >erished, only checked, and did not prevent 
 he advance of the Turks towards Anatolica 
 ind Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy 
 of the best days of Greece, hailed with trans 
 >prt Lord Byron's arrival in that country, and 
 iis last act, before proceeding to the attack 
 n which he fell, was to write a warm invita- 
 ion for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. 
 n his letter, which he addressed to a friend at 
 VTissolonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the 
 irst proceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, 
 vhich was the arming and provisioning of 
 brty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the do 
 ence of Missolonghi. After the battle. Lord 
 Byron transmitted bandages and medicine*
 
 XJX 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 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 sayf 
 IP a. letter, " I offered to advance a thousar 
 dollars a month, for the succour of Mis - 
 longhi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (si - je 
 killed); but the government have answ -.ed 
 
 me through of this island, that they vish 
 
 to confer with me previously, which is, in fact, 
 saying they wish me to spend my money in 
 some other direction. I will take care that it 
 is for the public cause, otherwise I will not 
 advance a para. The opposition say they 
 want to cajole me, and the party in power say 
 the others wish to seduce me ; so, between the 
 two, I have a difficult part to play: however, 
 I will have nothing to dp 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 despatched two friends, Mr. 
 Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton Browne, with 
 a letter to the 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 neighbourhood. 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 meanwhile, Lord Byron's friends 
 proceeded to Tripolitza, and found Coloco- 
 troni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had 
 been compelled to flee from the presidency) 
 in great power: his palace was filled with 
 armed men, like the castle of some ancient 
 feudal chief, and a good idea of his character 
 may be formed from the language he held. He 
 declared that he had told Mavrocordato, that 
 unless he 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 moun- 
 tain chief, into Negrppont. At this time the 
 Greeks were preparing for many active en- 
 terprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his 
 Suliotes and Mavrocordato, were to take 
 charge of Missolonghi, which, at that time, 
 (October, 1823), was in a very critical state, 
 being blockaded both by land and sea. " There 
 have been," says Mr. Trelawney. "thirty bat- 
 tles fought and won by the late Marco Bot- 
 zaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who 
 are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens 
 will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut. 
 A few thousand dollars would provide ships 
 to relieve it; a portion of this sum is raised 
 and 1 would coin my heart to save this key of 
 Greece !" A report like this was sufficient to 
 show the point where succour was most need- 
 ed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve 
 Missolonghi, was still more decidedly con- 
 firmed by a letter, which he received from 
 Mavrocordato 
 
 Mavrocordato was at this time endeavour 
 ing to collect a fleet for the relief of Misso- 
 k>nghi, and Lord Byron generously offered to 
 advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 
 12,000/.) to pay for fitting it out. In a .ettei 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 con- 
 firmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and 
 all the assistance which the Greeks cculd ex- 
 pect from abroad, an assistance which might 
 be neither trifling nor worthless, will be sus- 
 pended or destroyed ; and, what is worse, the 
 great powers of Europe, of whom no one was 
 an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to 
 favour her in consenting to the establishment 
 of an independent power, will be persuaded 
 that the Greeks are unable to govern them- 
 selves, and will, perhaps, themselves under- 
 take to arrange your disorders in such a way 
 as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, 
 and that are indulged by your friends. 
 
 " And allow me to add once for all, I desire 
 the well-being of Greece, and nothing else ; 
 I will do all I can to secure it; but I cannot 
 consent I never will consent to the English 
 public, or English individuals being deceived 
 as. to the real state of Greek affairs. The 
 rest, gentlemen, depends on you ; you have 
 fought 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 Ko- 
 man historian, that Philopoemen was the last 
 of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (and 
 it is difficult to guard against it in so difficult 
 a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with 
 the patriot Greek in peace, after you have 
 exterminated him in war." 
 
 The dissensions among the Greek chiefs 
 evidently gave great pain to Lord Byron, 
 whose sensibility was keenly affected by the 
 slightest circumstance which he considered 
 likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. 
 " For my part," he observes, in another of hi? 
 letters, " I will stick by the cause, while a 
 plank remains which can be honourably clung 
 to; if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' con- 
 duct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier 
 Mussulmans." In a letter to his banker at 
 Cephalonia, he says : " I hope things here will 
 go well, some time or other ; I will stick by 
 the cause as long as a cause exists." 
 
 His playful humour sometimes broke out 
 amidst the deep anxiety he felt for the suc- 
 cess 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 4,000/.. anc 
 expecting to be called on for 4,000/. more, he? 
 sa ys : " How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) 
 will fight, and especially if I should haipen 
 to be in their company ? I therefore request 
 and require that you should apprise my ti asty 
 and trustworthy trustee and banker, and
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 crown and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kinnaird 
 the honourable, that he prepare all moneys of 
 mine, including the purchase-money of Roch- 
 dale manor, and mine income for the year A. 
 D. 18-24, to answer and anticipate any orders 
 or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good 
 and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc. 
 etc. May you live a thousand years ! which 
 is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than 
 the Spanish Cortes constitution." 
 
 All being ready, two Ionian vessels were 
 ordered, and, embarking his horses and ef- 
 fects, Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 
 29th of December. At Zante, his lordship 
 took a considerable quantity of specie on 
 board, and proceeded towards Missolonghi. 
 Two accidents occurred in this short passage. 
 Count Gamba, who had accompanied his lord- 
 ship from Leghorn, had been charged with 
 the vessel in which 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 the activity displayed on board Lord By- 
 ron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she es- 
 caped, while the second was fired at, brought 
 to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba 
 and his companions, being taken before Yusuff 
 Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of 
 some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary 
 chief had sacrificed the preceding year at 
 Previsa, and their fears would most prob- 
 ably have been realized, had it not been for 
 the presence of mind displayed by the count, 
 who, assuming an air of hauteur and indiffer- 
 ence, accused the captain of the frigate of a 
 scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at 
 and detaining a vessel under English colours, 
 and concluded by informing Yusuff, 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 recognisin 
 in the master of the vessel a person who had 
 saved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years 
 before, not only consented to the vessel's re- 
 lease, but treated the whole of the passengers 
 with the utmost attention, and even urged 
 them to take a day's shooting in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 Owing to contrary winds. Lord Byron's ves- 
 sel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, 
 a cluster of rocks within a few miles of Mis- 
 solonghi. While detained here, he was in 
 considerable danger of being captured by 
 the Turks. 
 
 Lord Byron was received at Missolonghi 
 with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No 
 mark of honour or welcome which the Greek 
 could devise was omitted. The ships anchored 
 off the fortress, fired a salute as he passed. 
 Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, 
 with the troops and the population, met him 
 n his landing, and accompanied him to the 
 liouse which had been prepared for him, amidst 
 the shouts of the multitude, and the discharge 
 ol 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 signalized 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 Missolonghi, before 
 an opportunity presented itself for showing 
 his' sense of Yusuff Pacha's moderation in re- 
 leasing 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 By- 
 ron felt to give a new turn to the system of 
 warfare hitherto pursued. A Greefe cruiser 
 having captured a Turkish boat, in which 
 there was a number of passengers, chiefly 
 women and children, they were also placed 
 in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular 
 request; upon which a vessel was smmediately 
 hired, and the whole of them, to the number 
 of twenty-four, were sent to PrevisJi, provided 
 with every requisite for their comfort during 
 the passage. The Turkish governor of Pre- 
 visa 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. 
 
 Another grand object with Lord Byron, and 
 one which he never ceased to forward with 
 the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile 
 the quarrels of the native chiefs, to make them 
 friendly and confiding towards one another, 
 and submissive to the orders of the govern- 
 ment. He had neither time nor opportunity 
 to carry this point to any great extent : much 
 good was, however, done. 
 
 Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated 
 with military ardour. After paying the fleet, 
 which, indeed, bad only come out under the 
 expectation of receiving its arrears from the 
 loan which he promised to make to the pro- 
 visional government, he set about forming a 
 brigade of Suliotes. Five hundred of these, 
 the bravest and most resolute of the soldiers 
 of Greece, were taken into his pay on the 1st 
 of January, 1824. An expedition against Le- 
 panto was proposed, of which the command 
 was given to Lord Byron. This expedition, 
 however, had to experience delay and disap- 
 pointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that they 
 liad found a patron whose wealth was inex 
 haustible, and whose generosity was bound 
 less, determined to make the most of the on 
 casion,and proceeded to the most extravagant 
 demands on th-!:ir leader for arrears, and un- 
 der other pretences. These mountaineers 
 untatneable in the field, and unmanagcabw iu 
 a town, were, at this moment, peculiarly dis- 
 posed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary 
 They had been chiefly instrumental in pre 
 sen ing Missolonghi, when besieged the pr
 
 tx.tn 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 vioas autumn by the Turks ; had been driven 
 (t n their abodes; and the whole of their 
 families were, at this time, in the town, des- 
 titute of either home or sufficient supplies. 
 Of turbulent and reckless character, they 
 kept the place in awe ; and Mavrocordato 
 having, unlike the other captains, no sol- 
 diers 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 fortnight after Lord Byron's arrival, 
 a burgher refusing to quarter some Suliotes, 
 who rudely demanded entrance into his house, 
 was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some 
 lives were lost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit 
 could ill brook the delay of a favourite scheme, 
 but he saw, with the utmost chagrin, that the 
 state of his troops was such as to render any 
 attempt to lead them out at that time imprac- 
 ticable. 
 
 The project of proceeding against Lepanto 
 being thus suspended, at a moment when Lord 
 Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when 
 he had fully calculated on striking a blow 
 which could not fail to be of the utmost ser- 
 vice to the Greek cause, the unlooked-for dis- 
 appointment preyed on his spirits, and pro- 
 duced a degree of irritability, which, if it was 
 not the sole cause, contributed greatly to a 
 severe, fit of epilepsy, with which he was at- 
 tacked en the 15th of February. His lordship 
 was sitting in the apartment of Colonel Stan- 
 hope, talking in a jocular manner with Mr. 
 Parry, the engineer, when it was observed, 
 from occasional and rapid changes in his coun- 
 tenance, that he was suffering under some 
 strong emotion. On a sudden he complained 
 of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but 
 finding himself unable to walk, he cried out 
 for assistance. He then fell into a state of 
 nervous and convulsive agitation, and was 
 placed on a bed. For some minutes his coun- 
 tenance was much distorted. He however 
 quickly recovered his senses, his speech re- 
 turned, and he soon appeared perfectly well, 
 although enfeebled and exhausted by the vio- 
 lence of the struggle. During the fit, he be- 
 haved with his usual extraordinary firmness, 
 and his efforts in contending with, and at- 
 tempting 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 reme- 
 dies which his physicians advised, such as 
 bleeding, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of 
 mind, etc., and he gradually recovered. An 
 accident, however, happened a few days after 
 Ins first illness, which was ill calculated to aid 
 the efforts of his medical advisers. A Suliote, 
 accompanied by another man, and the late 
 Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the 
 Seraglio, a place which, before Lord Byron's 
 arrival, had been used as a sort of fortress and 
 barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they 
 were ejected with great difficulty for the re- 
 ception of the committee-stores, and for the 
 occupation of the engineers, who required it 
 (or a laboratory. The sentinel on guard or- 
 dered the Suliote to retire, which being a spe- 
 
 cies of motion to which Suliotes are not ac 
 customed,the man carelessly advanced; upon 
 which the serjeant of the guard (a German) 
 demanded his business, and receiving no sat- 
 isfactory 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 strug- 
 
 fled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his 
 elt ; 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 ta- 
 ken to the guard-room. The Suliote was then 
 disposed to depart, and would have done so ii 
 the serjeant would have permitted him. Un- 
 fortunately, Captain Sass did not confine him- 
 self to merely giving the order for his arrest; 
 for when the Suliote struggled to get away, 
 Captain Sass drew his sword, and struck him 
 with the flat part of it ; whereupon the en- 
 raged Greek flew upon him, with a pistol in 
 one hand and the sabre in the other, and at 
 the same moment nearly cut off the Captain's 
 right arm, and shot him through the head. 
 Captain Sass, who was remarkable for his 
 mild and courageous character, expired in a 
 few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of 
 distinguished bravery. This was a serious af- 
 fair, and great apprehensions were entertained 
 that it would not end here. The Suliotes re- 
 fused 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. " 1 
 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 daily, and out in boats or on horse- 
 back. To-day I have taken a warm bath, 
 and live as temperately as well can be, with- 
 out any liquid but water, and without any ani- 
 mal food." After adverting to some other 
 subjects, the letter thus concludes : " Matters 
 are here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, 
 foreigners, etc. ; but I still hope better things, 
 and will stand by the cause as long as my 
 health and circumstances 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 gen- 
 tleman 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 : 
 
 " I am extremely obliged by your offer of 
 your country-house, as for all other kindness, 
 in case my 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 ant
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXXIIi 
 
 auJ 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 illness, and that in a great measure 
 brought on by the conduct of the troops he 
 had taken into his pay, and treated with the 
 utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no 
 humour to pursue his scheme against Le- 
 panto, even supposing that his state of health 
 had been such as to bear the fatigue of a cam- 
 paign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, 
 showed some signs of repentance, and offered 
 to place themselves at his lordship's disposal. 
 But still they had an objection to the nature 
 of the service : " they would not fight against 
 stone walls !" It is not surprising that the ex- 
 pedition to Lepantp was no longer thought of. 
 
 In conformity with our plan, we here add a 
 selection of anecdotes, etc. connected with 
 Lord Byron's residence at Missolonghi. They 
 are principally taken from Captain 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 lordship said " I conceive that I 
 have been already grossly ill-treated by the 
 committee. In Italy, Mr. Blaquiere, their 
 agent, informed me that every requisite sup- 
 ply would be forwarded with all despatch. I 
 was disposed to come to Greece, but I has- 
 tened 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, which gave me no information what- 
 ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail 
 t> 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 pro- 
 ceedings, and would have known better what 
 tne country stood in need of. They would not 
 have delayed the supplies a day, nor have sent 
 out German officers, poor fellows, to starve at 
 Missolonghi, but for my assistance. I 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 geography. Here are bugle- 
 horns, without buglemen, and it is a chance 
 if we can find any body in Greece to blow 
 them. Books are sent to a peoole who want 
 guns : they ask for a sword, and the commit- 
 tee give them the lever of a printing-press. 
 Heavens ! one would think the committee 
 meant to inculcate patience and submission, 
 and to condemn resistance. Some materials 
 for constructing fortifications 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. Bowring, was disposed, I be- 
 lieve, to claim the privilege of an acquaint- 
 ance with me. He wrote me a long letter 
 
 about the classic land of freedom, the birth- 
 place of the arts, the cradle of genius, the 
 habitation of the gods, the heaven of poets, 
 and a great many such fine things. I was 
 obliged to answer him, and I scrawled some 
 nonsense in reply to his nonsense ; but I fancy 
 I shall get no more such epistles. When I 
 came to the conclusion of the poetry part of 
 my letter, I wrote, ' so much for blarney, now 
 for business.' I have not since heard in the 
 same strain from Mr. Bowring." 
 
 " My future intentions," continued he, " as 
 to Greece, may be explained in a few words : 
 I will remain here till she is secure against 
 the Turks, or till she has fallen under their 
 power. All my income shall be spent in her 
 service ; but, unless driven by some great ne- 
 cessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum 
 intended for my sister's children. Whatever 
 I can accomplish with my income, and my 
 personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. 
 When Greece is secure against external ene- 
 mies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their 
 government as they like. One service more, 
 and an eminent service it will be, I think I 
 may perform for them. You, Parry, shall 
 have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a 
 vessel ; the Greeks shall invest me with the 
 character of their ambassador or agent ; I will 
 go to the United States, and procure that free 
 and enlightened government to set the exam- 
 ple 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 lights, as a member of 
 the great commonwealth of Christian Eu- 
 rope." 
 
 " This," observes Captain Parry, in his plain 
 and manly manner, " was Lord Byron's hope 
 and this was to be his last project in favour of 
 Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambi- 
 tion entered, more than that just and proper 
 one, the basis of all virtue, and the distin- 
 guished characteristic of an honourable mind 
 the hope of gaining the approbation of good 
 men. As an author, he had already attained 
 the pinnacle of popularity and of fame ; but 
 this did not satisfy his noble ambition. He 
 hastened to Greece, with a devotion to liberty, 
 and a zeal in favour of the oppressed, as pure 
 as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in the 
 purest days of chivalry, to gain the reputation 
 of an unsullied warrior, and of a disinterested 
 statesman. He was by her unpaid, but the 
 blessings of all Greece, and the high honours 
 his own countrymen bestow on his memory 
 bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was 
 not her unrewarded champion." 
 
 Lord Byron's address was the most affable 
 and courteous perhaps ever seen ; his man- 
 ners, when in a good humour, and desirous of 
 being well with his guest, were winning, fas- 
 cinating in the extreme, and though bland, 
 still spirited, and with an air of frankness and 
 generosity qualities in which he was cer- 
 tainly not deficient. He was open to a fault 
 a characteristic probably the result of Lis 
 fearlessness, and independence of the world, 
 but so open was he, that his friends wei
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 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 per- 
 son in question. He hated scandal and tit- 
 tle-tattle loved the manly straight-forward 
 course: he would harbour no doubts, and 
 never live with another with suspicions in his 
 bosom out carne the accusation , and he called 
 upon the individual to clear, or be ashamed 
 of, himself. He detested a lie nothing en- 
 raged him so much : he was by temperament 
 and education excessively irritable, and a lie 
 completely unchained 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 falsehood and 
 conceals the truth, because he is afraid that 
 the declaration of th3 thing 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 infancy 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 ad- 
 herence to truth. The anecdote that follows, 
 told by Parry, is highly characteristic : 
 
 ' When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape 
 Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day 
 ordered by Lord Byron to accompany him to 
 the mouth of the harbour to inspect the forti- 
 fications, in order to make a report on the state 
 they were in. He and I were in his own punt, 
 a little boat which he had. rowed by a boy; 
 and in a large boat, accompanying us, were 
 Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants. As 
 I was viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet 
 attentively, and reflecting on its powers, and 
 our means of defence; and looking, on the 
 olher, at Prince Mavrocordato and his attend- 
 ants, perfectly unconcerned, smoking their 
 pipes, and gossiping as if Greece were libe- 
 rated 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 matter,' said his lordship, ap- 
 pearing 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 pinnaces, any night 
 they pleased ; they have only to approach it 
 with muffled 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 
 tjun-boats, properly armed with 24-pounders, 
 cheV might batter both Missolonghi and Ana- 
 tolica to the ground. And there sits the old 
 gentlewoman, Prince Mavrocordato and his 
 troop, 10 whom I applied an epithet I will not 
 iere repeat, as if they were all perfectly safe. 
 They know their powers of defence are in- 
 adequate, and they have no means of improv- 
 ing them. If 1 were in their place, I should 
 he in a fever it tbe tnought of my own inca- 
 
 pacity and ignorance, and I should ourn witb 
 impatience to attempt the destruction ot those 
 stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks ana 
 Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbe- 
 cility, of each other.' I had scarcely explain- 
 ed myself fully, when his lordship ordered our 
 boat to be placed alongside the other, and ac- 
 tually related our whole conversation to the 
 prince. In doing it, however, he took on him- 
 self the task of pacifying both the prince and 
 me, and though I was at first very angry, and 
 the prince, I T>elieve, very much annoyed, he 
 succeeded. Mavrocordato afterwards showed 
 no dissatisfaction with me, and I prized Lord 
 Byron's regard too much, to remain long dis- 
 pleased 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 children 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. He 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 right 
 hand was his interpreter, who was extracting 
 from the women a narrative of their suffer- 
 ings. One of them, apparently about thirty 
 years of age, possessing great vivacity, and 
 whose manners and dress, though she was then 
 dirty and disfigured, indicated that she was 
 superior in rank and condition to her com- 
 panions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I 
 admired the good order the others preserved, 
 never interfering with the explanation, or in- 
 terrupting the single speaker. I also admired 
 the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- 
 plained every thing they said, so as to make 
 it almost appear that there was but one 
 speaker. After a short time, it was evident 
 that what Lord Byron was hearing, affected 
 his feelings his countenance changed, his 
 colour went and came, and I thought he was 
 ready to weep. But he had, on all occasions, 
 a ready and peculiar knack in turning con- 
 versation from any disagreeable or unpleasant 
 subject; and he had recourse to this expedi- 
 ent. 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 in- 
 stantly fixed on me, and one of the party, a 
 young and beautiful woman, spoke very 
 warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and 
 said they might retire. The women all slip- 
 ped off their shoes in an instant, and going up 
 to his lordship, each in succession, accompa- 
 nied by r their children, kissed his hand fer- 
 vently, 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 con- 
 ceal his emotion." 
 
 " One of Lord Byron's household had sey 
 eral 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
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 xxxv 
 
 ic think of a means of curing it. A young 
 riuliote of the. guard was accordingly dressed 
 up like a woman, and instructed to place him- 
 self 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 other's language, the 
 sham lady was carefully conducted by the gal- 
 lant to one of Lord Byron's apartments. Here 
 the couple were surprised by an enraged Su- 
 liote. a husband provided for the occasion, 
 accompanied 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 of the 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 im- 
 moderately ; we were re-assured by this, and 
 soon learnt that the whole was a method he 
 had adopted to sport with our fears." 
 
 " The regiment, or rather the brigade, we 
 formed, can be described only as Byron him- 
 self describes it. There was a Greek tailor, 
 who had been in the British service in the 
 Ionian Islands, where he had married an Ital- 
 ian 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 ac- 
 company the regiment. She stipulated for 
 free quarters and rations for them, but reject- 
 ed all claim for pay. They were to be free 
 of all incumbrances, and were to wash, sew, 
 cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The 
 proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, stating 
 the matter to me, he said he hoped I should 
 have no objection. I had been accustomed 
 to see women accompany the English army 
 and I knew that, though sometimes an incum- 
 brance, they were, on the whole, more bene- 
 ficial than otherwise. In Greece, there were 
 many circumstances which would make their 
 services extremely valuable, and I gave my 
 consent to the measure. The tailor's wife die 
 accordingly recruit a considerable number of 
 unincunYbered women, of almost all nations 
 bin principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, anc 
 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 Fal- 
 staff's: there are English. Germans, French, 
 Maltese, Ragusians, Italians, Neapolitans, 
 Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotes, 
 and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up 
 the rea-\ the tailor's v/ife and her troop. (Glo- 
 
 rious Apollo ! no general had ever before such 
 an army.' " 
 
 " Lord Byron had a black groom with him 
 n Greece, an American by birth, to whom he 
 was very partial. He always insisted on this 
 man's calling him Massa, whenever he spoke 
 to him. On one occasion, the groom met with 
 two women of his own complexion, who had 
 been slaves to the Turks and liberated, but 
 iiad been left almost to starve when the Greeks 
 had risen on their tyrants. Being of the same 
 colour was a bond of sympathy between them 
 and the groom, and he applied to me to give 
 both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I 
 granted the application, 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, accord- 
 ingly, he attended his master with great trem- 
 bling and fear, but stuttered so when he at- 
 tempted to speak, that he could not make 
 himself understood ; Lord Byron endeavour- 
 ing, almost in vain, to preserve his gravity, 
 reproved him severely for his presumption. 
 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 By- 
 ron, fearing his own dignity would be hove 
 overboard, told him to hold" his tongue, and 
 listen to his sentence. I was commanded to 
 enter >* in his memorandum-book, and then 
 he pronounced, in a solemn tone of voice, 
 while Blacky stood aghast, expecting some 
 severe punishment, the following doom : ' My 
 determination is, that the children born of 
 these black women, of which you may be the 
 father, shall be my property, and I will main- 
 tain them. What say you?' 'Go Go God 
 bless you, massa, may you live great while,' 
 stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth tc 
 tell the good news to the two distressed wo- 
 men." 
 
 The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this 
 time, may be seen from the following order, 
 which he gave his superintendent of the house- 
 hold, for the daily expenses of his own table. 
 It amounts to no more than one piastre. 
 
 FARAS. 
 
 Bread, a pound and a half 15 
 
 Wine 7 
 
 Fish 16 
 
 Olives 3 
 
 40 
 
 This was his dinner ; his breakfast consisted 
 of a single dish of tea, without milk or sugar 
 
 The circumstances that attended the death 
 of this illustrious and noble-minded man, are 
 described in the following plain and simple 
 manner, by his faithful valet and constant tol 
 lower, Mr. Fletcher: 
 
 " My master," says Mr. Fletcher, " con 
 tinued his usual custom of riding daily, wlici 
 the weather would permit, until the 9(h o-. 
 April. But on that ill-fate^ 'lay ic f *of ven
 
 SLXXVl 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 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 yvell, 
 but complained in the morning of a pain in 
 his bones, and a head-ache : this did not, how- 
 ever, 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 hirn worse. His lordship was again 
 visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry 
 to perceive, on the next morning, that his ill- 
 ness appeared to be increasing. He was very 
 low, and complained of not having had any 
 sleep during the night. His lordship's appe- 
 tite was also quite gone. I prepared a little 
 arrow-root, of which he took three or four 
 spoonfuls, saying it was very good, but he 
 could take no more. It was not till the third 
 day, the 12th, that I began to be alarmed for 
 my master. In all his former colds, he always 
 slept well, and was never affected by this slow 
 fever. I therefore went to Dr. Bruno and 
 Mr. Millingen. the two medical attendants, 
 and inquired minutely into every circumstance 
 connected with my master's present illness : 
 both replied that there was no danger, and I 
 might make myself perfectly easy on the sub- 
 ject, 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 slate, that I could not 
 feel happy without supplicating that he would 
 send to Zante for Dr. Thomas. After ex- 
 pressing my fears lest his lordship should get 
 worse, he desired me to consult the doctors, 
 which I did, and was told there was no occa- 
 sion for calling in any person, as they hoped 
 all would be well in a few days. Here I should 
 remark, that his lord.ship 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 lord- 
 ship, ' that it is only a common cold, which, 
 you know, I have had a thousand times.' ' I am 
 sure, my lord,' said I, ' that you never had 
 one of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never 
 had,' was his lordship's 'answer. I repeated 
 my 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, I did 
 not renew my entreaties until it was too late. 
 With respect to the medicines that were given 
 to my master, I could not persuade myself 
 lhat those of a strong purgative nature were 
 die best adapted for his complaint, concluding 
 (hat. as he had nothing an his stomach, the 
 only effect would be to create pain ; indeed, 
 thii must have beer, the case with a person in 
 iierfect health. The whole nourishment taken 
 ')V my master, for the last eight days, consist- 
 ed of a small quantity of broth, at two or three 
 iliffprent times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- 
 nil on the 18th, the day before his death. 
 
 The first time I heard of there being any in 
 tention of bleeding his lordship, was on the 
 15th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bruno, but 
 objected to at first by my master, who askec 1 
 Mr. Millingen if there was any great reasoi 
 for taking blood? The latter replied that i. 
 might be of service, but added, it might bt 
 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. 1 observed, at the time, that it had a 
 most inflamed 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 the 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 lordship continued to get worse, but Dr. 
 Bruno said, he thought letting blood again 
 would save his life; and I lost no time in tell- 
 ing my master how necessary it was to com- 
 ply with the doctor's wishes. To this he re- 
 plied, by saving, he feared they knew nothing 
 about his disorder; and then, stretching out 
 his arm, said, ' Here, take my arm, and do 
 whatever you like.' His lordship 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 suclfan 
 accident, I took care not to permit his lord- 
 ship to stir without supporting him. On this 
 day my master said to me twice, ' I cannot 
 sleep, and you well know I have not been 
 able to sleep for more than a week ; I know,' 
 added his lordship, ' that a man can only be 
 a certain time without sleep, and then he must 
 go mad, without any one being able to save 
 him ; and I would ten times sooner shoot my- 
 self 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 lord- 
 ship had any apprehension of his fate till the 
 day after the 18th, when he said, 'I fear you 
 and Titawill be ill by sitting continually night 
 and day.' I answered, ' We shall never leave 
 your lordship till you are better.' As my mas- 
 ter had a slight fit of delirium on the 1 6th, I took 
 care to remove the pistol and stiletto, which 
 had hitherto been kept at his bedside in tho 
 night. On the 18th, his lordship addressed me 
 frequently, and seemed to be very much dis- 
 satisfied 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 1 did not let you do so before, as 1 
 am sure they have mistaken my disease. 
 Write yourself, for I know they would not 
 like to see other doctors here.' 1 did not lose 
 a moment in obeying my master's orders ; and 
 on informing Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millincen 
 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 niy
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON 
 
 XXX\ II 
 
 answer: \ pon .vhioh lio said, ' you have done 
 right, for 1 shuula list, xo knot? what is the 
 matter with me.' Although his lordship djd 
 not appear to think his dissolution was so near, 
 I could peiceive he was getting weaker every 
 hour, and he even began to have occasional 
 fits of delirium. He afterwards said, ' I now 
 begin to think I am seriously ill, and in case 
 I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give 
 you several directions, which I hope you will 
 be 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 to execute them much better himself 
 than 1 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 
 Ipse too much time, and I have it not to spare, 
 for my time is now short,' said his lordship, 
 and immediately after, ' Now, pay attention !' 
 His lordship commenced by saying, ' You will 
 be provided for.' I begged him, however, to 
 proceed with things of more consequence. He 
 then continued, ' Oh, my poor dear child ! my 
 dear Ada! my God! could I but have seen her ! 
 Give her my 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 affected at this moment. 
 Here my master's voice failed him, so that I 
 could only catch a word at intervals; but he 
 kept muttering something very seriously for 
 some time, and would often raise his voice, 
 and said, ' Fletcher, now if you do not exe- 
 cute every order which I have given you, I 
 will torment you hereafter, if possible.' Here 
 I told his lordship, in a state of the greatest 
 perplexity, that I had not understood a word 
 of what he said; to which he replied, 'Oh, 
 my God ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! 
 Can it be possible you have not understood 
 me?' ' No, my lord,' said I, ' but I pray you 
 to try and inform me once more.' ' How can 
 I ?' 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 consultation was now held (about noon), 
 when it was determined to administer some 
 Peruvian bark and wine. My master had 
 now been nine days without any sustenance 
 whatever, except what I have already men- 
 tioned. 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 compose himself. He shed tears, and ap- 
 
 parently sunk into a slumber. Mr. Parry 
 went away, expecting to find him refreshed 
 on his return, but it was the commencement 
 of the lethargy preceding his death. The last 
 words I heard my master utter, were at six 
 o'clock on the evening of the 18th, when he 
 said, ' I must sleep now;' upon which he laid 
 down, never to rise again ! for he did not 
 move hand or ^xrt during the following twen- 
 ty-four hours. His lordship appeared, how- 
 ever, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, 
 and had a frequent rattling in the throat ; on 
 these occasions, I called Tita to assist me in 
 raising his head, and I thought he seemed to 
 get quite stiff. The rattling and choking in 
 the throat took place every half-hour, and we 
 continued to raise his head whenever the fit 
 came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 
 19th, when I saw my master open his eyes and 
 then shut them, but without showing any symp- 
 tom of pain, or moving hand or foot. ' Oh ! 
 my God !' I exclaimed, ' I fear his lordship is 
 gone!' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, 
 ' You are right lie is gone !' " 
 
 It would be vain to attempt a description 
 of the universal sorrow that ensued at Misso- 
 longhi. Not only Mavrocordato and his im- 
 mediate 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, without anxious inquiries 
 from every one, of " How is my lord ?" 
 
 On the day of this melancholy event, Prince 
 Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expres- 
 sive of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all 
 classes, and ordering every public demonstra- 
 tion of respect and sorrow to be paid to the 
 memory of the illustrious deceased, by firing 
 minute-guns, closing all the public offices ^nd 
 shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, 
 and by a general mourning, and funeral pray- 
 ers in all the churches. It was resolved that 
 the body should be embalmed, and after the 
 suitable funeral honours had been performed, 
 should be embarked for Zante, thence to be 
 conveyed to England. Accordingly the med- 
 ical men opened the body and embalmed it, and 
 having enclosed the heart, and brain, and in- 
 testines in separate vessels, they placed it in 
 a chest lined with tin, as there were no means 
 of procuring a leaden coffin capable of hold- 
 ing the spirits necessary for its preservation 
 on the voyage. Dr. Bruno drew up an ac- 
 count 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 death, stated, that the formation o; 
 the brain in both these illustrious persons wa 
 extremely similar, but that Lord Byron haJ 
 a much greater quantity. 
 
 On the 22d of April, 1824, in the midst of 
 his own brigade, of the troops of the govei n 
 ment, and of the whole population, on the 
 shoulders of the officers of his corps, relieved 
 occasionally by other Greeks, the mosr pre- 
 cious portion of his bonouied len.ainr VPT*
 
 XXXV111 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 carried to the church, where lie the bodies of 
 Marco Botzaris and of General Norman n. 
 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 lau- 
 rel. But no funeral pomp could have left the 
 impression, nor spoken the feelings, of this 
 simple ceremony. The wretchedness and deso- 
 lation of the place itself; the wild and half- 
 civilized warriors present; their deep-felt, un- 
 affected grief; the fond recollections ; the dis- 
 appointed hopes ; the anxieties and sad pre- 
 sentiments which might be read on every 
 countenance all contributed to form a scene 
 more moving more truly affecting, than per- 
 haps was ever before witnessed round the grave 
 of a great man. 
 
 When the funeral service was over, the bier 
 was left in the middle of the church, where it 
 remained until the evening of the next day, 
 and was guarded by a detachment of his own 
 brigade. The church was incessantly crowd- 
 ed by those who came to honour and to regret 
 the benefactor of Greece. In the evening of 
 the 23d, the bier was privately carried back 
 by his officers to his own house. The coffin 
 was not closed till the 29th of the month. 
 
 Immediately after his death, his countenance 
 had an air of calmness, mingled with a se- 
 verity, that seemed gradually to soften, and 
 the whole expression was truly sublime. 
 
 On May 2d, the remains of Lord Byron 
 were embarked, under a salute from the guns 
 of the fortress. " How different," exclaims 
 Count Gamba, "from that which had wel- 
 comed the arrival of Byron only four months 
 ago!" After a passage of three days, the ves- 
 sel reached Zante, and the precious deposit 
 was placed in the quarantine house. Here 
 some additional precautions were taken to en- 
 sure 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 was on his way back to 
 England, he took charge of Lord Byron's re- 
 mains, and embarked with them on board the 
 Florida. On the 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 Han- 
 son, Esq. Lord Byron's executors, after hav- 
 ing proved his will, claimed the body from the 
 Florida, and under their directions it was re- 
 moved to the house of Sir Edward Knatch- 
 bull, No. 20, Great George-street, West- 
 minster. 
 
 It was announced, from time to time, that 
 the body of Lord Byron was to be exhibited 
 in state, and the progress of the embellish- 
 ments of the poet's bier was recorded in the 
 pages of a hundred publications. They were 
 at length completed, and to separate the curi- 
 osity 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 
 ic no and wonder over the decked room and 
 !le tojblazoned 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 tc 
 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 attrac- 
 tions, and all this magnificence served only to 
 distract our regard from the man, whose in- 
 spired tongue was now silenced for ever. 
 Who cared for Lord Byron, the peer and the 
 privy-counsellor, with his coronet, and his 
 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 indi- 
 cations 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 impeding with barren 
 pageantry the honester sympathy of the crowd. 
 Where were the owners of those machines ol 
 sloth and luxury where were the men of 
 rank, among whose dark pedigrees Lord By- 
 ron 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 tones? could a 
 mere difference in matters of human belief 
 keep those fastidious persons away ? But,above 
 all, where were the friends with whom wed- 
 lock had united him ? On his desolate corpse 
 no wife looked, no child shed a tear. We have 
 no wish to set ourselves up as judges in do- 
 mestic infelicities, and we are willing to be- 
 lieve 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, which early sorrows were making 
 thin and gray, 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 ad- 
 miration ? 
 
 As the cavalcade proceeded through the 
 streets of London, a fine-looking honest tar 
 was observed to walk near the hearse uncov- 
 ered, throughout the morning, and on being 
 asked bv 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 'ill Friday, July 16th, that the
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 xxxix 
 
 into ment took place. Lord Byron was buried 
 in the family vault, at .the village of Huck- 
 nall, eight miles beyond Nottingham, and 
 within two miles of the venerable abbey of 
 Newstead. He was accompanied to the grave 
 by crowds of persons eager to show this last 
 testimony of respect to his memory. In one 
 of his earlier poems, he had expressed a wish 
 that his dust might mingle with his mother's, 
 and, in compliance with this wish, his coffin 
 was placed in the vault next to hers. It was 
 twenty minutes past four o'clock, on Friday, 
 July 1 6th, 1824, when the ceremony was con- 
 cluded, when the tomb closed for ever on By- 
 ron, and when his friends were relieved from 
 every care concerning him, save that of doing 
 justice to his memory, and of cherishing his 
 fame. 
 
 The following inscription was placed on 
 the coffin : 
 
 " George Gordon Noel Byron, 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
 of Rochdale, 
 
 Born in London, 1 
 
 Jan. 22, 1788, 
 
 died at Missolonghi, 
 
 in Western Greece, 
 
 April 19th, 1824." 
 
 1 Mi. Dallas saya Dover which a undoubtedly correct 
 
 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 inscrip- 
 tion. 
 
 The words are in Roman capitals, and di- 
 vided into lines, as under: 
 
 IN THE VAULT BENEATH, 
 WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER 
 
 ARE BURIED, 
 LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 
 
 LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 
 IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE." 
 HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 
 
 22D OF JANUARY, 1788. 
 HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 
 
 ON THE 19TH OF APRIL, 1824, 
 
 ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RE STORK 
 
 THAT COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM 
 
 AND RENOWN. 
 
 HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE 
 
 AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 
 PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMOBF.
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 $ of Jftrleness, 
 
 MJJT' ap fit /toX' a"vt, y.f\rt TI vcua. 
 
 HOMER. //i(f. 10. 
 
 He whistled as he went for want of thought. 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 1O THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, etc., 
 
 THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED, 
 
 BV HI8 OBLIGED WARD, AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Why dost thou build the hall 7 Son or the winged days ! 
 riiou lookest from thy tower to-day ; yet a few years, and the 
 Dlast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 THRODGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
 
 whistle ; 
 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; 
 in thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
 Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the 
 way. 
 
 Of the mail-cover'd barons who, proudly, to battle 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, 
 Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 
 
 No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, 
 Raise a flame in the breast, for the war-laurel'd wreath; 
 
 Near Askalon's Towers John of Honstan 1 slumbers, 
 Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
 
 Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy ; 
 
 For the safety of Edward and England they fell ; 
 My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 
 
 How you fought ! how you died ! still her annals can 
 ML 
 
 On Marston, 1 with Rupert J 'gainst traitors contending, 
 Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field ; 
 
 1 HorUtan Castle, in Deroyihire, an ancient seat of the 
 Byron family. 
 
 t The battle of Marston moor, where the adherents of 
 Charles I. were defeated. 
 
 3 Son ot'the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He 
 tfterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. 
 
 For the rights of a monarch, their cou.itry defending. 
 Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 
 
 Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant departing 
 From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu ! 
 
 Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
 New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. 
 
 Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 
 
 Far distant he goes, with the same erruilation, 
 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 /RIEND. 
 
 vpiv ptv tAa/jTtj cvi ^ooiatv ttaui 
 LAERTIUS. 
 
 OH, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 
 What fruitless tears have bathed thy hnnour'd bier 
 What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
 While thou wast struggling in the pangs of dearu ' 
 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 prev : 
 Thou still had'st lived, to bless my achins sijrm. 
 Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend'* delight
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 If, } et t\iy ge*;t e spirit hover nigh 
 The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
 Here wilt thou tread, recorded on my heart, 
 A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
 No murble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 Cut living statues there are seen to weop ; 
 Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
 Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
 A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
 Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, 
 if et, other offspring sooth his anguish here : 
 But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
 Thine image what new friendship can efface ? 
 Ah, none ! a father's tears will cease to flow, 
 Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
 To all, save one, is consolation known, 
 While solitary Friendship sighs alone. 
 
 1803. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 WHEN to their airy hall my fathers' voice 
 Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
 When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
 Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
 Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, 
 To mark the spot where earth to earth returns : 
 No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ; 
 My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
 If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
 Oh '. may no other fame my deeds repay ; 
 TW, only that, shall single out the spot, 
 Bv that rememl>er'd, or with that forgot. 
 
 1303. 
 
 THE TEAR. 
 
 O lacrymarum ferns, tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 
 Felix! in imo qui gcatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, eensH. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 WHEW 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 gaie, 
 I hrough bifiows Atlantic to steer ; 
 
 As he bends o'er the wave, 
 Which may soon be his grave, 
 
 OTt- 
 
 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 T uth, 
 Where love chased each fast-lteeting year ; 
 
 Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, 
 
 For a last look I tum'd, 
 But thy spire was scarce seen through a Teas. 
 
 Though my vows I can pour, 
 
 To my Mary no more, 
 My Mary, to Love once so dear ; 
 
 In the shade of her bower, 
 
 I remember the hour, 
 She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
 
 By another possest, 
 
 May she ever live blest, 
 Her name still my heart must revere j 
 
 With a sigh I resign, 
 
 What I once thought was mine 
 And forgive her decei' with a Tear. 
 
 Ye friends ' ,,y heart, 
 
 Ere from you I depart, 
 This hope to my breast is most near ; 
 
 If again we shall meet, 
 
 In this rural retreat, 
 May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
 
 When my soul wings her flight, 
 
 To the regions of night, 
 And my corse shall recline on its bier ; 
 
 As ye pass by the tomb, 
 
 Where my ashes consume, 
 Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
 
 May no marble bestow 
 
 The splendour of woe, 
 Which the children of vanity rear ; 
 
 No fiction of fame 
 
 Shall blazon my name, 
 All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. 
 
 1806. 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 
 
 Delivered previous to the performance of " The 7FW 
 
 of Fortune 1 '' at a private theatre. 
 
 SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age 
 Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
 Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
 Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ;
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, 
 
 Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
 
 Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
 
 And meet indulgence though she find not fame. 
 
 Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
 
 Others appear more conscious of defect; 
 
 To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, 
 
 In all the art* of scenic action old ; 
 
 No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, 
 
 No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear ; 
 
 To-night, you throng to witness the debut 
 
 ( )f embryo Actors, to the drama new. 
 
 Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 
 
 Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly ; 
 
 Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
 
 Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
 
 Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, 
 
 Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, 
 
 But all our Dramatis Personae wait, 
 
 In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. 
 
 No venal views our progress can retard, 
 
 Your generous plaudits are our sole reward 5 
 
 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. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. 
 
 The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a 
 
 Morning Paper, 
 
 OUR Nation's foes lament, on Fox's death, 
 But bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath ; 
 These feelings wide let Sense and Truth undue, 
 We give the palm where Justice points it due. 
 To which the Author of these Pieces sent the follovnng 
 
 Reply. 
 
 OH! factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
 Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
 What, though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, 
 With generous feeling, of the good and great ; 
 Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
 Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame '/ 
 When PITT expired, in plenitude of power, 
 Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
 Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
 For nobce 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, 
 *Vho, fo. 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, 
 All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
 ' These feelings wide let Sense and Truth undue, 
 "ly gtvc ai<s 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 m*,t weeo 
 
 Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep 
 
 For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
 
 While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
 
 Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, 
 
 Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign, 
 
 Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, 
 
 For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 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 ihose ; 
 To thee in vain I shall not plead, 
 
 In pity for the Poet's woes. 
 He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ; 
 
 His was no faint fictitious flame ; 
 Like his, may love be thy reward, 
 
 But not thy hapless fate the same. 
 
 TO M***. 
 
 OH ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
 
 With bright, but mild affection shine ; 
 Though they might kindle less desire, 
 
 Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
 For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
 
 Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 
 We must admire, but still despair : 
 
 That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
 When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 
 
 So much perfection in thee shone, 
 She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 
 
 The skies might claim thee for their own 
 Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
 
 Lest angels might dispute the prize, 
 She bade a secret lightning lurk 
 
 Within those once celestial eyes. 
 These might the boldest sylph appal, 
 
 When gleaming with meridian blaze ! 
 Thy beauty must enrapture all, 
 
 But who can dare thine ardent gaze 7 
 'T is said, that Berenice's hair 
 
 In stars adorns the vault of heaven , 
 But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
 
 Thou would'st so far outshine the seven. 
 For, did those eyes as planets roll, 
 
 Thy sister lights would scarce appear: 
 E'en suns, which systems now control, 
 
 Would twinkle dimly through tbeir spheu 
 .80*
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 TO WOMAN. 
 
 ! experience might, have told me, 
 That aL must love thee who behold thee, 
 Surely, experience might have taught, 
 Thy firmest promisss are nought ; 
 But, placed in all thy charms before me, 
 All 1 forget, but to adore thee. 
 Oh ! Memory ! thou choicest blessing ; 
 When jom'd with hope, when still poss 
 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 ! 
 How quick we credit every oath, 
 And hear her plight the willing troth ! 
 Fondly we hope 't will last for aye, 
 When, lo ! she changes in a day. 
 This record will for ever stand, 
 "Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand." 1 
 
 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 Jie dream of to-night but resemble the last ; 
 
 What rapture elestial 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 n my dream, I atone for it now, 
 
 Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
 .Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, you may smile, 
 
 Oh ! think not my penance deficient ; 
 Whe dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, 
 
 To awake will be torture sufficient. 
 
 SONG. 
 WHEN I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath, 
 
 And climb'd thy steep summit, oh ! Morven of Snow, 2 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,* 
 
 1 The last line is almost a literal translation from the Spanish 
 proverb. 
 
 2 Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire : " Gormal of 
 Bnow." is an expression frequpntly to be found in Ossian. 
 
 3 This will no! appear extraordinary to those who have been 
 accustomed to the mountains it is by no means uncommon on 
 attaining the top of Ben e vis. Run y bourrt, etc. to perceive, 
 between ihn summit and (ne valley, clouds pouring down rain, 
 and. occasionally, accompanied by lightning, while the spec- 
 tator literal * looks down un the storm, perfectly secure from 
 
 Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 
 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, 
 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you 7 
 
 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 fe.lt, 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 wants, for my wishes were blest, 
 
 And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was w ; th you 
 
 I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 
 
 From mountain to mountain I bounded along, 
 I breasted ' the billows of Dee's 2 rushing tide, 
 
 And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
 At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. 
 
 No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view 
 And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 
 
 For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 
 
 I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone, 
 
 The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
 As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 
 
 And delight but in days I have witness'd before. 
 Ah ! splendour has rais'd, but embiuer'd my lot, 
 
 More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd-, yet they are not forgot, 
 
 Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 
 
 When I see some dark hill point its crest U> the sky, 
 
 I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eyn, 
 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
 When, haply, some light waving locks I beheld, 
 
 That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
 I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, 
 
 The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 
 
 Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains, once mom, 
 
 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 coukl be mine, but with you ? 
 
 TO * + *. 
 
 OH ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other, 
 The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
 true ; 
 
 The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 
 Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 
 
 But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion, 
 The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
 
 Like Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 
 But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 
 
 1 "Breasting the lofty surge." Sh.ikspt.are. 
 
 2 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar *x><lgu 
 and fulls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 
 
 3 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of t'* VJ enia ds 
 not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Full oft have we wander'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 Mpmory blending 
 
 The wonted delights of our childhood retrace ; 
 When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, 
 
 And what would be Justice appears a disgrace. 
 However, dear S , for I still must esteem you, 
 
 The few whom I love I can never upbraid, 
 The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, 
 
 Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
 [ will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
 
 With me no corroding resentment shall live ; 
 My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, 
 
 That both may be wrong, and that both should 
 
 forgive. 
 You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 
 
 If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
 You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance, 
 
 Devoted to love and to 'Hendship 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 sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
 For the present, we part, I will hope not for ever, 
 
 For time and regret will restore you at last ; 
 To forget our dissension we both should endeavour ; 
 
 I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 On receiving her picture. 
 
 THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, 
 
 Though strong as mortal art could give, 
 My constant heart of fear disarms, 
 
 Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 
 Here, I can trace the locks of gold, 
 
 Which round thy snowy forehead wave ; 
 The cheeks, which sprung from Beauty's mould, 
 
 The lips, which made me Beauty's slave. 
 Here, I can trace ah no ! that eye, 
 
 Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
 Must all the painter's art defy, 
 
 And bid him from the task retire. 
 Here I behold its beauteous hue, 
 
 But where's the beam so sweetly straying? 
 Which cave 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. 
 She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 
 
 Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
 Unconscious, that her image, there, 
 
 Held every sense in fast control. 
 I'hro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill cheer; 
 
 My hope, iu gloomy moments, raise ; 
 In life's last conflict 't will appear, 
 
 And meet my fond expiring gaze. 
 
 DAM^ETAS. 
 
 IN law an infant, ' and in years a boy, 
 In mind a slave to every vicious joy, 
 From every sense of shame and virtue wean'il, 
 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 sch^a. 
 Danvetas ran through all the maze of sin, 
 And found the goal, when others just begin , 
 Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
 And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
 But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 
 And, what was once his bliss, appears his bano. 
 
 TO MARION. 
 
 MARION! why that pensive brow? 
 
 What disgust to life hast thou? 
 
 Change that discontented air ; 
 
 Frowns become not orte so fair. 
 
 'T is not love disturbs thy rest, 
 
 Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
 
 He in dimpling smiles appears , 
 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears , 
 
 Or bends the languid eyelid down, 
 
 But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
 
 Then resume thy former fire, 
 
 Some will love, and all admire ; 
 
 While that icy aspect chills us, 
 
 Nought but 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. 
 
 Thy lips, but here my modest Muse 
 
 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse ; 
 
 She blushes, curtsies, frowns, in short, she 
 
 Dreads, lest the subject should transport me 
 
 And flying off, in search of reason, 
 
 Brings prudence back in proper season. 
 
 All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
 
 I think is neither here nor there), 
 
 Is that such lips, of looks endearing, 
 
 Were form'd for better things than sneering ; 
 
 Of soothing compliments divested, 
 
 Advice at least 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! pritl-ee slight Mot 
 
 This warning, though it nwy delight not : 
 
 And lest my precepts be displeasing 
 
 To those who think remonstrance teazing, 
 
 At once I '11 tell thee our opinion, 
 
 Concerning woman's soft dominun: 
 
 1 In law, every perron is an infant who lias not t rained Uw 
 age of twenty-one.
 
 B\ RON'S WORKS 
 
 Ilowc'er we gaze with admiratbn, 
 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 would'st thou see the secret chain, 
 Which binds us in your humble train, 
 To hail-you queens of all creation, 
 I low, in a word, 't is ANIMATION. 
 
 OSCAR OF ALVA.' 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 How sweetly shine.,, 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 tne crimson'd rocks beneath, 
 Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
 
 Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
 She saw the gasping warrior low. 
 
 While many an eye, which ne'er again 
 Could mark the rising orb of day, 
 
 Tarn'd feebly from the gory plain, 
 Beheld in death her fading ray. 
 
 Once, to thoju eyes the lamp of Love, 
 They blest her dear propitious light : 
 
 But now, she glimmer'd from above, 
 A sad funereal torch of night. 
 
 Faded is Alva's noble race, 
 
 And grey her towers are seen afar ; 
 No more her heroes urge the chase, 
 
 Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
 
 But who was last of Alva's clan ? 
 
 Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
 Her towers resound no steps of man, 
 
 They echo to the gale alone. 
 
 And, when that gale is fierce and high, 
 A sound is heard in yonder hall, 
 
 It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
 
 And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 
 
 Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
 It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
 
 hut 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 ; 
 
 Ine vassals round their chieftain's hearth, 
 Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 
 
 I The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of 
 Juronymo ami Lorenzo," in the first volume of "The Ar- 
 ii'iiiHii. or <tlmst-Ser:" it mso bears some resemblance to 
 icenc in tlie third act of " Macbeth. " 
 
 They feast upon the mountain deer, 
 The Pibroch raised its piercing no'e, 
 
 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 stream'd along the gale ; 
 
 But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
 And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 
 
 But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 
 
 His dark eye shone through beams of truth . 
 Allan had early learn'd control, 
 
 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 scom'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 flame ' 
 While thronging guests and ladies wait 
 
 Nor Oscar nor his brother rame.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 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, 
 'T is his to chase the bounding roe ; 
 
 Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay, 
 Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
 
 " Oh ! no !" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
 " Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; 
 
 Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
 Would aught to her impede his way ? 
 
 " Oh ! search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around ! 
 
 Allan, with these through Alva fly, 
 Till Oscar, till my son is found, 
 
 Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply !" 
 All is confusion through the vale 
 
 The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
 It rises on the murmuring gale, 
 
 Till night expands her dusky wings. 
 It breaks the stillness of the night, 
 
 But echoes through her shades in vain ; 
 It sounds through morning's misty light, 
 
 But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
 Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief 
 
 For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 
 Then hope is lost in boundless grief, 
 
 His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. 
 " Oscar ! my son ! Thou God of heaven ! 
 
 Restore the prop of sinking age ; 
 Or, if that hope no more is given, 
 
 Yield his assassin to my rage. 
 " Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
 
 My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
 Then, grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
 
 With nim his frantic sire may die. 
 " Yet, he may live away despair ; 
 
 Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
 T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ; 
 
 God, my impious prayer forgive. 
 
 " What, if he live for me no more, 
 
 1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
 The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 
 
 Alas ! can pangs like these be just ?" 
 
 Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
 
 Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 
 Hud 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 
 \gain had run his destined race ; 
 
 No Oscai bless'd his father's sight, 
 And sorrow left a fainter trace. 
 
 For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
 
 Anil, now, his father's only joy : 
 And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 
 
 For lioiuty CrcwnVl the fair-hair'd boy. 
 
 She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
 And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
 
 If Oscar lived, some other maid 
 
 Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 
 
 And Angus said, if one year more 
 In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
 
 His fondest scruple should be o'er, 
 And he would name their nuptial day. 
 
 Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, 
 Arrived the dearly destined mom ; 
 
 The year of anxious trembling past, 
 What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ! 
 
 Hark ! to the Pibroch's pleasing note, 
 Hark ! to the swelling nuptial song ; 
 
 In joyous strains the voices float, 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
 Again the clan, in festive crowd, 
 
 Throng through the gate of Alva's hafl , 
 
 The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
 And all their former joy recall. 
 
 But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
 Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
 
 Before his 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. 
 
 'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
 The bridegroom's health is deeply quaftj 
 
 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 j 
 And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
 
 And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
 
 " Old man !" he cried, " this pledge is done 
 Thou saw'st 't was duly drunk by me, 
 
 It hail'd the nuptials of thy son ; 
 
 Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 
 
 " While all around is mirth and joy, 
 To bless thy Allan's happy lot ; 
 
 Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy? 
 Say why should Oscar be forgot?" 
 
 " Alas !" the hapless sire replied, 
 The big tear starting as he spoke ; 
 
 " When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
 This aged heart was almost broke. 
 
 " Thrice has the earth revolved her course. 
 Since Oscar's form has blest my sight ; 
 
 And Allan is my last resource, 
 
 Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 
 
 " 'T is well," replied the stranger stem, 
 And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye ; 
 
 " Thj Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
 Perhaps the hero did not die. 
 
 " Perct.ance, if those whom most he loved 
 Would call, thy Oscar misht retu i .-
 
 8 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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 ; 
 With wine let every cup be crown'd, 
 
 Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
 " With all my soul," old Angus said, 
 
 And fill'd his goblet fo 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 7 
 If thus affection's strength prevails, 
 
 What might we not expect from fear ?" 
 Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl ; 
 
 " Would Oscar now could share our mirth !" 
 Internal fear appall'd his soul, 
 
 He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
 " '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. 
 
 \nd thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 
 
 On Angus, bending low the knee ; 
 And thrice he frown'd on a Chief on the ground, 
 
 Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
 
 The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 
 
 The thunders through the welkin ring ; 
 And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the storm, 
 
 Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
 
 Cold was the feast, the revel ceased ; 
 
 Who lies upon the stony floor? 
 Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, 
 
 At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 
 
 " Away, away, let the leech essay, 
 To pour the light on Allan's eyes J" 
 
 His sand is done, his race is run, 
 Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 
 
 I Beltane-Tree. A Highland festival, on the 1st of May, 
 beta near fires lighted for the occasion. 
 
 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 
 
 His locks are lifted by the gale, 
 And Allan's barbed arrow lay, 
 
 With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
 And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
 
 Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
 But no one doubts the Form of Flame, 
 
 For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
 Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
 
 Exulting demons wing'd his dart, 
 While Envy waved her burning brand, 
 
 And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
 Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow : 
 
 Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? 
 Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 
 
 The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
 And Mora's eye could Allan move, 
 
 She bade his wounded pride rebel : 
 Alas ! that eyes, which beam'd with love, 
 
 Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell. 
 Lo ! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, 
 
 Which rises o'er a warrior dead ! 
 It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
 
 Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
 Far, distant far, the noble grave, 
 
 Which held his clan's great ashes, stood ; 
 And o'er his corse no banners wave, 
 
 For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 
 What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, 
 
 Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 
 The song is glory's chief reward, 
 
 But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 
 Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
 
 No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
 Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 
 
 His harp in shuddering chords would brc A 
 No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
 
 Shall sound his glories high in air, 
 A dying father's bitter curse, 
 
 A brother's death-groan echoes theie. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF D. 
 
 In looking over my papers, to select a few additional 1 oemt 
 for this second edition, I found the following lines, which 1 
 had totally forgotten, composed in the Summer of 1805, a 
 
 short time previous to my departure from H . 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 re-perusal : 1 found 
 them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, 1 
 have now published them, for the first time, after a slight 
 revision. 
 
 D R T ! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, 
 Exploring every path of Ida's glade, 
 Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, 
 And made me less a tyrant than a friend ; 
 Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
 Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ; ' 
 
 1 At every public school, the junior boys are completely 
 subservient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the 
 higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, 
 no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command 
 in turn, those who succeed.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
 
 The gift of riches, and the pride of power ; 
 
 Even naw a name illustrious is thine own, 
 
 Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
 
 Yet, D r t, let not this seduce thy soul, 
 
 To shun fair science, or evade control ; 
 
 Though passive tutors, 1 fearful to dispraise 
 
 The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
 
 View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
 
 And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 
 
 When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
 
 To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee ! 
 
 And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, 
 
 Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn: 
 
 When these declare, " tliat ]>omp 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 Ma's early throng, 
 
 Whoe 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 heait! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear, 
 
 For welt I know that virtue lingers there. 
 
 Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
 
 But now new scenes invite me far away; 
 
 Yes ! I have maik'd, within that generous mind, 
 
 A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind: 
 
 Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild, 
 
 Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child, 
 
 Though every error stamps me for her own, 
 
 And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
 
 Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
 
 I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
 
 'T is not enough, with other Sons of power, 
 
 To gleam the laml>ent 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 cmblazon'd, but neglected scroll, 
 
 Whei e Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 
 
 One spot to leave a worthless name behind ; 
 
 There .sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
 
 Tnut veil their dust, their follies, and their faults ; 
 
 A i ace, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
 
 In records destined never to be read. 
 
 Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
 
 Kvalted more among the good and wise ; 
 
 A glorious and a long career pursue, 
 
 \s first in rank, the first in talent too ; 
 
 Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, 
 
 Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 
 
 1 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the 
 roost distant ; I merely mention, generally, what is too often 
 the weakness of preceptors. 
 
 E 7 
 
 Turn to the annals of a formei aay, 
 
 Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires dispby; 
 
 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 distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 
 
 The pride of princes, and the boast of song. 2 
 
 Such were thy Fathers ; thus preserve their name, 
 
 Not heir to titles 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 vrcr* 
 
 mine ; 
 
 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
 And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ; 
 Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
 By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day ; 
 Friendship, whose truth let childhood only teH 
 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. 
 
 ! farewell ! I will not ask one part 
 Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
 The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
 Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
 And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, 
 Since chance has thrown us in the self- same sphere. 
 Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, 
 May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
 We hence may meet, and pass each other by 
 With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
 For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
 A stranger to thyself, thy weal or \ >e ; 
 With thee no more again 1 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 
 
 1 "Thomas S k He, Lord B k st, created Eart u! 
 D by James the First, was one of the earliest and bright- 
 est ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who 
 produced a regular drama." Anderson's British Poets. 
 
 2 Charles S k lie, Earl of D , esteemed the mon 
 
 accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the 
 voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of Wi! 
 Ham III. HP behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight 
 with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which he 
 composed his celebrated song. His charactei has been drawn 
 in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Courier* 
 Vide Anderson's British Poets.
 
 10 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 KmitatCous. 
 
 ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN 
 DYING. 
 
 AUIMULA! vagula, blandula, 
 Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
 Quse riunc abibis in loca ? 
 Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
 Ncc, ut soles, dabis jocos. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 An ' 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. 
 
 LESBIAM." 
 
 Eni'AL to Jove that youth must be, 
 
 Greater than Jove he seems to me, 
 
 Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, 
 
 Securely views thy matchless charms ; 
 
 Thcu cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
 
 That mouth from whence such music flows, 
 
 To him, alike, are always known, 
 
 Reserved for him, and him alone. 
 
 Ah ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, 
 
 I cannot 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 feels a temporary deoth. 
 
 TRANSLATION 
 1.-F 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 control'd, 
 Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. 
 
 1 Th muni of Death is snid to bo unjust, or unequal, as 
 wgi) a< considerably older than Ti nillus, at his decease. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROIS: CATULJJ ' 
 
 " LUCTUS DE MOKTE PASSEK'V' 
 
 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 5 
 For he was gentle, and so true, 
 Obedient to her call he flew, 
 No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 
 
 But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 
 And softly fluttering here and there, 
 He never sought to cleave the air ; 
 But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, 
 
 Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
 Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, 
 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 thf a 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 should sated be, 
 Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
 Nought should my kiss from thine dissever_ 
 Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
 E'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 fron> 'is rising swell, 
 How heroes tought, 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 vvarxqu' nal "P > s due C
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 With glowing strings, the epic strain 
 To Jove's great son I raise a^ain ; 
 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 so"gs of bliss, and sighs of flame. 
 
 ODE III. 
 
 T wj> g 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 cease to weep ; 
 \t this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 
 Descending from the realms of joy, 
 iuick to my gate directs his course, 
 \nd knocks with all his little force : 
 Vly visions fled, alarm'd I rose ; 
 ' What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" 
 ' Alas !" replies the wily child, 
 n faltering 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 sighs upon the gale ; 
 My breast was never pity's foe, 
 But felt for all the baby's woe ; 
 I drew the bar, and by the light, 
 Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 
 His bow across his shoulders flung, 
 And thence his fatal quiver hung, 
 (Ah ! little did I think the dart 
 Would rankle soon within my heart;) 
 With care I tend my weary guest, 
 His little fingers chill my breast ; 
 His glossy curls, his azure wing, 
 VVhich droop with nightly showers, I wring. 
 His shivering limbs the embers warm, 
 And now, reviving from the storm, 
 Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 
 Than swift he seized his slender bow : 
 ' I fain would know, my gentle host," 
 He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 
 1 fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 
 The strings their former aid refuse :" 
 With poison tirrt, his arrow flies, 
 Deep in my torturoil heart it lies : 
 Then loud 'he joyous urchin laugh'd, 
 " My bow can :" impel the shaft ; 
 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy si-ho reveal it; 
 Say, courteous host, ranst tnyu not feel it?" 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 
 
 FROM THE PROMETHEUS OF JESCHYLUS. 
 
 GKEAT Jove! to whose Almighty throne 
 
 Both gods and mortals homage pay. 
 Ne'er may my soul thy power diso-vn, 
 
 Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
 Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
 In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 
 My voice shall raise no impious strain 
 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 
 
 How different now thy joyless fate, 
 
 Since first Hesione thy bride, 
 When placed aloft in godlike state, 
 
 The blushing beauty by thy side, 
 Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
 And mirthful strains^the hours beguiled ; 
 The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
 Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd 
 Harrow, Dec. 1, 1S04. 
 
 THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE FROM THE .ENEID, LIB. 9. 
 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 
 
 Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
 
 Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield, 
 
 Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field 
 
 From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 
 
 And sought a foreign home, a distant grave 
 
 To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 
 
 With him, Euryalus sustains the post ; 
 
 No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
 
 And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 
 
 Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 
 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
 
 'T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share, 
 
 A soul heroic, as his form was fair ; 
 
 These burn with one pure flarne of generous love, 
 
 In 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 1 
 Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
 My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest, 
 Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
 The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
 Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
 See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
 Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
 Where confidence ard ease the watch disdain, 
 And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
 Then hear my thought : In deep and sullen gi icf. 
 Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; 
 Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
 (The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine); 
 Were this decreed beneath yon rising mound, 
 Methinks, an easy path perchance were four.d. 
 Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' wall* 
 And lead ^Eneas from Evander's halls." 
 With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy. 
 His glowing friend address'd the Dardan bov 
 " These deeds, my Nisus, shall thou dare a'one ' 
 Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ?
 
 12 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Am I by thcc despised, and left afar, 
 As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
 Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught, 
 Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
 Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
 I track'd .rEneas tnrough the walks of fate ; 
 Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
 And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear ; 
 Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, 
 And life, ignoble life, for Glory spurns ; 
 Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath, 
 The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
 Then Nisus "Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, 
 Thy heari beats fiercely to the din of arms ; 
 More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
 1 swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
 So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
 And clasp again the comrade of my youth. 
 But should I fall, and ho who dares advance 
 Through hostile legions must abide by chance ; 
 If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
 Should lay the friend who ever loved fliee low ; 
 Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
 Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve : 
 When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
 Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
 Whose manly arm may snatch 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 dealing wretched mother weep 
 Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
 Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
 Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
 Who braved what woman never braved before, 
 And left, her native for the Latian shore." 
 " In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
 Replied Euryalus, " it scorns control ; 
 Hence, let us haste." Their brother guards arose, 
 Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
 The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
 Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
 Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
 A ud lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
 Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
 Alternate converse, and their plans unfold ; 
 On one great point the council are agreed, 
 An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
 And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield ; 
 When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
 To offer something to their high behest. 
 With anxious tremors, yet unavved by fear, 
 The faithful pair before the throne appear ; 
 lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
 The elder first addrcss'd the hoary band. 
 
 " With patience," thus Hyrtacides began, 
 " Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan ; 
 V\ here yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, 
 Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
 Ncr need that we a secret path have traced, 
 Between the ocean and the portal placed: 
 Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
 Whoso shade securely our design will cloak. 
 
 If you, ye chiefs, and Fortune will allow, 
 We '11 bend our course to yonder mountain's brow , 
 Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight, 
 Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night ; 
 Then shall jneas in his pride return, 
 While hostile matrons raise their offspring's um, 
 And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, 
 Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread ; 
 Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, 
 Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray . 
 Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
 The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 
 
 Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
 Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd : 
 " Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
 Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
 When minds like these in striplings thus ye laise, 
 Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
 In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive, 
 And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
 Then, in his warm embrace, the boys he press'd, 
 And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
 With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
 And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
 " What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
 Can we bestow, which you may not despise? 
 Our deities the first, best boon have given, 
 Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
 What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, 
 Doubtless, await such young exalted worth ; 
 .(Eneas and Ascanius shall combine 
 To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
 lulus then : " By all the powers above ! 
 By those Penates* who my country love ; 
 By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 
 My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
 Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
 And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
 Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 
 Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ; 
 My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
 Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. 
 Two massy tripods also shall be thine, 
 Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
 An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave, 
 While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 
 But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
 When great ./Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
 The casque, the buckler, ana the 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 twice six captive dames, 
 To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
 And all the realms which now the Latians fy, 
 The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
 But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
 Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
 Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
 Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
 Without thy aid no glory shall be mine, 
 Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
 Alike, through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
 In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 
 
 Household G<xU
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 13 
 
 T> him Euryalus- Ci Ni. u;iy snail shame 
 The rising glories which from this I claim. 
 Fortune may favour or the skies may frown, 
 But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
 Yel, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
 One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
 My mother sprung from Priam's royal line, 
 Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine ; 
 Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain 
 Her feebled age from dangers of the main ; 
 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
 A bright example of maternal love. 
 Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, 
 Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave : 
 From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
 No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek j 
 By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow 
 Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
 Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
 In thee her much-loved child may live again; 
 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
 Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress: 
 So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
 To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
 Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt, 
 In tears, at once, the Trojan warriors melt ; 
 Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
 Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
 " All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied, 
 " Nor this alone, but many a gift beside ; 
 To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
 Creusa's ' style but wanting to the dame ; 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
 But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
 Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath, 
 To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
 All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
 If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
 Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
 A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
 Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
 For friends to envy and for foes to feel. 
 A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
 Slain midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
 Mnestheus, to guard the elder youth, bestows, 
 And old Alethes' casque defends his brows ; 
 Arm'd, thence they go, while all the assembled train, 
 To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain ; 
 More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
 lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place ; 
 His prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail, 
 Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ? 
 
 The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night, 
 1 hrough sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
 VVhen 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, 
 Ard flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between ; 
 JB;uvhus and Mars to ruie the camp combine, 
 \ mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
 ' Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
 Witu me the conquest and the labour share ; 
 Here ries our ;>ath ; lest any hand arise, 
 iValili thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies ; 
 
 Th<. mother o\ n "us, lost on the night when Troy was taken. 
 
 I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
 
 And clear thy road, with many a deadlv blow." 
 
 His whispering accents then the youth represt, 
 
 And pierced proud Rharnnes through his panting breast 
 
 Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed, 
 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed ; 
 
 To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
 
 But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 
 
 Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
 
 Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 
 
 And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell : 
 
 The charioteer along his courser's sides 
 
 Expires, the steel his severed neck divides ; 
 
 And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead, 
 
 Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
 
 From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour, 
 
 Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
 
 Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
 
 And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire ; 
 
 Half the long night in childish games was past, 
 
 Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last ; 
 
 Ah ! happier far, had he the mom 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, 
 [n 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 fee), 
 
 Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening stee 
 rlis coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
 
 And, vainly, in the weak defence confides ; 
 ?"ull in his heart, the falchion search'd his veing, 
 
 The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
 
 Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
 The feeble spirit seeks the shades below, 
 fow, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
 Vhose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
 There, unconfined behold each grazing steed, 
 Jnwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed ; 
 Jrave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
 Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm ; 
 ' Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past, 
 'ull foes enough, to-night, have breathed their last ; 
 
 Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn. 
 
 Vow let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 
 
 What silver arms, with various arts emboss'd, 
 Vhat bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd, 
 
 y leave regardless ! yet, one glittering prize 
 Utracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
 lie gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers fell, 
 ^he gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: 
 ^his from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
 )nce by a line of former chieftains worn. 
 'h' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
 dessapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears , 
 'hen from the tents their cautious steps ihey bena 
 o seek the vale, where safer paths extend. 
 Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
 o Tu.-r.us' camp pursue their destined co jw :
 
 14 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VVhuc the slo v foot Jn,u 'irdy march delay, 
 
 The knights, impatient, siur along the way : 
 
 Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
 
 To Turnus, with their master's promise sped : 
 
 Now, they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
 
 When, on the left, a light reflection fall?; 
 
 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 1 
 
 From whence 1 to whom T" He meets with no reply; 
 
 Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 
 
 The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, 
 
 While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 
 
 With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
 Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene ; 
 EjUryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
 The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
 But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, 
 To where Latinus' steeds, in safety graze, 
 Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
 On every side they seek his absent friend. 
 " O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
 In what impending perils art thou left !" 
 Listening he runs above the waving trees, 
 Tumultuous voices swell the passing brer'.e; 
 The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
 Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground ; 
 Again he turns of footsteps hears the noise, 
 The sound elates the sight his hope destroys ; 
 The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
 While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
 Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, 
 Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
 What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare 1 
 Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ! 
 What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
 Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ! 
 His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
 Oi die with him for whom he wish'*! to live ! 
 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 afar ; 
 By night, Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the grove, 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
 If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace 
 Thine altars with the produce of the chase ; 
 Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
 To free 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, 
 Uin'onscious wneuce the deaih, with horror gaze ; 
 While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
 A econd shaft with equal force is driven ; 
 Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes, 
 VeiPd ay the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
 l!ui [ling with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall ; 
 ' Thou youth accurst ! thy life shall pay for all." 
 Quii'./c from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
 Ai.fi raging on tne ooy defenceless flew. 
 
 STisus no more the blackening shade sonceals. 
 Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
 Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
 And pour these accents, shrieking as he flics : 
 
 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 gnost ; 
 Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, 
 Rage nerves his arnij Fate gleams in every blow ; 
 In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
 Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
 In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies, 
 Nor quits the Hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
 Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved, 
 Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
 Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place, 
 And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace . 
 
 Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
 Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
 Ages on ages shall your fate admire ; 
 No future day shall see your names expire ; 
 While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
 And vanquish'd millions hail their Empress, Rome 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OP 
 
 EURIPIDES. 
 WHEN fierce conflicting passions urge 
 
 The breast where love is wont to glow, 
 What mind can stem the stormy surge, 
 
 Which rolls the tide of human woe 1 
 The hope of praise, the dread of r.hame, 
 
 Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
 The wild desire, the guilty flame, 
 
 Absorbs each wish it felt before. 
 
 But, if affection gently thrills 
 
 The soul, by purer dreams possest, 
 The pleasing balm of mortal ills, 
 
 In love can soothe the aching breast ; 
 If thus, thou comest in gentle guist 
 
 Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
 What heart, unfeeling, would despise 
 
 The sweetest boon the gods have given '
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 But, never from thy golden bow 
 
 May I beneath the shaft expire, 
 Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 
 
 Awakes an all-consuming fire ; 
 Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 
 
 With others wage eternal war ; 
 Repentance ! source of future tears, 
 
 From me be ever distant far. 
 
 May no distracting thoughts destroy 
 
 The holy calm of sacred love ! 
 May all the hours be wing'd with joy, 
 
 Which hover faithful hearts above ' 
 Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine, 
 
 May I with some fnnd lover sigh ! 
 Whose heart may mingle pure with mine, 
 
 With me to live, with me to die. 
 
 My native soil ! beloved before, 
 
 Now dearer, as my peaceful home, 
 Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
 
 A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam ; 
 This 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 hea"t, 
 
 To fair affection's truth unknown, 
 Bids her he fondly loved depart, 
 
 Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
 Who ne'er unlocks, with silver *ey, * 
 
 The milder treasures of his soul ; 
 May such a friend be far from me, 
 
 And Ocean's storms between us roll ! 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
 
 EXAMINATION. 3 
 
 HIGH in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
 MAGNUS his ample front sublime uprears ; 
 Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
 While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod ; 
 
 1 Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted 
 by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The Chorus 
 from which this is taken, here address Medea; though a con- 
 siderable liberty is taken with the original, by expanding the 
 idea, as also in some other parts of the translation. 
 
 2 The original is " KuBapav avoi^avrt K.\ti$a typtv&v :" 
 literally " Disclosing the bright key of the mind." 
 
 3 No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned 
 un^'er the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as per- 
 forming an unavoidable function of his office: indeed such an 
 attempt could only recoil upon myself; as that gentleman is 
 tow as tnur-h distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified 
 preprint? with which he fills his situation, as he was, in his 
 fuuiitfor aays for wu and conviviality 
 
 As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
 His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome, 
 Denouncing dire reproach to luckless foois, 
 Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 
 
 Happy the youth ! in Euclid's axioms tried, 
 Though little versed in any art beside ; 
 Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
 Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
 What ! though he knows not how his fatheis bled, 
 When civil discord piled the fields with dead ; 
 When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
 Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
 Though, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, 
 Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
 Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
 While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
 Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
 Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 
 
 Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, 
 Class-honours, medals, fellowsnips, await ; 
 Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
 If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
 But, lo ! no common orator can hope 
 The envied silver cup within his scope : 
 Not that our Heads much eloquence require, 
 Th' Athenian's glowing style, or 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 word, 
 No matter what, so it can not be heard 
 Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest ! 
 Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best 
 Who utters most within the shortest space, 
 May safely hope to win the wordy race. 
 
 The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
 Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
 Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they lie, 
 Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, di ; 
 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, BRUNCH'S, ' or PORSON 
 
 note, 
 
 More than the verse on which the critic wrote , 
 Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
 Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale, 
 To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, 
 When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
 With eager haste they court the loM of power, 
 Whether 't is PITT or P TTY rules the hour 3 
 
 1 Celebrated critics. 
 
 ij The present Greek professor at Trinitv College, Ca 
 bridge; a man whose powers of mind und w ; 'ings may ;. 
 haps justify their preference. 
 
 3 Since this was written Lord H. P v ha* '*> Ha Dln*
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
 While distant mitres to their eyes are spread ; 
 Hut should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
 They 'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
 Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, 
 Such is their practice, such is their reward ; 
 This much, at least, we may presume to say 
 The premium can't exceed the prico they pay. 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF * * *. 
 
 " tu semper amori* 
 Sis mcmor, et cari comifis ne abscedat imago." 
 
 VALERIUS FLACCUS. 
 
 FRIEND of my youth ! when young we roved, 
 Like striplings mutually beloved, 
 
 With Friendship's purest glow ; 
 The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
 Was such as pleasure seldom showers 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 The recollection seems, alone, 
 Dearer than all the joys I 've known, 
 
 When distant far from you ; 
 Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
 To trace those days and hours again, 
 
 And sigh again, adieu ! 
 
 My pensive memory lingers o'er 
 Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 
 
 Those scenes regretted ever ; 
 The measure of our youth is full, 
 Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 
 
 And we may meet ah ! never ! 
 
 As when one parent spring supplies 
 
 Two streams, which from one fount ain rise, 
 
 Together join'd in vain ; 
 How soon, diverging from their source, 
 Each murmuring seeks anothei course, 
 
 Till mingled in the main. 
 
 Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
 Though near, alas ! distinctly Uow, 
 
 Nor mingle as before ; 
 Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
 Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 
 
 And both shall quit the shore. 
 
 Our souls, my Friend ! which once supplied 
 One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 
 
 Now flow in different channels ; 
 Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
 T is yours to mix in polish'd courts, 
 
 And shine in Fashion's annals. 
 
 Tis tnbe to waste on Love my time, 
 Or verre my reveries in rhyme, 
 
 Without the aid of Reason ; 
 Kor Sense and Reason (critics know it) 
 Have quitted every amorous poet, 
 
 Nor left a thought to seize on. 
 
 \nn subsequently (I had nlmostsaid consequently) the honour 
 of representing the University ; a fact so glaring requires no 
 
 Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard. 
 Ol late esteem'd it monstrous hard, 
 
 That he, who sang before all ; 
 He, who the love of Love expanded, 
 Hy 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. 
 
 Still, I must yield those worthies merit, 
 Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 
 
 Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
 And though myself may be the next 
 By critic sarcasm to be vext, 
 
 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 offends at pert nineteen, 
 Ere tr'\rty, may become, I ween, 
 
 .'. 'ery harden'd sinner. 
 
 -, I must return to you, 
 
 Now 
 
 And sure apologies are due ; 
 
 Accept then my concession ; 
 
 In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, 
 
 I soar along from left to right ; 
 
 My muse admires digression. 
 
 I think I said 't would be your fate 
 To add one star to royal state ; 
 
 May regal smiles attend you ; 
 And should a noble Monarch reigr. 
 You will not seek his smiles in vain, 
 
 If worth can recommend you. 
 
 Yet, since in danger courts abound, 
 Where specious rivals glitter round, 
 
 From snares may saints preserve you ; 
 And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
 From any claim a kindred care, 
 
 But those who best deserves you. 
 
 Not for a moment may you stray 
 From Truth's secure unerring way ; 
 
 May no delights decoy ; 
 O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
 Your smiles be ever smiles of love, 
 
 Your tears be tears of joy. 
 
 Oh! if you wish that happiness 
 
 Your coming days and years may bless, 
 
 And virtues crown your brow ; 
 Be still, as you were wont to be, 
 Spotless as you 've been known to me, 
 
 Be, still, as you are now. 
 
 1 These Stanzas were written soon after the nppenionce of 
 a severe critique in a Northern review, on a now publication 
 of the British Anacreon 
 
 2 A Bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mom. 
 combat. If this example become* prevalent, our periodi-ul 
 censors must be dippod in the river Styx, for what tlse cat 
 secure them from the numerous host of theii < nragpd as&t'i 
 ants ?
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 17 
 
 And though some trifling share of praise, 
 To cheer my last declining days, 
 
 To me were doubly dear ; 
 Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
 I 'd waive at once a Poefs fame, 
 
 To prove a Prophet here. 
 
 GRANTA, A MEDLEY. 
 
 ov icat iravra Kpar>;<rai;. 
 
 OH! could LE SAGE'S' demon's gift 
 
 Be realized at my desire, 
 This night my trembling form he 'd lift, 
 
 To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
 Then would, unroof 'd, old Granta's halls 
 
 Pedantic inmates full display ; 
 Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls, 
 
 The price of venal votes to pay. 
 Then would I view each rival wight, 
 
 P tty and P 1m st n survey ; 
 Who canvass there with all their 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 ca occur 
 
 But very seldom, now and then. 
 They know the Chancellor has got 
 
 Some pretty livings in disposal ; 
 Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
 
 And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. 
 Now, from the soporific scene 
 
 I'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, 
 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
 
 He, surely, well deserves to gain them, 
 With all the honours of his college, 
 
 Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
 
 Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; 
 
 Who sacrifices hours of rest, 
 
 To scan, precisely, metres Attic, 
 
 Or agitates his anxious breast 
 
 In solving problems mathematic ; 
 
 Who reads false quantities in Sele, 2 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
 
 Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
 
 In barbarous Latin 3 doom'd to wrangle ; 
 
 1 The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, whore Asmodeus, the 
 tfemon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation and un- 
 riHjfs the houses for his inspection. 
 
 1? Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable 
 tnlem nnit ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult 
 a w>>rk, is not remarkable for accurao 
 
 3 The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not 
 rerj : ntel!igibie. 
 
 8 
 
 Renouncing every pleasing page 
 
 From authors of historic use ; 
 Preferring to the letter'd sage 
 
 The square of the hypothenuse. 1 
 Still, harmless are these occupations, 
 
 That hurt none but the hapless student, 
 Compared with other recreations, 
 
 Which bring together the imprudent ; 
 Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
 
 When vice and infamy combine, 
 When drunkenness end dice unite, 
 
 And every sense is steep'd in wine. 
 Not so the methodistic crew, 
 
 Who plans of reformation lay : 
 In humble attitude they sue, 
 
 And for the sins of others pray. 
 Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 
 
 Their exultation in their ti ial, 
 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 meo.ts the eye 1 
 A numerous crowd, array'd in while, 2 
 
 Across the green in numbers lly. 
 Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell ; 
 
 'T is hush'd : What sounds are these I hen ( 
 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 excused, 
 
 Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
 All mercy, now, must be refused, 
 
 To such a set of croaking sinners. 
 If David, when his toils were ended, 
 
 Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 
 To us his psalms had ne'er descended, 
 
 In furious mood he would have torn 'em. 
 The luckless Israelites, when taken, 
 
 By some inhuman tyrant's order, 
 Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 
 
 On Babylonian river's border. 
 
 Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
 
 Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
 They might have set their hearts at ease 
 
 The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 
 
 But, if I scribble longer now, 
 
 The deuce a soul will stay to read , 
 
 My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 
 
 'T is almost time to stop indeed. 
 
 Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA'S spires, 
 
 No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
 No more thy theme my Muse inspire* 
 
 The reader's tired, and so am 1. 
 
 180b 
 
 1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of in* 
 hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two side* o* 
 a right-angled triangle. 
 
 2 On a Saint day, the students wear surplices in ehane 1
 
 JiYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR. 
 
 '.achinyOair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 7,oeA na 
 Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern High- 
 lands, near Invercaufd. One of our modern tourists men 
 
 eterna snows: near acn y ar spent some o te 
 early part of my life, the recollection of which has given 
 birth to the following Stanzas. 
 
 AWAY, 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 : 
 Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
 
 Round their white summits though elements war, 
 Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
 tains, 
 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
 Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd, 
 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; ' 
 On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, 
 
 As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ; 
 I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
 For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story 
 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
 " Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 
 
 Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?" 
 Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
 
 And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: 
 Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, 
 
 Winter presides in his cold icy car ; 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers 
 
 They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: 
 " Ill-starr'd, 2 though brave, did no visions forebodinc 
 
 Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 3 
 
 Victory crown'd not your fall with applause ; 
 Still were you happy, in death's early slumber 
 
 You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, 4 
 The Pibroch 6 resounds to the piper's loud number 
 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
 Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you ; 
 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; 
 Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 
 
 Yet, still, are yoa 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, 
 
 Tne steep-frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 
 
 1 This word is erroneously pronounced plad ; the proper 
 pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the 
 orthography. 
 
 2 1 allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," 
 many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, 
 better known hy the name of the Pretender. This branch was 
 nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stewarts. 
 George, thb second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess 
 Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the First of Scotland; 
 by her ho .eft four sons: the third. Sir William Gordon, I 
 nave the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. 
 
 3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not 
 wttain ; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the 
 Hiimt! of the principal action, "prs pro toto." 
 
 4 A tract of the Highlands so called ; there is also a Castle 
 vt Braemar. 
 
 5 The l!.ii.'i))pe. 
 
 TO ROMANCE. 
 
 PARENT of golden dreams, Romance! 
 
 Auspicious queen of childish joys ! 
 Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 
 
 Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
 At length, in spells no longer bound, 
 
 I break the fetters of my youth ; 
 No more I tread thy mystic i ound, 
 
 But leave thy realms for those of Truth 
 
 And yet, 't is hard to quit the dreams 
 
 Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
 Where every nymph a goddess seems, 
 
 Whose eyes 'hrough rays immortal roll ; 
 While E^.ncy 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 the* but a name, 
 
 And from thy hall of clouds descend ; 
 Nor find a sylph in every dame, 
 
 A Pylades ' in every friend ? 
 But leave, at once, thy realms of air, 
 
 To mingling bands of fairy elves : 
 Confess that woman's false as fair, 
 
 And friends have feelings for themselves. 
 
 With shame, I own I 've felt thy sway, 
 
 Repentant, now thy reign is o'er ; 
 No more thy precepts I obey, 
 
 No more on fancied pinions soar : 
 Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 
 
 And think that eye to Truth was dear, 
 To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 
 
 And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 
 Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
 
 Far from thy motley court I fly, 
 Where Affectation holds her seat, 
 
 And sickly Sensibility ; 
 Whose silly tears can never flow 
 
 For any pangs excepting thine ; 
 Who turns aside from real woe. 
 
 To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine : 
 
 Now join with sable Sympathy, 
 
 \Vith cypress crown'd, array'd in w;edl 
 Who heaves with thee her simple si^h, 
 
 Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
 And call thy sylvan female quire, 
 
 To mourn a swain for ever s;one, 
 Who once could glow with equal fire, 
 
 But bends not w>\\ before thy throne. 
 
 Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears, 
 
 On all occasions, swifily flow; 
 Whose bosoms heave with fancied tears, 
 
 With fancied names and phrenzy glow; 
 Say, will you mourn my absent name. 
 
 Apostate from your gentle tram I 
 An infant Baril, at least, may claim 
 
 From you a sympathetic .strain 
 
 1 It is hardly necessary lo add. that Pylades was the comparion at 
 Orestes, and a partner in nne of those frien Iships which, wilh It .f 
 Achilles and Patrocles, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythiis, hivi 
 been handed down to posterity as remark.il.lj instances of tt,irimJI 
 which, in all pn.bab.lily, never existed, beyond the /maginatiol of 
 poet, the page of a historian, or modern novelist.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 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 hike is seen 
 
 Convulsed by galos you cannot weather, 
 Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 
 
 Alas ! must perish altogether. 
 
 ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 1 
 
 It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me 
 vith all tlieir deeds. OSSIAN. 
 
 NEWSTEAD ! fast falling, once resplendent dome ! 
 
 Religion's shrine ! repentant HENRY'S 2 pride! 
 Of warriors, monks, and dames 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 tlieir pillar'd state ; 
 
 Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
 Scowling defiance on the blast of fate. 
 
 No mail-clad serfs, 3 obedient to their lord, 
 In grim array, the crimson cross 4 demand: 
 
 Or gay assemble round the festive board, 
 Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. 
 
 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
 
 Retrace their progress, 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 Chiefj 
 
 His feudal realm in other regions lay ; 
 In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief, 
 
 Retiring from die 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 s spreads her waning shade, 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
 
 Or matin orisons to Mary 6 paid. 
 
 1 As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, 
 the author had orisinally no intention of inserting the follow- 
 ina : it is now iidited at the particular request of some friends. 
 
 i! Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of 
 riiomiH-a-Becket. 
 
 This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, " The 
 W'ld Huntsman," as synonymous with Vassal. 
 
 4 The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. 
 
 5 As "Gloaming." tic Scottish word for Twilight, ia far 
 more poetical, and hai, oven recommended by many eminent 
 literary men, particularly Dr. Moore, in his Letters to Burns. 
 I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. 
 
 6 The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin 
 
 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 arm* 
 The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 
 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
 An abbey once, a -egal fortress 2 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, 
 
 Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave 
 His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
 
 RebelUon's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
 Not unavenged, the raging baron yields, 
 
 The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 
 Unconquer'd still his falchion 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. 
 Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal strife, 
 
 In other fields the torrent to repel, 
 For nobler combats here reserved his life, 
 
 To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND 4 feD. 
 From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 
 
 While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
 Far different incense now ascends to heaven 
 
 Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
 There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
 
 Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
 O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
 
 Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
 Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
 
 Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; 
 From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
 
 Raked from repose, in search of buried gold. 
 
 1 At the dissolution of the Monasteries. Henry VIII. be 
 stowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 
 
 2 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war b 
 tween Charles 1. and his Parliament. 
 
 3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held hiph cum 
 mnnds in the royal arm) ; the former was General in Chief ii 
 Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to Jame* 
 Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latlw 
 had a principal share in many actions, fide Clarendon 
 Hume, etc. 
 
 4 Lucius Cnry, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accom 
 plished man of nig age, wag killed ut the hattlo of Ncwherrr 
 charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment f < va.r
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 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 giories 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 rejgn ! 
 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 her cave receives his bones, 
 
 Loathing ' the offering of so dark a death. 
 The legal Ruler a now resumes the helm, 
 
 He guides through gentle seas the prow of state : 
 Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, 
 
 And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. 
 
 The gioomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, 
 
 Howling resign their violated nest ; 
 Again the master on his tenure dwells, 
 
 Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 
 
 Vassals within thy hospitable pale, 
 
 Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 
 Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
 
 And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 
 A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
 
 Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
 And, hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
 
 The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
 Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
 
 What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase ! 
 The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, 
 
 Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
 Ah ! happy days ! too happy to endure ! 
 
 Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
 No splendid vices glitter'd to allure 
 
 Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
 From these descending, sons to sires succeed, 
 
 Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
 Another chief impels the foaming steed, 
 
 Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 
 
 Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 
 
 Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
 The last and youngest of a noble line 
 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
 Deserted now, ho scans thy gray-worn towers 
 
 Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep 
 
 1 This is a historical fact. A viojent tempest occurred im- 
 mediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, 
 which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and 
 he rava:>,rs; both interpreted the circumstance into divine 
 nierposmon, hut whether as approbation or condemnation, 
 we leao M the c 'lists of that age to decide. I have made 
 rach use </f tiicioccurrence ai suited the subject of my poem. 
 
 9<;harle*ll. 
 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers 
 These, these he views, and views them but to weep 
 
 Yet are his tears no emblem of regret, 
 Cherish'd affection only bids them flow ; 
 
 Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget, 
 But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 
 
 Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes, 
 Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly grc at ; 
 
 Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy .ombs, 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the vull of fate 
 
 Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine, 
 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
 Hours splendid as the past may still be thine. 
 
 And bless thy future as thy former day. 
 
 TO E. N. L. ESQ 
 
 Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. 
 
 HOR. E 
 
 DEAR L , in this sequester'd pcene, 
 
 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 moo;!, 
 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 flower* 
 Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
 Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
 And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
 If frowning Age, with cold control, 
 Confines the current of the soul, 
 Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
 Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
 Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan. 
 And bids me feel for self atone ; 
 Oh ! may my bosom never learn, 
 
 To sooth its wonted heedless flow, 
 Still, stHl, 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.
 
 ilOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Still may I rove untutor'd, wild, 
 And even in age at heart a child. 
 Though now on airy visions borne, 
 
 To you my soul is still the same, 
 Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 
 
 And all my former joys are tame. 
 But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue, 
 
 Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's o'er ; 
 By every bliss my childhood knew, 
 
 I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
 Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 
 
 And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
 We heed no more the wintry blast, 
 
 When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 
 Full often has my infant Muse 
 
 Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
 But now, without a theme to choose, 
 
 The strains in stolen sighs expire ; 
 My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 
 
 E is a wife, and C a mother, 
 
 And Carolina sighs alone, 
 
 And Mary 's given to another ; 
 And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, 
 
 Can now no more my love recall ; 
 In truth, dear L , 't was time to flee, 
 
 For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
 And though the sun, with genial rays, 
 His beams alike to all displays, 
 And every lady's eye's a sun, 
 These last should be confined to one. 
 The soul's meridian don't become her 
 Whose sun displays a general summer. 
 Thus faint is every former flame, 
 And Passion's self is now a name : 
 As, when the ebbing flames are low, 
 
 The aid which once improved their light, 
 And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
 
 Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires, 
 
 As many a boy and girl remembers, 
 While all the force of love expires, 
 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 But now, dear L , 't is 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, 
 W hich every bard has trod before ? 
 Yet, ere yon silver lamp of night 
 
 Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
 Has thrice retraced her path of light, 
 
 And chased away the gloom profound, 
 I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
 Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
 Above the dear^loved peaceful seat 
 Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
 And then, with those our childhood knew, 
 We '11 mingle with the festive crew ; 
 While many a tale of former day 
 Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
 And all the flow of soul shall pour 
 The sacred intellectual shower, 
 Nor cease, till Luna's waning hom 
 Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. 
 
 TO . 
 
 OH : had my fate been jom'd with thine, 
 
 As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
 These follies had not then been mine, 
 
 For then my peace had not been broken. 
 To thee these early faults I owe, 
 
 To thee, the wise and old reproving ; 
 They know my sins, but do not know 
 
 'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
 
 And all its rising fires could smother ; 
 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, 
 
 'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
 Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, 
 
 But pride may teach me to forget thee. 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasures. 
 These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
 
 These thoughtless strains to passion's measure* 
 If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd ; 
 
 This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
 With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
 
 But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
 Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
 
 For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 
 And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, 
 
 For then it beat but to adore thee. 
 But now I seek for other joys ; 
 
 To think would drive my soul to madness 
 In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 
 
 I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
 Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
 
 In spite of every vain endeavour ; 
 And fiends might pity what I feel, 
 
 To know that thou art lost for ever. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 I WOULD I were a careless child, 
 
 Still dwelling in my highland cave, 
 Or roaming through the dusky wild, 
 
 Or hounding o'er the dark-blue wave. 
 The cumbrous pomp of Saxon ' pride 
 
 Acoords not with the frce-'ocrn soul, 
 Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 
 
 And seeks the rocks where billows rol 
 Fortune ! take back these cultured lands. 
 
 Take back this name of splendid souni 
 I hate the touch of servile hands 
 
 I hate the slaves that cringe around : 
 
 1 Sasaenah, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying rkl t 't 
 land or English.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Place me along die rocks I love, 
 
 \Vhich 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 wor d like this ? 
 I loved but those 1 loved are gone ; 
 
 Had friends my ear.y 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 bear the voice of those 
 
 Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, 
 Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 
 
 Associates of the festive hour. 
 Give me again a faithful few, 
 
 In years and feelings stili 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 seoms to know. 
 Fain would I fly the haunts of men 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
 My breast requires the sullen glen, 
 
 Whose glx>m may suit a darken'd mind. 
 Oh ! that to me the wings were given 
 
 Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
 Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, 
 
 To flee away and be at rest. ' 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD 
 
 OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 
 
 SEPT. 2, 1807. 
 
 JSPOT 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 niwed the twilight hours away ; 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
 But ah 1 without the thoughts which then were mine : 
 
 I Psalm Iv. v. 6." And I said. Oh ! thut I had wings like 
 a Hove, ihon would 1 fly away and be at rest." ThU verse 
 HMJ cotwtitmes a nart of the must beautiful anthem in our 
 neunee 
 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
 Invite the bosom to recall the past ; 
 And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
 "Take, while thou can'st, 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 't would soothe my dying hour, 
 If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, 
 To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
 Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell : 
 With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die 
 And here it 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. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 
 
 An imitation of Macpherson's Ossian. 1 
 
 DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their re- 
 membrance through the mist of time. In the twilight 
 he. recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear 
 with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise tha 
 steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! 
 but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on 
 the wings of the wind ! they hear the sound through 
 the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall ot 
 clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
 narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, 
 he rolls his form in the whirlwind ; and hovers on the 
 blast of the mountain. 
 
 In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingai. 
 His steps in the field were marked in blood ; Lochlm's 
 sons had fled before his angry spear : but mild was the 
 eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his yellow locks 
 they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid 
 was the sigh of his soul ; his thoughts were given to 
 friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! 
 Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce was the 
 pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they 
 dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 
 
 From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
 Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingai roused his 
 chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Their 
 hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
 of Erin. 
 
 Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies , 
 but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. Tho 
 sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They 
 lift the spear in thought, and Fingai flies. Not so the 
 host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Cal- 
 mar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. 
 Fingai called his chiefs. They stood aroum 1 . The king 
 was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was 
 the arm of the king. Age withered not his power* 
 
 1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though 
 considerably varied in the catastrophe, > taken from " Nisui 
 and Euryalus." of which episode a translation !.ta bee* * 
 ready civen
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 23 
 
 " Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-morrow we meet 
 the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? 
 He rests in the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our 
 coming. Whp win speed through Lochlin to the hero, 
 and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the swords 
 of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts 
 of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! who will arise ?" 
 
 " Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- 
 haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to me ? 
 I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
 The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
 Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay 
 me by the stream of Lubar." "And shall thou fall 
 alone ?" said fair-haired Calmar. " Wilt thou leave thy 
 friend afar, Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in 
 fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, 
 Orla ! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the 
 feast of shells ; ours be the path of danger : ours has 
 been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling 
 on the banks of Lubar." " Calmar !" said the chief of 
 Oithona, " why should t'ny yellow locks be darkened 
 in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father 
 dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy : but 
 the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in 
 Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the 
 heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him 
 not say, ' Calmar is fallen by the Eteel of Lochlin ; he 
 died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' 
 Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora ? Why 
 should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? 
 Live, Calmar ! live to raise my stone of moss ; live to 
 revenge me in the blood of Lochlin ! Join the song of 
 Dards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death 
 to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile 
 on the notes of praise." "Orla!" said the son of 
 Mora, " could I raise the song of death to my friend ? 
 Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart 
 would speak in sighs ; faint and broken are the sounds 
 of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. 
 One cloud shall be ours on high ; the bards will mingle 
 the names of Orla and Calmar." 
 
 They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
 to the host of Lochlin. The -dying blaze of oak dim 
 twinkles through the night. The northern star points 
 the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his 
 lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in 
 sleep, their shields beneath their heads. Their swords 
 gleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint ; their 
 embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale 
 sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes 
 through the slumbering band. Half the journey is 
 past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 
 eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the 
 shade : his spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou 
 bend thy brow, Chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired 
 Calmar. "We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time 
 br delay ?" " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla, 
 of the c'ootny brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest 
 thou his s|>ear / Its point is dim with the gore of my 
 fitther. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but 
 shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall 
 fee! his wound ; my fame shall not soar on the blood 
 of slumber. Rise, Mathon ! rise ! the son of Connal calls; 
 thr life is his : rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
 ileep, but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs 
 bound on the plain. "Fly, Calmar, fly ''' said dark- 
 
 haired Orla : " Mathon is mine ; I shall die in joy ; bu* 
 Lochlin crowds around ; fly through the shade of night." 
 Orla turns ; the helm of Mathon is cleft : his shield 
 falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls 
 by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him falL 
 His wrath rises ; his weapon gutters on the head of 
 Orla ; but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes 
 through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. 
 As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of the 
 north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, 
 breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks ol 
 the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered 
 crests of Loclilin. The din of arms came to the ear ol 
 Fingal. He strikes his shield : his sons throng around ; 
 the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. 
 Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The 
 eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is 
 the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin. 
 Morven prevails in his strength. 
 
 Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen j 
 but the sleepers are many : grim they lie on Erin. The 
 breeze of ocean lifts their locks : yet they do not awake. 
 The hawks scream above their prey. 
 
 Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of p. chief? 
 bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
 dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar he lies on the 
 bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
 is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but 
 his eye is still a flame : it glares in death unclosed. 
 His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives : he 
 lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son ol 
 Mora, 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 
 may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 
 
 "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven 
 with Orla;" said the hero, "what were the chase to 
 me, alone ? Who would share the spoils of battle with 
 Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! 
 yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in 
 lightning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my swoid 
 to blue-eyed Mora : let it hang in my empty hall. It ia 
 not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay 
 me with my friend : raise the song when I am dark." 
 
 They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
 stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 
 
 When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
 waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
 Bards raised the song. 
 
 "What form rises on the roar of clouds! whose dark 
 ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice 
 rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla ; the brown chief of 
 Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, 
 Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! lovely 
 wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora ; but not harmless 
 was jhy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of 
 Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calma>! 
 it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes 
 on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son 
 of Mora ; spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and 
 smile through the tears of the storm." ' 
 
 1 1 fear Lain" 's late edition has completely overthrown ererr 
 hope thatMacphereon's Ossian might prove the Translation of 
 a reries of Poems, complete in themselves; hut, while the im 
 posture is discoverer!, the merit of the work remains undisputed, 
 thouen not without fault*, particularly, in gome parts. turgKl and 
 bomhastic diction. The present humble imitation will be i at- 
 doned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt. noweai 
 inferior, which evince* an attachment 'o thsi' favourite autho*
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CRITIQUE 
 
 EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY 1808. 
 
 Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and 
 translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, 
 a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200. Newark, 1807. 
 
 THE poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class 
 which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, 
 we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse 
 with so few deviations in either direction from that 
 exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead 
 flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than 
 if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation 
 of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward 
 in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, 
 and on the very back of the volume ; it follows his 
 name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is 
 laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected 
 with this general statement of his case, by particular 
 dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. 
 Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be 
 perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de- 
 fendant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary 
 ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought 
 against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him 
 to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if 
 judgment were given against him, it is highly probable 
 that an exception would be taken were he to deliver 
 for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he 
 might plead minority ; but, as he now makes voluntary 
 tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that 
 ground, for the price in good current praise, should 
 the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the 
 law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. 
 Perhaps however, in reality, all that he tells us about 
 his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, 
 than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, 
 " See how a minor can write ! This poem was actually 
 composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one 
 of only sixteen ! " But, alas ! we all remember the poetry 
 of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and so far from 
 hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor 
 verses were written by a youth from his leaving school 
 to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
 to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
 pens 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 waive it. He certainly, however, 
 does allude frequently to his family and ancestors 
 sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; and while 
 giving up his ciaim on the score of rank, he takes care 
 to rememDer us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
 nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
 handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consid- 
 eration 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 opportunities, which are 
 treat, to better account. 
 
 With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assura 
 him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even 
 when accompanied by the presence of a certain number 
 of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) 
 those feet should scan regularly, and have been all 
 counted accurately upon the fingers, it is not tha 
 whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, 
 that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, 
 is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in 
 the present day, to be read, must contain at least one 
 thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas 
 of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it 
 to his candour, whether there is any thing so 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 ancestors, 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 '11 think upon glory and you. 
 
 " Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 'T is nature, not fear, thai excitta bis 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 bet 
 ter than those stanzas in the whole compass of the nobli 
 minor's volume. 
 
 Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
 what the greatest poets have done before him, for 
 comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at 
 his writing-master's,) are odious. Gray's Ode on Eton 
 College should really have kept out the ten hobbling 
 stanzas " On a distant view of the village and school of 
 Harrow." 
 
 " Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
 Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 
 
 How welcome to me your 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, 1 '' might have warned the notle 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 sou! from burbaiit.f di&i 
 
 Compassion will melt, 
 
 Where this virtue is Ml, 
 And its dew is diffused in a Toar. 
 
 " The man doom'd to sail 
 
 With the biut of the itata, 
 Through billows Atlantic to steer. 
 
 As he bends o'er the wave. 
 
 Which may soon bo hii grave. 
 The green sparkles bright with a eai
 
 CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 And so of instances in which former poets had failed. 
 I'huf, we do not think Lord Byron was made for trans- 
 lating, during his non-age, Adnan's Address to his 
 Sou', when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the at- 
 tempt. If our readers, however, arc of another opinion, 
 hey may look at it. 
 
 " Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite. 
 Friend and associate of this clay ! 
 
 To what unknown region home. 
 Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
 No more with wonted humour eay. 
 
 But pallid, cheerless, ami forlorn." 
 
 However, be this as it may, we fear his translations 
 and imitations are great favourites vvitli Lord Byron. 
 We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
 and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. 
 Only, why print them after they have had their day 
 and served their turn ? And why call the thing in p. 79, ' 
 a translation, where two words (6t\w \tytiv) of the 
 original are expanded into four lines, and the other 
 thing in p. 81, 2 where [ttaovvxriats To0' 'opais, is ren- 
 dered by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his Os- 
 sianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in 
 truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo- 
 sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising 
 some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to 
 express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, 
 then, the following beginning of a " Song of Bards " is 
 ay his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we 
 can comprehend it. " What form rises on the roar of 
 clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of 
 tempests ? His voice rolls on the thunder ; 't is Orla, the 
 brown chief of Oithona. He was," etc. After detaining 
 this " brown chieP' some time, the bards conclude by 
 giving him their advice to " raise his fair locks ;" then 
 to " spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" and " to 
 smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of 
 thing there are no less than nine pages ; and we can so 
 far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look 
 very like Macpherson ; and we are positive they are 
 pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 
 
 It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but 
 they should " use it as not abusing it ;" and particu- 
 larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the 
 ripe age of nineteen) of being " an infant bard," 
 ("The artless Helicon I boast is youth;") should either 
 not know, or should seem not to know, so much about 
 nis own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the 
 family seat of the Byrons, we have anothr-.r of eleven 
 pages, on the selfsame subject, introduced with an 
 apology, " he certainly had no intention of insertinc 
 it," but really " the particular request of some friends,' 
 tc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, " the 
 
 1 See page 1C 
 i 2 
 
 2 Page 11. 
 
 last and youngest of a noble line." There is a goo 
 deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on 
 Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of hi 
 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 hit 
 volume to immortalize his employments at school ano 
 college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present 
 ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu 
 sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, 
 we have the following magnificent stanzas : 
 
 " There, in apartments small and damp. 
 
 The candidate for college prizes 
 Sits poring by the midnight lamp. 
 
 Goes la'.e 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 authors of historic use, 
 Preferring to the letter'd sage 
 
 The square of the hypothenuse. 
 
 " Still harmless are these occupations, 
 That hurt none but the hapless student, 
 
 Compared with other recreations. 
 
 Which bring together the imprudent." 
 
 We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
 lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attie 
 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 his psalms had ne'er descended : 
 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em !' 
 
 But whatever judgment may be passed on the poema 
 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 h 
 once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of 
 Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. 
 Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; 
 and, whether it succeeds or not, " it is highly improba- 
 ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," *that he 
 should again condescend to become an author. There- 
 fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What 
 right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are well off 
 to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, 
 who does not live in a garret, but, " has the sway " o( 
 Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful ; 
 and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the girer, nw 
 look the gift horse in the mouth.
 
 ( 26 ) 
 
 antr Scotcft 
 
 SATIRE. 
 
 1 had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
 
 Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Such shameiesa Bards we have ; and yet, 't ia true, 
 There are as mad, abandon'd Critics too. 
 
 PREFACE.' 
 
 ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
 me not 10 publish this Satire with my name. If I were to 
 be " turned from the career of my humour by quibbles 
 quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
 complied with their counsel. Bu; I am not to be ter- 
 rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- 
 out arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none 
 personally who did not commence on the offensive. 
 An author's works are public property : he who pur- 
 chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; 
 and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate 
 may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they 
 will succeed better in condemning my scribblings than 
 in mending their own. But my object is not to prove 
 that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others 
 write better. 
 
 As the Poem has met with far more success than I 
 expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
 some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy 
 of public perusal. 
 
 In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- 
 mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
 were written and inserted at the request of an inge- 
 nious friend of mine, who has now in the press a vol- 
 ume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, 
 and some of my own substituted in their stead ; my 
 only reason for this being that which I conceive would 
 operate with any other person in the same manner a 
 determination not to publish with my name any pro- 
 duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own 
 composition. 
 
 With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- 
 ical persons whose performances are mentioned or 
 alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the 
 author that there can be little difference of opinion in 
 ine public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
 has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
 abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his 
 metrical canons received without scruple and without 
 consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 
 considerable genius by several of the writers here 
 censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be 
 regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
 laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 
 the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
 
 1 This Preface was written fur the second edition of this 
 Cnem. and printed with it 
 
 than the author, that some known and able writer hac 
 undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has de- 
 voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
 regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
 of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescnbe his nos- 
 trum, to prevent- the extension of. so deplorable an 
 epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- 
 ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is 
 to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- 
 cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present 
 prevalent and distressing rallies for rhyming. As to 
 the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a 
 Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author succeeds 
 n merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," 
 though his own hand should suffer in the encounter. 
 he will be amply satisfied. 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS, 
 
 etc. etc. 
 
 STILL must I hear? shall hoarse FITZGERALD' baw 
 His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
 And 1 not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews 
 Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? 
 Prepare for rhyme I '11 publish, right or wrong : 
 Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. 
 
 Oh ! Nature's noblest gift my gray goose-quill ! 
 Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
 Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
 That rm'hty instrument of little men ! 
 The pen ! bredoom'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 frepuent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
 Condemned at length to be forgotten quite, 
 With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
 But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
 Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
 
 1 IMITATION. 
 
 " Semper ego auditor tantum 1 nunquamne reponan.. 
 Vcxatus tolies rauci Thnscide Codri V Juvenal, tat. 1 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the ' Smart- 
 Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the "Li:- 
 crary Fund ;" not content with wr'.ting, he sriutc in person, 
 after the company have imbibed a reasonable ^uai*iti of bad 
 port, to enable them to sustaii ihe operation
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 27 
 
 Ou> task complete, like Harriet's ' shall be free ; 
 Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
 Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
 No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
 Inspires our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
 Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 
 
 When vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway, 
 And men, through life her willing slaves, obey ; 
 When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
 Unfolds her motley store to suit the time ; 
 When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
 When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, 
 E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
 Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
 More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, 
 And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 
 
 Such is the force of Wit ! but not belong 
 To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
 The royal vices of our age demand 
 A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
 Still there are tollies 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 school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame : 
 I printed older children do the same. 
 T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
 A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 'U 
 Not that a tide's sounding charm can save 
 Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
 This LAMBE must own, since his patrician name 
 Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 3 
 No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, 3 
 Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
 Moved by the great example, I pursue 
 The selfsame 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, 
 fake hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by rote, 
 With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
 A mind well skill'd to find or forgo a fault ; 
 A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
 To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, 
 His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
 Fear not to lie, 't will seem a lucky hit ; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; 
 Care not for feeling pass your proper jest, . 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 
 
 And shall we own such judgment ? no as soon 
 Seek roses in December, ice in June ; 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
 Belu'* a woman, or an epitaph ; 
 
 I "rl /fimet Benengrli promises repose to his pen in the last 
 thaptr ivf nn Qujziitr. Oh '. that our voluminous gentry 
 would follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengelit 
 
 i Tl is ingenious youih is mcutioni-d more particularly, with 
 nu produfimi in another place. 
 
 j In the F.<li6urs'i Remcic. 
 
 Or any other thing that 's false, before 
 
 You trust in critics who themselves are sort ; 
 
 Or yield one single thought to be misled 
 
 By JEFFREY'S heart, or LAMBE s Boeotian head. ' 
 
 To these young tyrants, 2 by themselves misplaccu 
 Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste ; 
 To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
 And hail their voice as truth, their word as law ; 
 While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare ; 
 While such are critics, why should I forbear '! 
 But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
 'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
 Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
 Our bards and censors are so much alike. 
 
 1 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 CONGREVE'S scenes could cheer, orOrwAV i 
 
 melt 
 
 For Nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
 When taste and reason with those times are 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 shuic in hot-press'd twelves. 
 
 Thus saith the preacher, * " nought beneath the sun 
 Is new ;" yet still from change to change we run : 
 VVhat varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
 The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
 In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
 Till the swoln bubble bursts and all is air ' 
 Nor less new schools of poetry arise, 
 Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
 O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
 Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
 
 1 Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega. lh* 
 first and last, of Ihe Edinburgh Review : the others are men 
 tioned hereafter. 
 
 2 "stulta est dementia, cum tot unique 
 
 occurrasperiturrEparcereclmrUe." Juvenal. Sat, i 
 
 3 IMITATION. 
 
 "Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo 
 Per quern magnus eques Auruncaj rjeAit Blmmrat 
 Si vacat, et placidi ratiouem adinittitis, edam." 
 
 .fucntoJ. .<?! r 
 4 Ecc!esiaU:s. Chao. 1.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And, hit (l.rg la vf il genius from the throne, 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
 Some leadon c;Jf but whom it matters not, 
 From soaring SOUTHEV down to groveling STOTT. 
 
 Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass in long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 And rhyme 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 2 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 nights ; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Homer's 3 brood, 
 Decoy young border-nobles through the wood. 
 And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
 And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
 Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
 Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
 And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 
 
 Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
 The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
 Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
 Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
 
 1 St*tt, better known in the " Morning Post" by the name 
 of Haji'.. This personage is at present the most profound ex- 
 plorer of the bathos. I remember, to the reigning family of 
 Portugal, a special ode of Master Stntt's, beginning thus 
 
 (Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia.) 
 "Princely offspring of Brnganza, 
 Erin greets thee with a stanza." etc. etc. 
 
 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 lashea Lapland's sounding shore." 
 
 Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" 
 
 was nothing to this. 
 
 2 See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was 
 any plan so Incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of 
 this production. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning pro- 
 loguising to Bayes' tragedy, unfortunately takes away the 
 merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the 
 Sp : riU of Flood and Fell, in the first canto. Then we have 
 the f.miahle William of Deloraine, "a stark moss-trooper," 
 vide'iicit, a happy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and 
 highwayman. The propriety of his magical lady's injunction 
 not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledg- 
 ment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, al- 
 though, to use his own elegant phrase, " "t was his neck-verse 
 at Hairibee," i. e. the gallows. 
 
 3 The Biography of Gilpin Homer, and the marvellous pe- 
 destrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, 
 without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are chefs-d' centre in 
 the 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 and Charger into the 
 castle, under thn very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Mar- 
 mion, the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William 
 if Deloraine would have been, had he been able to read or 
 write. The Poem was manufactured 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 
 iligrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repeti- 
 ii. m of black letter imitations 
 
 The gibbet or the field prepared to grace 
 
 A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 
 And think'st thou, SCOTT ! by vain conceit perchance, 
 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
 
 Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine 
 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
 
 No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade, 
 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
 
 Low may they sink to merited contempt, 
 
 And scorn remunerate the mean attempt ! 
 
 Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 
 And bid a long " good night to Marmion." ' 
 
 These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse must bow : 
 While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to * VALTER 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. a 
 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
 Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards, content, 
 On one great work a life of labour spent : 
 With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
 Behold the ballad-monger, SOUTHEY, rise ! 
 To him 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 Phcenix 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 th)' foes o'ercome, 
 For ever reign the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
 Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
 Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
 Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, 
 Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
 
 1 " Good night to Marmion" the pathetic and also pio- 
 phetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death 
 of honest Marmion. 
 
 2 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 Liberata," as thei> 
 standard efforts, since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered" of 
 the Italian, nor the "Paradise Regained" of the English Bard, 
 obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems 
 Query : Which of Mr. Southey's will survive ? 
 
 3 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 of An? 
 was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was one of those poem* 
 
 which (in the words of Parson) will he read when Horn* 
 and Virgil are forgotten, but not till then."
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Now, last and greatest, Ma Joe 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 ! SOUTHEY, SOUTHEY ! ' cease thy varied song ! 
 
 A Bard may chaunt too often and too long : 
 
 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! 
 
 & 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 ; 
 
 [f still in Berkley ballads, most uncivil, 
 
 Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, a 
 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue ; 
 
 " God help thee," SOUTHEV, and thy readers loo. * 
 
 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
 That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
 The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening in his favourite May ; 
 Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble ; 
 And quit his books, for fear of growing double ;"* 
 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, 
 Contain the essence of the true sublime: 
 Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
 The idiot mother of " an idiot Boy;" 
 A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, 
 And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; * 
 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
 That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
 Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
 Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
 To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse, 6 
 
 1 We beg Mr. Southe.v's pardon: " Madoc disdains the de- 
 graded title of epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded ? 
 and by whom 7 Certainly the late Romauntsof Masters Cattle, 
 Laureat Pye, Ogilvy. Hoyle, and gentle Mistress Coiclsy, 
 nave not exalted the Epic Muse : but as Mr. Suuthey's poem 
 " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask has he substituted 
 any thing better in its stead ? or must he be content to rival Sir 
 Richard Blackmorc, in the quantity as well as quality of his 
 verse. 
 
 2 See The Old Woman of Berkhy, a Ballad by Mr. Southey, 
 wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, 
 on a "high-trotting horse." 
 
 3 The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism 
 from the Anti-jacobin to Mr. Soutkey, on his Dactylics: 
 
 ' God help then, silly one.' ' Poetry of the Anti-jacobin, p. 23. 
 
 4 Lyrical Ballads, page 4. "The tables turned." Stanza 1. 
 
 " UD, up. my friend, and clear your looks 
 
 Why all this toil and trouble 7 
 Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
 
 Or surely you 'II grow double." 
 
 5 Mr. W., in his preface, labours hard to prove that prose 
 Mid verse are much the same, and certainly his precepts and 
 jructice are strictly conformable : 
 
 " And thus to Betty's questions he 
 Made answer, like a traveller bo'd, 
 The cock did crow to- who, lo-who. 
 And the sun did shine so cold," etc., etc. 
 
 Lyrical Ballads, page 129. 
 
 Coleridge's Poems, page 11. Songs of the Pixies, f. e. 
 evonshire Fairies. Page 42, we have, " Lines to a young 
 &ady," and page 52, " Lines to a Young Ass." 
 
 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
 How well the subject suits his noble mind ! 
 "A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind !" 
 
 Oh! wonder-working LEWIS ! Monk, or Bard, 
 Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard! 
 Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
 Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
 Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 
 By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band j 
 Or tracest chaste description on thy page, 
 To please the females of our modest age, 
 All hail, M. P. ! ' from whose infernal brain 
 Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
 At whose command, " grim women" throng in crowds, 
 And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
 With "small gray men," " wild yagers," and what not, 
 To crown with honour thee and WALTER .SCOTT: 
 Again, all hail ! If tales like thine may please, 
 St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
 E'en 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 hushM ? 
 'T is LITTLE ! young Catullus of his day, 
 As sweet, but as immoral in his lay ! 
 Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be jusx, 
 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
 Pure is the flame which o'er the 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 STRAXGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, 2 
 And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, 
 Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, 
 And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, 
 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
 Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
 Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place 
 By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? 
 Mend, STRANGFORD ! mend thy morals and thy tasto 
 Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
 Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
 Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE 
 
 In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
 HAYLEY, in vain attempting something new: 
 Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, 
 Or scrawl, as WOOD and BARCLAY walk, 'gainst time. 
 His style in youth or age is still the same. 
 For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
 Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine ' 
 At least, I 'm sure, they triumph'd over mine. 
 
 1 " For every one knows little Matt's an M. P." S-<> 
 Poem to Mr. Leitis, in Tlie Statesman, supposed to be writ 
 ten by Mr. Jekyll. 
 
 2 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may 
 refer to " StrangforcTs Camoens," page 127, note to page ftli, 
 or TO the last page of the Edinburgh Review of Strangforil i 
 Camoens. It is also to be remarked, that the things given l 
 the public as Poems of Camoens, are no more to be fcunii 
 the original Portuguese than in the Song of Solomon
 
 30 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Of " M xnc 's Triumphs" all who read may swear 
 That .u -.kleis Music nevtr triumph'd there. ' 
 
 Moravian-., rise! bestow some meet reward 
 On dull Devi.tior lo! the Sabbath- Bard, 
 Sepulchra. GKAHAME, 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. 2 
 
 Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 
 A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
 And shows, dissolve 1 in thine own melting tears, 
 The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
 And art thou not th'jir prince, harmonious Bowies ? 
 Thou first great orp,cle of tender souls? 
 Whether in sighing winds thou seck'st relief, 
 Or consolation in a yellow leaf; 
 Whether thy musf most lamentably tells 
 What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, J 
 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, 
 A 11 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 flood, 
 Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
 By more or less, are sung in every book, 
 From Captain NOAH down to Captain COOK. 
 N >r this alone, but pausing on the road, 
 The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; s 
 And gravely tells attend each beauteous Miss ! 
 When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
 BOWLES ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
 Stick to thy Sonnets, man ! at least they sell. 
 
 1 Hay lev's two most notorious verse productions, are " Tri- 
 jinplis of Temper," and "Triumphs of Music." He has also 
 written much comeiiy in rhyme, Epistles, etc. etc. As he is 
 rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recom- 
 mend Pope's Advice to Wiichfrley to Mr. H.'s consideration ; 
 viz. "to convert his poetry into prose," which may be easily 
 done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. 
 
 2 Mr. Grahamch&s poured forth two vclumes of cant, under 
 the name of " Sabbeih Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 
 
 3 See Bowlff's Sonnets, etc. "Sonnet to Oxford," and 
 ' Stanzas on hearing tho Bells of Ostend." 
 
 4 " Awake a louder," etc. etc. is the first line in Bowlfs's 
 Spirit of Discovery ;" a very spirited and pretty Dwarf Epic. 
 
 Among other exquisite lines we have the following : 
 
 Stole on the list'nins silence, never yet 
 Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power, " etc. etc. 
 -That is, the woods ,>t~ Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much 
 astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. 
 
 R The episode above alluded to is the story of " Robert a 
 Machin," and " Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, 
 *ho performed the kiss above-mentioned, that startled the 
 o-ids of Madeira 
 
 But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
 
 Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thec for a scribe , 
 
 If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd 
 
 Now, prone in dust, can only be revered : 
 
 If POPE, whose fame and genius from the firM 
 
 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 dunghill 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 ; 
 
 Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
 
 Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
 
 Write as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
 
 And do from nate what MALLET 2 did for hire. 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
 
 To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme,' 
 
 Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
 
 Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, 
 
 A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
 
 And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. * 
 
 Another Epic ! who inflicts again 
 More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
 Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast, 
 Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
 And sends his goods to market all alive ! 
 Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five ! 
 Fresh fish from Helicon ! who '11 buy ? who '11 buy 7 
 The precious bargain 's cheap in faith not I. 
 Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 
 Too much o'er bowls of 'rack prolong the night: 
 If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
 And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain. 
 In him an author's luckless lot behold! 
 Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
 Oh ! AMOS COTTLE ! Phoebus ! what a name 
 To fill the speaking-trump of future fame ! 
 Oh ! AMOS COTTLE ! for a moment think 
 What meagre profits spread from pen and ink! 
 When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
 Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
 Oh ! pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
 Had COTTLE b still adorn'd the counter's side, 
 Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
 Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
 Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
 He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 
 
 As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
 Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
 
 1 Curllis one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a book 
 seller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hercey 
 author of " Lines to the imitator of Horace." 
 
 2 Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his 
 decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work 
 by Lord Bolinsbroke (the Patriot King), which that splendid, 
 but malignant genius, had i-dered to be destroyed. 
 
 3 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 
 "Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls. 
 Making night hideous answer turn, ye owls !'' Dunciad. 
 
 4 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he 
 received 304 1. thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier 
 it is to profit by the reputation of another, than to elevate hij 
 own. 
 
 5 Mr. Cnttle,JImos or Joseph, I don't know which, but ons 
 or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now 
 writers of books that do not sell, have puMihed a pair ol 
 Epics. "Alfred" (poor Alfred! Pye has teei 8 him too 
 and the Fall of " Cambria."
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Sv up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves 
 
 Du,l MAURICE ' all his granite weight of leaves: 
 
 Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! 
 
 The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
 
 That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again. 
 
 With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, 
 
 Lo ! sad ALC^EUS wanders down the vale ! 
 
 Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, 
 
 Ris hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 
 
 Nipp'd in the bud by. Caledonian gales, 
 
 His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
 
 O'er his lost works let classic SHEFFIELD weep ; 
 
 May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! 2 
 
 Yet say ! why should the Bard at once resign 
 His claim to favour from the sacred Nine? 
 For ever startled by the mingled howl 
 Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl: 
 A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
 By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
 Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
 No mercy find these harpies must be fed. 
 Why do the injured unresisting yield 
 The calm possession of their native field? 
 Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
 Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to ARTHUR'S Seat? 3 
 
 Health to immortal JEFFREY ! once, in name., 
 England could boast a judge almost the same : 
 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
 Some think that Satan lias resigned his trust, 
 And given the Spirit to the world again, 
 To sentence letters as he sentenced men ; 
 With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
 With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
 Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
 As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw. 
 Since well instructed in the patriot school 
 To rail at party, though a party tool, 
 Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
 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 with a rope : 
 " Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
 Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
 This cord receive for thee reserved with care, 
 To yield in judgment, and at length to wear." 
 
 Health to great JEFFREY ! Heaven preserve his life, 
 lo 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, 
 
 1 Mr. Jlnttrice hath manufactured the component parts of a 
 ponderous quarto, upon the beauticsof "Richmond Hill," and 
 the like it also takes in a charming view of Turnham 
 Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New. and the parts 
 dj>rent. 
 
 1 Poor Mnntsomerti ! though praised by every English Re- 
 view, has hern bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all. 
 l\w Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius : his 
 "Wanderer of Switzerland" is worth a thousand "Lyrical 
 Dallarls." and a', least fifty " degraded Epics." 
 
 3 Amur Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 
 
 When LITTLE'S Wdless nistol met his eye, 
 
 And Bow-streer myrmidons stood laughing by '{ ' 
 
 Oh day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 
 
 Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
 
 Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
 
 Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north 
 
 TWEED ruffled half his wave to form a tear, 
 
 The other half pursued its calm career ; * 
 
 ARTHUR'S steep summit nodded to its base, 
 
 The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place ; 
 
 The Tolbooth felt for marble sometimes can, 
 
 On such occasions, feel as much as man 
 
 The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms 
 
 If JEFFREY died, except within her arms : 3 
 
 Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn, 
 
 The sixteenth storey, where himself was born, 
 
 His patrimonial garret fell to ground, 
 
 And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 
 
 Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white ream* 
 
 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
 
 This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 
 
 That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue, 
 
 And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
 
 The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
 
 But Caledonia's Goddess hover'd o'er 
 
 The field, and saved him from the wrath of MOOBE, 
 
 From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 
 
 And straight restored it to her favourite's head : 
 
 That head, with greater than magnetic power, 
 
 Caught it, as Danae the golden shower; 
 
 And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 
 
 Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
 
 " My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again, 
 
 Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
 
 O'er politics and poesy preside, 
 
 Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 
 
 For, long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
 
 Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 
 
 So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
 
 Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
 
 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 Ira veil' d Thane ! Athenian Aberdeen. 4 
 
 HERBERT shall wield THOR'S hammer, 5 and soii.etimeSj 
 
 In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 
 
 1 In 180fi, Messrs. Jeffrey and Mourt met at Chalk-Farm. 
 The duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy; 
 and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage 
 of the combatants, were found to have evaporated This inci- 
 dent gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. 
 
 2 The Tweed here behaved wiih proper decorum ; it would 
 have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the rivet 
 to have shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 
 
 3 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbonth (th* 
 principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly wins to have been 
 most affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. U 
 was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy criminalscxn- 
 cuted in the front, might have rendered the edifice more cut 
 lous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy 
 of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like nio^t 
 feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 
 
 4 His lordship lias been much abroad, is a member ot the 
 Athenian Society, and reviewer of Gcll's Topography of Troy. 
 
 5 Mi. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. 
 One of the principal pieces is a " Song on the recovery of T/mr't 
 Hammer'" the translation is a pleasant daunt in the Tulga 
 tongue, and ended thus : 
 
 " Itisteart of money and rings, I wot. 
 The hammer's bruises weie her lot: 
 Thus Odin's son his hammer, got '
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Smu2 SYDNEY ' too thy bitter page shall seek, 
 -ind classic Hxr.LAM, 2 much renown'd for Greek. 
 SCOTT may perchance his name and influence lend, 
 And paltry PILLANS' shall traduce his friend: 
 Whi's gay Thalia's luckless votary, LAMBE,* 
 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. 6 
 Illustrious HOLLAND ! hard would be his lot, 
 His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 
 HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY at his back, 
 The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
 Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
 Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
 Long, long beneath that hospitable roof, 
 Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
 See honest HALLAM lay aside his fork, 
 Resume his pen, review his lordship's work, 
 And, grateful to the founder of the feast, 
 Declare his landlord can translate, at least ! * 
 Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, 
 They write for food, and feed because they write : 
 And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape, 
 Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
 
 1 The Rev. Sidney Smith, the reputed author of Peter 
 Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. 
 
 2 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's Taste, and was ex- 
 ceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein : it was not dis- 
 covered that the lines were Pindar's, till the press rendered it 
 impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlast- 
 ing monument of Hallam's ingenuity. 
 
 The sa'ulHallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, 
 seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. It" 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 composi- 
 tions. If he did not review Lord Holland's performance, I am 
 glad, because it must have been painful to read, and irksome 
 to ptaise 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. 
 
 3 I'illans is a tutor at Eton. 
 
 4 The Hon. f}. Lnmbe reviewed " Beresford's Miseries," 
 and is moreover author of a farce enacted with much ap- 
 pjause at the Priory. Stanmore, and damned with great expe- 
 dition at the late Theatre Covenl-Garden. It was entitled 
 " Whistle for it." 
 
 5 Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, 
 throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cavallos, 
 has displayed rnqre 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 supposed, but 
 a borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent 
 to Tay. So be it. 
 
 6 I ought to apologize to the worthy Deities for introducing 
 a new Goddess with short petlicoats to their notice ; but alas ! 
 what was to be done ? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it 
 lieing well known there is no Genius to be found from Clack- 
 mannan to Caithness: yet, without supernatural agency, how 
 was Jeffrey to be saved? The " national Kelpies," etc. are 
 too unpolitical, and the "Brownies" and "Gude Neigh- 
 kcuis" (Spirits of a pood disposition), refused to extricate 
 kiln. A Goddess therefore has been called for the purpose, and 
 (treat ouisht to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only 
 communication tie ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
 thing heavenly. 
 
 7 Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega 
 Liaerted in hie life of die Author- both are bepraised by ha 
 iuinteresteti i><i. 
 
 And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
 My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
 Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
 Reforms each error, and refines the whole. ' 
 
 Now to the drama turn : Oh motley sight ! 
 What precious scenes the wondering eye invite ! 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 2 
 And DIBDIN'S nonsense, yield complete content. 
 Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscio mania's o'er, 
 And full-grown actors are endured once more; 
 Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
 While British critics suffer scenes like these ? 
 While REYNOLDS vents his "dammes," " poohs," and 
 
 "zounds," 3 
 
 And common-place, and common sense confounds ? 
 While KENNY'S World, just suffer'd to proceed, 
 Proclaims the audience very kind indeed ? 
 And BEAUMONT'S pilfer'd Caratach affords 
 A tragedy complete in all but words?* 
 Who but must mourn while these are all the rage, 
 The degradation of our vaunted stage ? 
 Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone ? 
 Have we no living bard of merit ? none ! 
 Awake, GEORGE COLMAN, CUMBERLAND, awake 
 Ring the alarum-bell, let folly quake ! 
 Oh SHERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen, 
 Let comedy resume her throne again, 
 Abjure the mummery of German schools, 
 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 SHAKSPEARE, 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 SKEVFINGTON and GOOSE divide the prize. 
 And sure great SKEFFINGTON must claim our praise, 
 For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
 Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
 Her flight to garnish GREENWOOD'S gay designs ; * 
 Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but ar 
 In five facetious acts comes thundering on, 6 
 While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, 
 Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
 
 1 Certain itis. her ladyship is suspected of having displayed 
 her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review: however that 
 may be, we know from good authority that the manuscript! 
 are submitted to her perusal no doubt for correction. 
 
 2 In the melo-drame of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt 
 into a barrel on the stagt a new asylum for dislrcssed heroes. 
 
 3 All these are favourite expressions of Mr. R. and pronji" 
 inent in his Comedies, living and defunct. 
 
 4 Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury-laneTheatrn, 
 stripped the Tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, and exhib- 
 ited the scenes as the spectacles of Caractaous. Was tbi 
 worthy of his sire, or of himself? 
 
 5 Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, Sccne-Painter to Dniir 
 Lane Theatre: as such Mr. S is much indebted to him. 
 
 6 Mr. S. is the illustrious author of the " Slrep'-ig BofU'tf 
 and eome Comedies, particularly " M'..ds nnu 
 Huccalaurei baculo magis quam lauro di^ni.
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 B'rt as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
 kather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 
 
 Such are we now, ah ! wherefore should we turn 
 To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
 Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
 Or, kind to 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, 
 Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
 To sanction vice and hunt decorum down : 
 Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
 And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
 While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks 
 Of hoary marquisses and stripling dukes : 
 Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
 Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil : 
 Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
 Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe : 
 Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
 Strain her fair neck and charm the listening throng! 
 Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
 Reforming saints, too delicately nipe ! 
 By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
 No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave, 
 And beer undrawn and beards unmown display 
 Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day. 
 
 Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
 Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle ! 2 
 Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 
 Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
 Behold the new Pctronius 3 of the day, 
 The arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
 ""here the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
 The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
 The song fiom Italy, the step from France, 
 The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
 The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 
 For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : 
 Each to his humour, Comus all allows ; 
 L hampaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 
 
 1 JYaldi and Catalani require little notice, for the visage of 
 (he one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to re- 
 collect these amusing vagjbonds; besides, we are still black 
 ind blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's ap 
 pcarance in trowsers. 
 
 2 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a 
 man, I beg leave to state, that it is the Institution, and not the 
 Duke of that name, which is here alluded to. 
 
 A gentleman with whom 1 am slightly acquainted, lost in the 
 Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon. It is 
 but justice to the manager in this instance to Bay, that some 
 legree of disapprobation was manifested. But why are the 
 Implements of gaming allowed in a place devoted to the society 
 >{ both genet 1 A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters 
 if those who are blest or cursed with such connexions, to hear 
 rhe billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in an- 
 other! This is the cast: I myself can testify, as a late unworthy 
 uember of an institution which materially affects the mo'als 
 i,f the higher orders, while the lower may not even move to the 
 K>unJ of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of indictment for 
 r-otous behaviour. 
 
 3 Petronius, " arbiter elegnntiarum' 1 to Nero, " and a very 
 wetty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's old Bachelor saith. 
 
 10 
 
 Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
 Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made : 
 [n Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
 Nor think of Poverty, except " en masque." 
 When for the night some lately titled ass 
 Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
 The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
 The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
 Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : 
 The first in lengthened line majestic swim, 
 The last display the free, unfetter'd limb : 
 Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
 With art the charms which Nature could not spare; 
 These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
 Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 
 
 Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease ! 
 Where, all forgotten, but the power to please, 
 Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
 Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught : 
 There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 
 Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
 The jovial caster's set, and seven 's the nick, 
 Or done ! a thousand on the coming trick ! 
 If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
 And all your hope or wish is to expire, 
 Here 's POWELL'S pistol ready for your life, 
 And, kinder still, a PAGET for your wife. 
 Fit consummation of an earthly race 
 Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, 
 While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 
 Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath 
 Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 
 The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, 
 To live like CLODITJS, ' and like FALKLAND a fall. 
 Truth ! rouse some genuine bard and guide his hand, 
 To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
 Even I least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
 Just skill'd to know the right and choose 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 brother rake will smile to see 
 That miracle, a moralist, in me. 
 No matter when some bard, in virtue strong, 
 GIFFORD perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
 Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
 Be only heard to hail him and rejoice ; 
 Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise ; though I 
 May feel the lash that virtue must apply. 
 
 1 Mutato nomine de te 
 
 Fabula narratur. 
 
 2 I knew the late Lord 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 host of passions. He was a gallant and successful officer! 
 his faults were the faults of a sailor -as such, Britons will for- 
 eivo them. He died like a brave man in a better cause, for had 
 he. fallen in like manner on the deck of the frig ate \r whii'h lie 
 was just appointed, his last momentr would have been held 
 up by his countr/men as an exampiw U> succeeding herinn
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 As f )r tlir. s nailer fry, who swarm in shoals, 
 From sil y HA FIZ ' up to simple BOWLES, 
 Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
 tn broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham road ? 
 Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
 To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square ? 
 If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
 Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
 What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, 
 Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
 MILES ANDREWS still his strength in couplets try, 
 And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
 Lords too are bards : such things at times befall, 
 And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
 Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
 Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes ? 
 ROSCOMMON! SHEFFIELD! with your spirits fled, 
 No fulure laurels deck a noble head ; 
 No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
 The paralytic puling of CARLISLE: 
 The puny school-boy and his early lay 
 Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
 But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
 Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 
 What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! a 
 So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
 His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage : 
 But managers for once cried "hold, enough !" 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
 Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
 And case his volumes in congenial calf: 
 Yes ! doff that covering where morocco shines, 
 Ana hang a calf-skin 3 on those recreant lines. 
 
 With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
 Who daily scribble for your daily bread, 
 With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand 
 Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
 On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen, 
 Want, your defence, 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 ! 't is your best reward. 
 Such damning fame as Dunciads only give, 
 Could bid your lines beyond a monang live ; 
 But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
 With names of greater note in blest repose. 
 Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
 The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade, 
 
 1 What would be thfe sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, 
 ffafiz. could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, 
 where he reposes wi'.h PVrrfoi/si and Sadi,ti\e Oriental Homer 
 and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Stott of 
 Dromare, the most impudent and execrable of literary poach- 
 ers for the daily prints ? 
 
 2 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny 
 pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan for 
 building a new theatre: it is to be hoped his lordship will be 
 permuted to bring forward any thing for the stage, except his 
 own tragedies. 
 
 3 'Doff that lion's hide, 
 And h.ing a calf-skin on those recreant iimbs." 
 
 Skaks. King John. 
 
 Uoid C. s works, miwt resplfii.'lently bound, form a conspicu- 
 OU ornament to his book-shelves: 
 
 "The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
 4 Melville's Mantle, a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 
 
 Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
 Leave wandering comprehension far behind, 1 
 Though CRUSCA'S bards no more our journals fill, 
 Some stragglers skirmish round their columns still. 
 Last-of the howling host which once was BELL'S. 
 MATILDA snivels yet, and HAFIZ yells; 
 And MERRY'S metaphors appear anew, 
 Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q. a 
 
 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 jes,,, 
 'T is sheer ill-nature, don't the world know best ? 
 Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
 And CAPEL Lorrx 3 declares 'tis quite sublime. 
 Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
 Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade : 
 Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD,* no.y, a greater far, 
 GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star, 
 Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
 Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Fate. 
 Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on you, 
 BLOOMFIELD ! why not on brother Nathan too? 
 Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized ; 
 Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: 
 And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
 No common be inclosed, without an ode. 
 Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
 On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
 Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole 
 Alike the rustic and mechanic soul : 
 Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 
 Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
 So shall the fair your handiwork peruse ; 
 Your sonnets sure shall please pernaps your sho' 
 May Moorland * weavers boast Pindaric skill, 
 And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
 While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
 And pay for poems when they pay for coats. 
 
 To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
 Neglected Genius ! let me turn to you. 
 Come forth, Oh CAMPBELL ! 6 give thy talents scope 
 Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
 And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last, 
 Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
 
 1 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew 
 
 K , seems to be a follower 01 the Dulla Crusca School. 
 
 and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities 
 in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in the style of lha 
 first edition of the Monk. 
 
 2 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure 
 in the poetical departments of the newspapprs. 
 
 3 Ctipel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of jhocmakers, and 
 Preface-writer general to distress'd versemen: a kind of gratia 
 accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but 
 do not know how to bring it forth. 
 
 4 See Nathanirl Blaamfeld's ode, clocy, or whatever he or 
 any one else chocses to call it, on the inclosure of " Honing- 
 ton Green." 
 
 5 Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands 01 
 Staffordshire." 
 
 6 It would be superfluous to recall to the miml of tbn rondel 
 the author of " The Pleasures of Memory," and "The Pleas- 
 ures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our lan- 
 guage, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: but so many 
 xjetasters have started up, that even Hie name* of Camp"<-U 
 
 and Rogers are become strange
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Aiise ! 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. 
 
 Whit ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
 
 Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? 
 
 Unless, perchance, from his colt bier she turns, 
 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS ! 
 
 No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood, 
 
 The race who rhyme from folly, or for food ; 
 
 Yet still some genuine sons, 't is her's to boast, 
 
 Who, least affecting, still effect the most ; 
 
 Feel as they write, and write but as they feel 
 
 Bear witness, GIFFOKD, SOTHEBY, MACNEIL.' 
 
 " Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was ask'd in vain: 2 
 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 V ice in every street ? 
 Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path, 
 And 'scape alike the law's and Muse's wrath ? 
 Nor blaze with 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 ! 3 while life was in its spring, 
 And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
 The spoilor came, and all thy promise fair 
 Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
 Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
 When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! 
 Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
 She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 
 T was thine own genius gave the final blow, 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid thce low : 
 So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
 He nursed the pinion which impell'd tne steel, 
 While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
 Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 
 There be who say in these enlighten'd days 
 That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
 That strain'd invention, ever on the' wing, 
 Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
 'T is true that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
 Shrink from that fatal word to genius trite ; 
 
 1 Giffiird, author of the Baviad andMieviad, the first satires 
 of the day, and translator ot" Juvenal. 
 
 Sulhebv, translator of Wteland's Oberon and Virgil 8 
 Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem. 
 
 Jllacneil, whose poems are deservedly popular : particularly 
 " Scotland's Scailh, or the Wiies of War," of which ten 
 thousand copies were sold in one month. 
 
 2 Mr. Giffurd promised publicly that the Baviad and Msviad 
 ihouM not be his last original works: let him remember, 
 
 mox in reluctantes dracones." 
 
 3 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October 1P06, 
 in consequence of too much cxeition in the pursuit of studies, 
 that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty 
 rould not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than 
 suodued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress 
 the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period wa 
 allotted to talents wliicn would have dignified even the sacred 
 functions he wag iestmed to assume. 
 
 Yet truth sometimes will Iqnd her noblest fires, 
 And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
 This fact in virtue's name let CRAEEE attest 
 Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the beu 
 
 And here let SHEE ' and genius find a place 
 Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
 To guide whoso hand the sister arts combine, 
 And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
 kVhose magic touch can bid the canvas glow. 
 3r pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, 
 PVhile 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 marked ala 
 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 
 With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
 Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
 And views the remnants with a poet's eye ! 
 WRIGHT ! 2 't was thy happy lot at once to view 
 Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
 And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
 To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 
 
 And you, associate Bards ! 3 who snatch'd to light 
 Those gems too long withheld from modem sight ; 
 Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
 Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, 
 And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
 To grace the beauties of your native tongue, 
 Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse 
 The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
 Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, 
 Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 
 
 Let these, or such as these, with just applause, 
 Restore the Muse's violated laws : 
 But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
 That mighty master ol unmeaning rhyme ; 
 Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
 The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, 
 In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
 But now worn down, appear in native brass ; 
 While all his train of hovering sylphs around, 
 Evaporate in similies and sound : 
 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die 
 False glare attracts, but more offends thj eye. 4 
 
 Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH stoop, 
 The meanest object of the lowly group, 
 Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
 Seems blessed harmony to LAMBE and LLOVD : * 
 Let them but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
 A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
 
 1 Mr. SAe, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Element 
 of Art." 
 
 2 Mr. Wriffht, late Consul General for the Seven Islands,* 
 author of a very beautiful poem just published : it is entitle* 
 " Hora? lonica-," and is descriptive of the Isles and the adja- 
 cent coast of Greece. 
 
 3 The translators of the Anthology have since published 
 separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opoor 
 tunity to attain eminence. 
 
 4 The neglect of the '' Botanic Garden' is some proof ol 
 returning taste . the scenery is its cole recommendation. 
 
 5 Messrs. Lamle and Lloyd, irt mos jtnohle followu* o 
 Souther and Co.
 
 36 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The native genius with their feeling given 
 
 Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 
 
 And thou, too, SCOTT ! ' resign to minstrels rude 
 Tho wilder slogan of a Border feud : 
 Let ethers spin their meagre lines for hire- 
 Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 
 Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
 Prolific every string, be too profuse ; 
 Let simple WORDSWORTH chime his childish verse, 
 And brother COLERIUGE 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 from 
 
 MOORE, 
 
 And swear that CAMOENS sang such notes of yore: 
 Let HAYLEV hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave, 
 And godly GRAHAME chaunt the stupid stave ; 
 Let sonnetteering BOWLES his strains refine, 
 And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
 Let STOTT, CARLISLE, 2 MATILDA, and the rest 
 Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place the best, 
 Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
 Or common sense assert her rights again ; 
 But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
 Should'st 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, titter 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 ! 
 Vet 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 2 It may be asked why 1 have censured the Earl of Carlisle, 
 my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of 
 puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was nomi- 
 nal, at least as far as I have been able to discover; the rela- 
 tionship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; bat as his 
 lordahip seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, 
 I shall not burthen my memory with the recollection. I do not 
 think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemna- 
 tion of a brother scribbler ; but I gee no reason why they should 
 act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has 
 for n series of years beguiled a "discerning public" (as the 
 advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, 
 imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step eside to vituperate 
 the Earl ; no his works come fairly in review with {hose of 
 other patrician literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, 1 
 paid any thing in faimir of his lordship's paper books, it was in 
 tlto way of dutiful dedication, and more from ihe advice of 
 others than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity 
 of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some 
 persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle: 
 if so I sha-'l be most particularly happy to lei-.rn what they 
 Hre. anil when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated 
 and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced 
 KB an opinion on his printed things. I nm prepared to support, 
 if neoissary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, epis- 
 odes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies, bearing his 
 name and mark : 
 
 " What can bnnoble knaves, or fools, or cowards 7 
 Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards!" 
 So ra.ya I'aie Amen 
 
 Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope 
 To conquer ages, and wtih 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-laved minstrels scarce may claim 
 The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
 When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblr t blast, 
 Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, 
 And glory, like the phrenix 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 the muse? ah, no! she flics, 
 And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, 
 Though printers condescend the press to soil 
 With rhyme by HOARE, and epic blank by HOYLE I 
 Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
 Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 2 
 Ye, who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
 Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass 
 A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
 Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 
 There CLARKE, still striving piteously " to pleaso," 
 Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
 A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
 A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
 Condemn'd to drudge the meanest of the mean, 
 And furnish falsehoods for a magazine, 
 Devotes to scandal his congenial mind 
 Himself a living libel on mankind. 3 
 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 thy faint/ 
 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 her sons should know too well, 
 Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
 The host of idiots that infest her age. 
 
 1 " Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora. *- 
 Virgil. 
 
 2 The "Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaiira 01 
 whist, chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagiirii-s o( 
 his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, :is ..Mur^ly 
 stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of Egypt. 
 
 3 This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid symp- 
 toms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated 
 the " Art of Pleasing," as " Incus a non lucendo . ' containing 
 little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as monthly 
 stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the Satirist, il this 
 unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the 
 mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent deirree in his 
 university, it might eventually prove more lervicealila than 
 his present salary. 
 
 4 " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Prohus transported a 
 considerable body of Vandal*." Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 
 pa^'e K, vol. 2. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this 
 assertion the breed is still in high perfection. 
 
 5 This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man wno 
 in translation displays unquestionable genius, may well lie 
 expected to excel in original composition, of which u m to tie 
 hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. 
 
 fi The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem y rV- * 
 ards.
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 37 
 
 Vo just applause her honour'd name shall lose, 
 As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
 Oil, would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
 And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
 What Athens was in science, Rojne in power, 
 \Vhat Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
 'T is thine at once, fair Albion, to have been, 
 Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen: 
 But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
 And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main: 
 Like these thy strength may sink in ruin hurl'd, 
 And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
 But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's late, 
 With warning ever scoff'd at, 'till too late, 
 To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
 AnJ urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. 
 
 Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 
 The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! ' 
 Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
 The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
 While CANNING'S colleagues hate him for his wit, 
 And old dame PORTLAND ' fills the place of PITT. 
 
 Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
 That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale : 
 And Afric's coast and Calpe's 2 adverse height, 
 And Stamboul's 3 minarets must greet my sight : 
 Thence shall I stray through beauty's 4 native clime, 
 Where Kaff 5 is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows 
 
 sublime. 
 
 But should 1 back return, no letter'd rage 
 Shall drag my commonplace book on the stage : 
 Let vain VALENTIA S rival luckless CARR, 
 \nd equal him whose work he sought to mar; 
 Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN* still pursue 
 The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 
 Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
 Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 
 A nd make their grand saloons a general mart 
 For all the mutilated b'.ocks of art : 
 Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
 I leave topography to classic CELL ; * 
 And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
 To stun mankind with poesy or prose. 
 
 Thus far I 've held my undisturb'd career, 
 Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
 This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
 
 1 A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. was 
 likened to an old woman? replied, " he supposed it was be- 
 cause he was past bearing." 
 
 2 Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. 
 
 ) Stjinbou! is the Turkish word for Constantinople. 
 
 4 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 
 
 5 Mount Caucasus. 
 
 ti Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcom- 
 ing, with due decorations, graphical, topographical, and typo- 
 graphical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that 
 /).'!>' sutire prevented his purchase of the "Stranger in 
 Ireland." Oh nV, my Lord ! has your lordship no more feel- 
 ing lor a fellow-tourist 1 but " two of a trade," they say, etc. 
 
 7 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us '.hat all the figures, 
 *ith and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of 
 Phidias ! " Credat Judaeus." 
 
 8 Mr. Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail 
 (o ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical 
 Mste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to the mind 
 f the reader, as for the at-Uity and research Jin respective 
 works display 
 
 My voice was heard again, though not so loud ; 
 My page, though nameless, never disavow'd, 
 And now at once I tear the veil away : 
 Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, 
 Unscared by all the din of MELBounKE-house, 
 By LAMBE'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S sponj* 
 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 stuff:" 
 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go ( 
 Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
 The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fal 
 From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
 But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
 I 've learn'd 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 frowii, 
 I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
 And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
 To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. 
 Thus much I 've dared to do ; how far my lay 
 Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say ; 
 This let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
 Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 1 
 
 I HAVE been informed, since the present edition wem 
 to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins 
 the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- 
 ment critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting muse, 
 whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodlj 
 ribaldry : 
 
 " Tantane animis coelestibus iras !" 
 I suppose I must say of JEFFREY as Sir ANDREW 
 AGUECHEEK saith, " an I had known he was so cun- 
 ning offence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought 
 him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bos- 
 phorus 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, Oi 
 personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, 
 JEFFREY : but what else was to be done with him and 
 his dirty pack, who feed " by lying and slandering," and 
 slake their thirst by "evil-speaking?" I have adduced 
 facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have 
 stated my free opinion ; nor has he thence sustained 
 any injury : what scavenger was ever soiled by being 
 pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England 
 because I have censured there " persons of honour and 
 wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and 
 their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those 
 who know me can testify that my motives for leaving 
 England are very different from fears, literary or pei- 
 sonal ; those who do not, may one day be convinced. 
 
 1 Published to the Second Edition.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Sim <; the nublication of this thing, my name has not 
 been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready 
 to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expecta- 
 tion of sundry cartels ; hut, alas ! " The age of chiv- 
 alry is over ;" or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no 
 spirit now-a-days. 
 
 There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, 
 Esq.), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a den- 
 izen of Bcrwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced 
 in these pages to much better company than he has been 
 accustomed to meet : he is, notwithstanding, a very sad 
 dog, and, for no reason that I can discover, except a 
 personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge 
 to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his 
 Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been 
 abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent 
 above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some 
 months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him 
 any provocation ; indeed I am guiltless of having heard 
 his name, till it was coupled with the Satirist. He has, 
 therefore, no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
 like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than other- 
 wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the 
 honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my 
 book, except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, 
 is a gentleman. God wot ! I wish he could impart a lit- 
 tle of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
 that Mr. JERNINGHAM is about to take up the cudgels 
 for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hope not ; he was one 
 of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had 
 
 with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and 
 whatever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." 
 I have nothing further to add, save a general note d 
 thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, 
 in the words of SCOTT, I wish 
 
 " To a. and each a fair good night. 
 And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 
 
 TTiefollowing Lmeswere writtenby Mr. FITZGERALD, 
 in a Copy of ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RE 
 VIEWERS: 
 
 I find Lord Byron scorns my muse 
 
 Our fates are ill agreed ! 
 His verse is safe I can't abuse 
 Those lines I never read. 
 
 W. F. F. 
 
 His Lordship accidentally met with the Copy, and tub 
 
 joined, the following pungent Reply : 
 What 's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read ; 
 What's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed. 
 The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz . 
 Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits, 
 Or rather would be, if, for time to come, 
 They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb 
 But, to their pens, while scribblers add their tongues,* 
 The waiter only can escape their lungs. 
 
 1 Mr. Fitzgerald is in the habit of reciting nis own poetry 
 See note to English Bards, p. 26. 
 
 CHiltre 
 
 A ROMAUNT. 
 
 L'univen est une cspOco de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page, quand on n'a vu quo ons pays 
 J'en ai feuillet6 un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvees egalement mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a 
 point etc infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peoples divers, parrni 
 lesqueli j'ai vecu, m'ont reconoilie avec elle. Quaiul je n'aurais tire d'autre benelice de mes voy 
 ages que cclui-li, je n'en regretterais ni lea frais ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE following poem was written, for the most part, 
 amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
 was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
 and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- 
 vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- 
 cessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. 
 The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, 
 Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There 
 for the present the poem stops : its reception will 
 determine whether the author may venture to conduct 
 his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and 
 Phrygia : these two cantos are merely experimental. 
 
 A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
 giving some connexion to the piece ; which, however, 
 makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- 
 gested to me hy friends, on whose opinions I set a hign 
 /alue, that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," 
 I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real 
 iK'-rsonage : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim 
 
 Harold is the child of imagination, for the purposi I 
 have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and thtje 
 merely local, there might be grounds for such a notii i : 
 but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever . 
 
 It is almost superfluous to mention that the appeF.a- 
 tion "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe Chil 
 ders," etc., is used as more consonant with the old struc 
 ture of versification which I have adopted. The " Good 
 Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was sug- 
 gested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor- 
 der Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 
 
 With the different poems which have been published 
 on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight 
 coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin- 
 sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception 
 of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem 
 was written in the Levant, 
 
 The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
 successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. B<ittie 
 makes the following observation : " Not long ago 1 
 began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser ii 
 which I propose to give full scope to ny ii.chna'ion
 
 PREFACE TO CHILDll HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 aid be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti- 
 mental, tender or satirical, as the humour stnues me ; 
 for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted, 
 admits equally of all these kinds of composition." 1 
 Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by 
 the example of some in the highest order of Italian 
 poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar 
 v.iriations in the following composition ; satisfied that, 
 if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the 
 execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the 
 practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 
 
 ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 I have now waited till almost all our periodical jour- 
 nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. 
 To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I 
 have nothing to object ; it would ill become me to 
 quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when 
 perhaps, if they had been less kind, they had been more 
 candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best 
 thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I 
 venture an observation. Amongst the many objections 
 justly urged to the very indifferent character of the 
 "vagrant Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints 
 to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious per- 
 sonage), it has been stated that, besides the anachron- 
 ism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the knights 
 were times of love, honour, and so forth. Now, it so 
 happens, that the good old times, when "1'amour du 
 bon vieux temps, 1'amour antique" flourished, were the 
 most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who 
 have any doubts on this subject, may consult St. Palaye, 
 passim, and more particularly vol. ii. page 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 
 
 parlements d'amour ou de courtoisie et de gcntilesse," 
 had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. 
 See Roland m the same subject with St. Palaye 
 Whatever other objection may be urged to that most 
 unamiable personage, Chikle Harold, he was so far 
 perfectly knightly in his attributes " No waiter, but a 
 knight templar." 2 By the bye, I fear that Sir Tristram 
 and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, 
 although very poetical personages and true knights 
 " sans peur," though not " sans reproche." If the 
 story of the institution of the " G arter" be not a fable, 
 the knights of that order have for several centuries borne 
 the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent 
 memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have 
 regretted that its days are over, though Marie Antoinette 
 was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours 
 lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 
 
 Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
 Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of an- 
 cient and modern times), few exceptions will be found 
 to this statement, and I fear a little investigation will 
 teach us not to regret those monstrous mummeries of 
 he middle ages. 
 
 I now leave " Childe Harold" to live h:s day, such 
 is he is , it had been more agreeable, and certainly 
 norc easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had 
 been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do 
 
 I Beanie's Letter*. 2 The Boverg. *1nti-iac<>liH. 
 
 more and express less, bux he never was intended as an 
 example, further than to snow that early perversion of 
 mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and 
 disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties 
 of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, 
 the most powerful of all excitements), are lost on a sold 
 so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded 
 with the poem, this character would have deepened as 
 he drew to the close ; for the outline which I or.ce 
 meant to fill up for him, was, with some exceptions, 
 the sketch of a modem Timon, perhaps a poei cal 
 Zeluco. 
 
 TO IANTHE. 
 
 NOT in those climes where I have late been straying 
 Tho' 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 ; 
 To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
 speak ? 
 
 Ah ! may'st 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 DOW so Ibndly rears 
 Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
 Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
 Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 
 
 Young Peri of the West! 'tis well for me 
 My years already doubly number thine ; 
 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
 And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
 Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline, 
 Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
 Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
 To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
 But mix'd with pangs to love's even loveliest hours de- 
 creed. 
 
 Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
 Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
 Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
 Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
 That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
 Could I to thee be ever more than friend: 
 This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
 To one so young, my strain I would commend, 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse entwined , 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
 Shall thus he first beheld, forgotten last : 
 My days once number'd, should this homage past 
 Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
 Such is the most my .Memory may desire ; 
 Though more than hope cin cla-m. could frmndshr" 
 .ess require ?
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S 
 PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A ROMAUNT. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 OH, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
 Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
 Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
 Mine Jares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
 Vet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
 Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 1 
 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
 Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, 
 I o grace so plain a tale this lowly lay of mine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whi\ome 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, 
 A nd 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 Childe Harold was he hight : but whence his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say j 
 Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
 And had been glorious in another day : 
 But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
 However mighty in the olden time ; 
 Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
 Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
 Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Cnilde Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
 Disporting there like any other fly ; 
 Nor deem'd before his little day was done, 
 One blast might chill him into misery. 
 But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
 Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
 He felt the fulness of satiety : 
 Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
 Ybich seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 .oved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
 Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
 ** calm domestic oe^oe twui fffnt dcign'd to taste. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
 And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
 'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
 But pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
 And from his native land resolv'd to go, 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
 With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for won. 
 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the sha ie 
 below. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
 It was a vast and venerable pile : 
 So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
 Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
 Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
 Where Superstition once had made her den 
 Now 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood, 
 Strange pangs would flash along C hilde Harold's brow, 
 As if the memory of some deadly feud 
 Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
 But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
 For his was not that open, artless soul, 
 That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
 Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
 Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not control 
 
 IX. 
 
 And none did love him though to hall and bower 
 He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
 He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 Yea, none did love him not his lemans dear 
 But pomp and power alone are wo'rnan's care, 
 And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
 Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
 And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. 
 
 X. 
 
 Childe Harold had a mother not forgot, 
 Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
 A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
 Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
 If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
 Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
 Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 
 
 XI. 
 
 His. house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
 The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
 Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy handa, 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
 And long had fed his youthful appetite 
 His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
 And all that mote to luxury invite, 
 Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
 And traverse Paynim shorci, 1.3 1 pass eirth's cer* 
 linx
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 xn. 
 
 The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
 As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
 And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
 And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
 And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
 Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
 The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
 One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
 And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 
 
 xra. 
 
 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.' 
 
 1. 
 
 " ADIEC, 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 
 
 We follow in his High. ; 
 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 wafl ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 3. 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my little page! 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
 Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 
 
 Or tremble at the gale ? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong : 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along." 
 
 ' 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. 
 11 
 
 ' 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 drv. 
 
 6. 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale ? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foetnan ? 
 
 Or shiver at the gale ?" 
 ' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 
 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faitliful cheek. 
 
 7. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 8. 
 
 " For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour ? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyef 
 
 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. 
 
 9. 
 
 " And now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea : 
 But why should I for others groan, 
 
 When none will sigh for me ? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain 
 
 Till fed by stranger hands ; 
 But long ere I come back again, 
 
 He 'd tear me where he stands. 
 
 10. 
 
 " With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine ; 
 Nor care what land Ihou bear'st me 10, 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue wave* 1 
 
 And when you fail my sight, 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 
 
 My native land Good Night !"
 
 12 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ( n, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
 And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
 Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
 New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
 And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
 And Tagus uashing onward to the deep, 
 His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
 And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
 And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh ! Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
 What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
 What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
 What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
 But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
 And when the.Aj[ughty lifts his fiercest scourge 
 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
 With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
 Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ? 
 Her image floating on that noble tide, 
 Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
 But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
 Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
 And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
 A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
 Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
 To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. 
 
 / XVII. 
 
 But whoso entereth within this town, 
 That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
 Disconsolate will war.der up and down, 
 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
 For hut and palace show like filthily : 
 The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ; 
 Ne personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
 Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
 unhurt. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes 
 Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
 Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
 In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
 
 Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
 To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
 Through views more dazzling unto moral ken 
 Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
 
 Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The horrid crags, by toppling convent c-own'd, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
 The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd 
 The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must wee. 
 The tende* azure of the unruffled deep, 
 The orange lints (hat 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
 And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
 From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
 And rest ye at " our Lady's house of woe ;"* 
 Where frugal monks their b'ttle relics show, 
 And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
 Here impious men have punished been, and lo ! 
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
 In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
 Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
 Yet deem not these devotion's offering 
 These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: 
 For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
 Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
 Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
 And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
 Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life ' 
 
 XXII. 
 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
 But now the wild Powers round them only breathe ; 
 Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
 And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : 
 There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
 Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware 
 When wanton wealth her mightiest deerls hath done, 
 Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to slum. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure pls.a, 
 Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow : 
 But now, as if a thing unblest by rnr.n, 
 Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
 Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
 To halls deserted, portals gaping wide > 
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
 Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
 Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! * 
 Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
 With diadem night foolscap, !o ! a fiend, 
 A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
 There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
 And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
 Whereat the urchin points and laugns with all his souL 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
 That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
 Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
 And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
 Here folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume. 
 And policy regain'd what arms had lo:it : 
 For chiefs like ours in vain may Uurels bloom ! 
 Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd host, 
 Since baffLd tri'im; B droops m J usitania's x.*st'

 
 B MA2::
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And ever since that martial synod met, 
 Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
 And folks in office at the mention fret, 
 And fain would 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, 
 Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
 year? 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
 Did take his way in solitary guise : 
 Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
 More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
 Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
 For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
 And conscious reason whisper'd to despise 
 His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; 
 But as he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dim. 
 
 XXVIH. 
 
 To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
 A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
 Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
 But seeks not now the harlot and the bowL 
 Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
 Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
 And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
 Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
 )r he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,* 
 Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen ; 
 And church and court did mingle their array, 
 And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
 Lordlings and freeres 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, 
 \nd bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
 (Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom 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, 
 ind life, that bloated ease can never hope to share. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
 And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
 Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
 Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
 Soai>." realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
 Flocks, whose rich fieece right well the trader knows 
 Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
 For Spain is cotnpass'd by unyielding foes, 
 A nd a.i must shie'.J their all, or share subjection's woe*. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Where Lusitama 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 7 
 Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride '/ 
 Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? 
 Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
 Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
 Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land fromGaitl* 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
 And scarce a name distinguished the brook, 
 Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
 Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
 And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
 That peaceful still 'twist bitterest foemen flow ; 
 For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.' 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But, ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
 Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
 In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
 So noted ancient roundelays among. 
 Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
 Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
 Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong, 
 The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
 Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd , 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh ! lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
 Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
 When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore 7 
 Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
 And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
 Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale. 
 While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale 7 
 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 estato, 
 See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
 Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great 7 
 Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue, 
 When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does U.ue 
 wrong ? 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Awake ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
 Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, 
 But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
 Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies . 
 Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
 And speak? \n thunder through yon engine's roai 
 In every peal sne ca..s "Awake! arise!" 
 Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
 When her war-song wos heard on Ar alusia's shcr* '
 
 H 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 HarK ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? 
 Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
 Saw y 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 ; 
 Dead, rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, 
 His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
 With de.th-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
 And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
 Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
 Flashing afar, and at his iron feet 
 Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done ; 
 For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
 To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 
 
 XL. 
 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
 Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
 Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
 What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
 And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for th^ prey ! 
 All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
 The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
 And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Three hosts combine to ofier sacrifice ; 
 Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
 Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
 The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
 The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
 That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
 Are met as if at home they could not die 
 To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
 And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 
 
 XLH. 
 
 There shall they rot ambition's honour'd fools ! 
 Yes, honour decks tie 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, 
 have that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 
 
 X1JII. 
 
 Oh, Aibuera ! glorious field of grief! 
 As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
 A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
 Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
 Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
 Thv name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
 \nd shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient sor ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Enough of battle's minions ! let them play 
 Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame . 
 Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
 Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
 In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim 
 Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's gooo 
 And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
 Perisb'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
 Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
 Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
 Yet is she free the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
 Soon, soon shall conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
 Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
 Inevitable hour ! 'gainst fate to strive 
 Where desolation plants her famished brood 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, 
 And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to thrive. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
 The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
 Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
 Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds 
 Not here war's clarion, but loves rebeck sounds ; 
 Here folly still hia votaries enthralls ; 
 And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds: 
 Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, 
 Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 
 
 XLVH. 
 
 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 hajn/7 yet 
 
 xLvra. 
 
 How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
 Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
 As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
 His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
 No ! as he speeds, he chaunts : " Viva el Bey !" ' 
 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
 The royal \vittol Charles, and curse the day 
 When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy 
 And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
 With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
 Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ( 
 And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darKen'd vest 
 Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
 Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
 Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest : 
 Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
 And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
 
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : 9 
 
 Woe to the man that walks in public view 
 
 Without of loyalty this token true: 
 
 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
 
 And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
 
 If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 
 
 Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
 smoke. 
 
 LI. 
 
 At every turn Morena's dusky height 
 Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
 And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
 The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
 The bristling palisade, the fosse o'crflow'd, 
 The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
 The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
 The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
 
 The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 10 
 
 LII. 
 
 Portend the deeds to come : but he whose nod 
 Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
 A little moment deigneth to delay : 
 Soon 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, 
 Andthou shall view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd ! 
 
 Lin. 
 
 And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, 
 To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign ? 
 No step between submission and a grave ? 
 The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
 And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
 Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
 Is all that desperate valour acts in vain ? 
 And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, 
 
 The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of 
 steel ? 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
 And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
 And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
 Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
 Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
 The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
 
 "s'-alks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake 
 to tread. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Te 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 fewer 
 Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face, 
 
 e closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase. 
 
 H 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Her lover sinks she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
 Her chief is slain she fills his fatal post ; 
 Her fellows flee she checks their base cai ecr ; 
 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 ? ' ' 
 
 Lvn. 
 
 Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazon:., 
 But form'd for all the witching arts of love 
 Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
 And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
 T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
 Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
 In softness as in firmness far above 
 Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his toucti ' 
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
 Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
 Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
 Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 
 Who round the north for paler dames would seek ? 
 
 How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, nivl 
 weak! 
 
 LIX. 
 
 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 houries, whom ye scarce allow 
 To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind, 
 With Spain's dark-glancing daughters deign to know 
 There your wise prophet's paradise we find, 
 
 His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Oh, thou Parnassus! 13 whom I now survey. 
 Not in the phrensy of \ dreamer's eye, 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
 But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
 In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
 What marvel if I thus essay to sing ! 
 The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
 Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, 
 
 Though from thy heights no more one muse wilj WIT* 
 her wing. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious nam 
 Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
 And now I view thee, 't is, alas ! with shame 
 That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
 When I recount thy worshippers of vore 
 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 or the* '
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXIL 
 
 Ha >pier in this tl.an mightiest bards have been, 
 Whos fate to dig tnt homes confined their lot, 
 Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
 Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
 And thov the muses' seat, art now their grave, 
 S> we genile spirit still pervades the spot. 
 Sighs in the pile, keeps silence in ihe cave, 
 And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Of thee hereafter. Even amidst my strain 
 I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
 Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
 Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, 
 And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
 Now to my theme but from thy holy haunt 
 Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
 Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
 Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 But ne'er didst thou, fair mount ! when Greece was 
 
 young, 
 
 See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
 Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
 The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
 Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
 The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, 
 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. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
 Her strength, her weal'h, her site of ancient days; 14 
 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
 Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
 Ah, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
 While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
 The fascination o~ thy magic gaze, 
 A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
 And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 When Paphos fell by time accursed time ! 
 The queen who conquers all must yield to thee 
 The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
 And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
 To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
 And fix'-l her shrine within these walls of white : 
 Tho-igh not to one dome circumscribeth she 
 Hei worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
 A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 From morn till night, from night till startled morn 
 Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
 The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
 Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
 Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
 lie bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
 Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieti 
 Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
 And 'ove and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 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 even affects to mourn 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
 London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer 
 Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
 And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
 Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
 And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
 To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair ; 
 Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
 Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
 
 Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
 
 Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
 
 And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?" 
 
 'T is to the worship of the solemn horn, 
 
 Grasp'd in the holy hand of mystery, 
 
 In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 
 And consecrate the oath with draught and dance tifl 
 mom. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 All have their fooleries not alike are thine, 
 
 Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark-blue sea! 
 
 Soon as the matinbell proclaimeth nine, 
 
 Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : 
 
 Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free 
 
 (Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
 
 From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
 
 Then to the crowded circus forth they fare, 
 Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share 
 
 LXXII. , 
 
 The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
 Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; 
 Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
 Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
 Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
 Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
 Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
 None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
 As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad archery 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues on gallant steeds, 
 With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised 
 
 lance, 
 
 Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
 And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : 
 If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
 The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
 Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
 And all that kings or chiefs e'er grin their toils repav.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 LXX1V. 
 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
 But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
 Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
 The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
 The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
 Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: 
 His arm 's a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
 Can man achieve without the friendly steed, 
 Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
 The den expands, and expectation mute 
 Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
 Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
 And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
 The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
 Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
 His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Sudden he stops ; His eye is fix'd : away, 
 Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
 Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
 The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
 With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; 
 On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
 Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear ; 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
 
 Dart folbws dart; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak 
 his woes. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
 His ory 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
 'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
 And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
 And now the Matadores around him play, 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
 Once more through all he bursts his thundering way- 
 Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
 Wraps his fierce eye 't w past he sinks upon the sand 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
 Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
 He stops he starts disdaining to decline ; 
 Slowly he falls, amidst triumphing cries, 
 Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. 
 The decorated car appears on high 
 The corse is piled sweet sight for vulgar eyes- 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swauv 
 Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
 In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
 What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
 Though now one phalanx' d host should meet the fo* , 
 Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
 To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
 For some slight cause of wrath, whence Life's wai*o 
 stream must flow. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 But jealousy has fled ; his bars, his bolts, 
 His withered sentinel, duenna sage ! 
 And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
 Which the stern dotard deem'd he could engage, 
 Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
 Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
 (Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
 With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
 tVhile on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving queeu ' 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
 Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
 But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
 For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
 And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
 Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
 How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
 Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. !t 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Tet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
 Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
 Not that philosophy on such a mind 
 E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes ; 
 But passion raves herself to rest, or flies ; 
 And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
 Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
 Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
 Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Still he beheld, nor mingled-with the throng ; 
 But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
 Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the sonj 
 But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
 Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
 Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
 And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
 Pour'd forth his unpremeditated lay, 
 To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier o*y 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 1. 
 
 NAY, smile not at my sullen brow. 
 
 Alas ! I cannot smile again , 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Should' st weep, and haply weep iu va
 
 48 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 2. 
 \nd dost thou ask, what secret woe 
 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 
 A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 
 
 3. 
 1: s not love, it is not hate, 
 
 Nor low ambition's honours lost, 
 That bids me loathe my present state, 
 
 And fly from all I prized the most ; 
 
 4. 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
 To me no pleasure beauty brings ; 
 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 5. 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
 That will not look beyond the tomb, 
 
 Bui cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 6. 
 What exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remote, 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 
 
 The blight of life the demon thought. 
 
 7. 
 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
 
 And taste of all that I forsake ; 
 Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
 
 8. 
 Through many a clime 't is mine to go, 
 
 With many a retrospection curst ; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 What e'er betides, I 've known the worst. 
 
 9. 
 What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask 
 
 In pity from the search forbear : 
 Smile on nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the hell that 's there. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu! 
 
 Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ! 
 
 When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
 
 First to be free and last to be subdued : 
 
 And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
 
 Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud : " 
 
 Here all were noble, save nobility ; 
 Kone hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry ! 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Sucu he the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate ! 
 
 'I hey 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 slave of treachery ; 
 
 Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
 
 Pride [K>ints the path that leads to liberty ; 
 
 Back to I he struggle, baffled in the strife, 
 \Var war is still the cry, "war even to the knife '" " 
 
 LXXXVH. 
 
 Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know 
 Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
 Whate'er keen vengaance urged on foreign foe 
 Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
 From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
 War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
 So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
 So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
 So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed . 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Flows there a tear of pity for the dead 7 
 Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
 Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
 Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
 Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
 Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
 Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching slam, 
 Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
 Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done, 
 Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees ; 
 It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
 Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
 Fall'n nations gaze on -Spain ; if freed, she frees 
 More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
 Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
 Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
 While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain'd. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 
 Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
 Not Albuera, lavish of the dead, 
 Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
 When shall her olive-branch be free from blight 7 
 When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil 'l 
 How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
 Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
 And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! 
 
 XCI. 
 
 And thou, my friend !" since unavailing woe 
 Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain- 
 Had the sword laid thee with the mighty k>w, 
 Pride might forbid ev'n friendship to complain : 
 But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
 By all forgotten, save the lonely breasi, 
 And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
 While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! 
 What hadst thou done to sink so peaceably to rust 7 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Oh ! known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
 Dear to a heart where nought was left so 'leaf! 
 Though to my hopeless days for ever Jos 
 In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
 And mom in secret shall renew the tear 
 Of consciousness awaking to her WOPS, 
 And fancy hover o'er thy bloodies oier, 
 Till my frail frame return to whence it roue, 
 And mourn'd and mourner lie united >n reposo
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 49 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
 Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
 Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
 If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
 Is this too much ? stern critic ! say not so : 
 Patience ! and yc shall hear what he beheld 
 In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
 Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
 Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
 quell'd. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven! but thou, alas! 
 Didst never yet one mortal song inspire 
 Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
 And is, despite of war and wasting fire, ' 
 And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
 But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
 That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
 bestow. 2 
 
 II. 
 
 \ncient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
 Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
 Gone, glimmering thro' the dream of things that were: 
 First in the ra.cz that led to glory's goal, 
 They won, and pass'd away is this the whole ? 
 \ 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, 
 Own with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 
 
 Hi. 
 
 Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
 Come but molest not yon defenceless um ; 
 Look on this spoi a nation's sepulchre ! 
 Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
 Even gods must yield religions take their turn : 
 'T was Jove's 't is Mahomet's and other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
 Poor child of doubt and death, whose hope is built on 
 reeds. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven- 
 Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
 Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
 That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
 Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
 On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
 Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe ? 
 Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
 TTiat little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 
 12 
 
 V. 
 
 Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound ; 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 3 
 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around: 
 But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
 Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
 Is that a temple where a god may dwell '/ 
 Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shattcr'd cell 
 
 VI. 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruinV wall, 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, 
 The dome of thought, the palace of the soul : 
 Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
 The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, 
 And passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
 Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
 " All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
 Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun * 
 Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
 A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
 To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
 And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
 How sweet it were in concert to adore 
 With those who made our mortal labours light ! 
 To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
 Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
 The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught Ju 1 
 right! 
 
 IX. 
 
 There, thou ! whose love and life together fled, 
 Have left me here to love and live in vain 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
 When busy memory flashes on my brain ? 
 Well I will dream that we may meet again, 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
 If aught of young remembrance then remain, 
 Be as it may futurity's behest, 
 For me 't were bliss enough to Vnow thy spirit blt-st ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone. 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
 Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne * 
 Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
 The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. 
 It may not be : nor ev'n cap fancy's eye 
 Restore what time hath labour'd to deface 
 Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sign- 
 Unmoved the Moslem sits, the ligb* \i etk carols b.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Bu f . who, c/ all th* 1 plunderers of yon fane 
 On high, w.iere Pallas linger'd, loth to flee, 
 The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
 The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
 Blush, Ckledonia! such thy son could be! 
 England ' I joy no child he was of thine : 
 Thy freebom men should spare what once was free ; 
 Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.' 
 
 XII. 
 
 But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared: 6 
 Cold a.* the crags upon his native coast, 
 His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
 s ne whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
 Aught tc displace Athena's poor remains: 
 Her sonj too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,' 
 And never knew, till then, the weight of despots' chains. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 iiut 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 tnose remnants with a harpy's hand, 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Where was thine segis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and havoc or. their way ? 8 
 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 -wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
 Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
 Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
 Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
 Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
 By British hands, which it had best behoved 
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
 Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
 And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
 
 Aiui suatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes ab- 
 horr'd ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Rut where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
 LitUe reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
 No lovea-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
 No friond the parting hand extended gave, 
 Kte tne cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
 Hard is his head whom charms may not enslave ; 
 But Harold fell not as in other times, 
 
 Aoi1 ip.n witnoiu a sigh the land of war and crimes. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea 
 Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sighi ; 
 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 fligW 
 The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,* 
 The hoarse command, the busy humming dm, 
 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 glid . 
 Or school-boy midshipman, that, standing by, 
 Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
 And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
 Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : 
 Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
 For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks 
 Silent and fear'd by all not. oft he talks 
 With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
 That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
 Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
 
 From law, however stem, which tends thoir strength t 
 nerve. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
 Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
 Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
 That lagging barks may make their lazv way. 
 Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
 To waste on sluggish huUs 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 thesel 
 
 XXL 
 
 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 vere free to rove 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Through Calpe's straits survey the sleepy 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 frov.n, 
 From moiintain-cliflf to coast descending sombre dovm
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 'Tis night, when meditation bids us feel 
 Wo once have loved, though love is at an end: 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
 *Vhen youth itself survives young love and joy? 
 Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
 Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
 Ah! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere ; 
 The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, 
 And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
 None are so desolate but something dear, 
 Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
 A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
 A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude ; 't is but to hold 
 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
 unroli'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
 Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flattcr'd, foilow'd, sought, and sued ; 
 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 More blest the life of godly eremite, 
 Such as on lovely Athos may be seen, 
 Watching at eve upon tin; giant height, 
 Which looks o'er waves so L>me, skies so serene, 
 That he who there at such an hour hath been 
 Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
 Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
 Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
 Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
 Pass we the calm, the gale, the *hange, the tack, 
 And each well-known canrice of wave and wind ; 
 Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
 Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
 The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
 Till on some jocund morn lo, land ! and all is well. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's is.e>, " 
 The sister tenants of the middle deep , 
 There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased lo weep. 
 And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
 Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
 Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; 
 
 While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen douV 
 sigh'd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
 But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
 A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
 And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
 Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine. 
 But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
 To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
 
 Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eve 
 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 caugh*, 
 But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
 And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
 Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Fair Florence found, in sooth with some ama^ 
 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 r 
 And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely aag 
 dames. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, 
 Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pri<!c, 
 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 Uue, 
 
 Yet never would he join the lovers whining crew. 
 
 XXXTV. 
 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
 What careth she for hearts when once possess'U 1 
 Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
 But not too hrmbly, or she will despise 
 Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes ; 
 Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wiso , 
 Brisk confidence still best with women copes , 
 Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crcwiw i' 
 hopes.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, 
 And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
 \V hen all is won that all desire^to woo, 
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
 Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
 These are thy fruits, successful passion ! these ! 
 If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 
 Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
 Not to be cured when love itself forgets to please. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread. 
 And many a varied shore to sail along, 
 By pensive sadness, not by fiction, led 
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
 Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
 Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
 To each man what he might be, or he ought ; 
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
 Though always changing, in her aspect mild ; 
 From her bare bosom let me take tny till, 
 Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
 Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
 Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
 Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
 wrath. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
 And he, his name-sake, whose oft-baffled foes 
 Shruilk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize: 
 Land of Albania ! ' ' let me bend mine eyea 
 Or. thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
 f he cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
 And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
 
 Through many a cypress-grove within each city's ken. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 12 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
 And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
 The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
 Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
 That breast imbued with such immortal fire? 
 Could she not I'.ve who life eternal gave ? 
 If life eternal may await the lyre, 
 That only heaven to which earth's children may aspire. 
 
 XL. 
 
 T was on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
 Childe Harold h.nl'd Lencadia's cape afar: 
 A spot ne long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
 Oft did he mark the scenes of vamsh'd war, 
 Actium, Liepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 13 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
 UWn bencatl. some remote nglorious star) 
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
 bii' loathed tut, oravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
 wight. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But when he saw the evening star above 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 14 
 He felt, or decm'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 liis pallid front. 
 
 XLH. 
 
 Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
 Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
 Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
 Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
 Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
 Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
 Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
 Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
 And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 
 
 XLin. 
 
 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 fa'.e, his wants were few; 
 Peril he sought not, but ne'er sh r ank to meet, 
 The scene was savage, but the *cene was re-.v f 
 This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
 Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed si'nrvr'i 
 heat. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
 Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised, 
 Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear , 
 Churchman and votary alike despised. 
 Foul superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
 Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
 For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
 Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
 Who from true worship's gold can separate thy droi ' 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
 A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
 In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
 Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 14 
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
 Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose! 1 ' 
 Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 
 Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
 GOD! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
 Ev'n 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 love'.y dales 
 Are rarely seen ; nor can fair J tripe boast 
 A charm they know not ; lo-fed Parnassus lam. 
 Though classic ground and consecrated mos 
 To match some spots that lurk within this .owcrmg -.vast
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 1 * 
 And left the primal city of the land, 
 And onwards did his further journey take 
 To greet Albania's chief, 18 whose dread command 
 Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
 He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
 Vet here and there some daring mountain-band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Monastic Zitza ! 20 from thy shady brow, 
 Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
 And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
 Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
 Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
 soul. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
 Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
 Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
 Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
 The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
 Here dwells the caloyer, 21 nor rude is he, 
 Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer-by 
 Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
 From hence, if he delight kind nature's sheen to see. 
 
 L. 
 
 Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
 Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
 Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
 From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
 The plain is far beneath oh ! let him seize 
 Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
 Here pierccth not, impregnate with disease : 
 Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
 And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 2 * 
 Chimaera's Alps extend from left to right : 
 Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; 
 Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir 
 Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! 23 
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
 Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
 Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 
 none! 
 
 LIT. 
 
 Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
 Veil'd by the screen of hills ! here men are few, 
 Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
 But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
 Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
 The little shepherd in his white capote a4 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
 Or in his-cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
 Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
 What valley echoed the response of Jove 1 
 What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrinisl 
 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 ? 
 
 When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneaik 
 the stroke ! 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Epirus 1 bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
 Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
 Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
 As ever spring yclad in grassy dye : 
 Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
 Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
 And woods along the banks are waving high, 
 Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
 
 Or with the moon-beams sleep in midnight's so ema 
 trance. 
 
 LV. 
 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,** 
 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; * 
 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
 When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
 The glittering mirarets 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 length'ning glen 
 
 LVI. 
 
 He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, 
 And, underneath the wide o'erarching gate, 
 Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of powet, 
 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 wai . 
 Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
 Here men of every ciime appear to make resort. 
 
 Lvn. 
 
 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 J\x>r 
 Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his stetd t,v*f 
 The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, auj tho Mt/u, 
 Here mingled in their many-hued arra/, 
 While the deep war-drum's sound announced the C!OM 
 of day. 
 
 Lvni. 
 
 The wild Albanian kirtled to his ki*,j, 
 With shawl-girt head and ornamuiited gun, 
 And gold-embroider'd garments, ('air to see ; 
 The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
 The Delhi with his cap of teiror on, 
 And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Green , 
 And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
 The bearded Turk .hat rarely deigns to speak. 
 Master of all around, too potent to be meek.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LJX. 
 
 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 Muezza's call doth shake the minaret, 
 "There is no god but God! to prayer lo! God is great!" 
 
 LX. 
 
 Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
 Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
 But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
 Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
 Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
 Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
 The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
 But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
 As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
 And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
 She yields to one 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 the babe she bears, 
 *Vho never quits the breast no meaner passion shares. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
 Of living water from the centre rose, 
 Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
 And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
 ALI reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
 Vet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
 While gentleness her milder radiance throws 
 Along that aged venerable face, 
 1'he deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
 111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
 Love conquers age so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
 So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth 
 But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
 Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
 In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
 Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
 In Moodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
 The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
 And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
 TiR .(uickly wearied with that spacious seat 
 Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat 
 Of oated grandeur from the city's noise : 
 A.nd were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
 Bui peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
 AHI pleasure, leagued with pomp, the zest of both 
 destroys. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
 Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
 Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
 Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
 Their native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
 Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sur* 
 When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, 
 UnshaKen rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
 Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
 And 'after view'd them, when, within their poi er, 
 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 3 d him less, 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof 2 ' 
 In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
 Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
 When all around was deso'.ate and dark ; 
 To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
 Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 
 Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
 At length they ventured forth, though doubting sor* 
 That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
 Might once agt.n renew their ancient butcher-work. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Vain fear ! the Suhotea stretch'd the welcome hiyid, 
 Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
 Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. 
 And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, 
 And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp. 
 And spread their fare ; though home'y, all they h;id . 
 Such conduct bears philanthropy's rare stamp 
 To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 
 Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 It came to pass, that when he did address 
 
 Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
 
 Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
 
 And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
 
 And therefore did he take a trusty oand 
 
 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 ^Etolia's worlds espied. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
 And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
 How brown the foliage of the green hill's grovp, 
 Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
 As winds come lightly whispering from the west. 
 Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.- 
 Here Harold was received a welcome guest, 
 Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
 For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
 The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, a * 
 And he that unawares had there ygazed 
 With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
 The native revels of the troop began ; 
 Each palikar 29 his sabre from him cast, 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
 Veiling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
 And view'ti, 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 vO their girdles stre^am'd, 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sung, half 
 scream'd : 3 
 
 1. 
 
 11 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 ! 
 
 Z. 
 
 Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
 fo the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
 And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock, 
 
 S. 
 
 Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
 The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
 Let those guns ?o unerring such vengeance forego ? 
 What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 
 
 4. 
 
 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 shore. 
 
 G. 
 
 I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
 Mj 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. 
 
 7. 
 
 I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
 Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe ; 
 Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, 
 And snin us a song on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Remember the 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 slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 
 
 9. 
 
 [ 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 All Pashaw. 
 
 10. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
 Let the yellow-hair'd ' Giaours 2 view his horse-tail * 
 
 with dread ; 
 
 When his Delhis* come dashing in blood o'er the baiiw 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 
 
 11. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! M 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
 Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
 And long-accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
 In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 34 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which no* 
 Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
 Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
 From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmann'd. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 In all, save form alone, how changed ! <md who 
 That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost liberty ? 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
 For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
 Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
 Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mournful paj ft 
 
 1 Yellow is the epithet given to the Russian* 
 
 2 Infidels. 
 
 3 Horse-tails are the insignia of n pacha. 
 
 4 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hou 
 
 5 Sword-bearer.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 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 despoilers low, 
 But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 
 
 LXXVH. 
 
 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, 38 
 May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
 But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
 hut slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 
 
 LXXVHI. 
 
 Yet mark their mirth ere lenten days begin, 
 That penance which their holy rites prepare 
 To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
 By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
 But ere his sackcloth garb repentance wear, 
 Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
 To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
 In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
 And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And whose more rife with merriment that 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, 
 \.s woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
 Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
 And timely echoed back the measured oar, 
 And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
 The queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
 And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
 'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
 A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
 Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
 Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
 Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
 While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
 Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still : 
 Oh love ! young love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
 Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
 1 tieso hours, and only these, redeem life's years of ill ! 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
 Ev'n through the closest searment half belray'd? 
 To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
 Seem to re-echo all they moum in vain ; 
 To such the gladness ot the gamesome crowd 
 Is source of wayward thought and stern di&dain : 
 How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
 And long to change the robe of revel for the sh.-oudV 
 
 Lxxxni. 
 
 This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
 If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast r 
 Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
 The bondman's peace, who sighs for all he lot*, 
 Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
 And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
 Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thus most 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime re. jrd 
 Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate lorde! 
 
 Lxxrv. 
 
 When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
 When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
 Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
 A thousand years scarce serve to form a state , 
 An hour may lay it in the dust ; and when 
 Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
 Recall its virtues back, and vanquish time and fate 1 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou ! 
 Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 37 
 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 ; 
 
 LXXX VI. 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ;" 
 Save where Tntonia'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 "Ala* " 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild : 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
 And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
 The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
 Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground ; 
 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
 And all the muse's tales seem truly told. 
 FiU the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deep'ning glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
 \ge shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord 
 Preserves alike*its bounds and boundless fame 
 The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
 First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
 As on the morn to distant glory dear, 
 When Marathon became a magic word ; 39 
 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 
 
 xc. 
 
 The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
 
 Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below ; 
 
 Death in the front, destruction in the rear ! 
 
 Such was the scene what now remaineth here ? 
 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
 
 Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
 
 The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
 around. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
 
 Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 
 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
 As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
 If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
 He that is lonely hither let him roam, 
 And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
 Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
 But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, 
 And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
 When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
 Ir gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Let such approach this consecrated land, 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
 But spare its relics let no busy hand 
 Oefa-;e 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 may'st thou prosper where thy youth was re&r"<) 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
 Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
 Soon shall thy voice b'e lost amid the throng 
 Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
 To such resign the strife for fading bays 
 111 may such contest now the spirit move 
 Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise , 
 Since cold each kfrider heart that might approve, 
 And none are left to please when none are left to lo-o. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
 .Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me , 
 Who did for me what none beside have done, 
 Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
 What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
 Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
 Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see 
 Would they had never been, or were to ~ome ! 
 Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresn cause to room' 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
 How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, 
 And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
 But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
 All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou hasi 
 The parent, friend, and now the more than friend 
 Ne'er yet fpr one thine arrows flew so fast, 
 And grief with grief continuing stiil to blend, 
 Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 
 
 XCVH. 
 
 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 sncei. 
 
 xcvm. 
 
 What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
 What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
 To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
 O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroy'd 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
 Since time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'a, 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy ? d 
 
 13
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 " Afin qne cotte application vous forcat lie penscr a autre 
 nhr*e. il n'y a en v6rite de remede que celui-la et le temps." 
 J.ettre du. Roi de Prvssc a Daltmberl, Sep. 7 1776. 
 
 I. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
 Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
 And then we parted, not as now we pait, 
 But with a hope. 
 
 , Awaking with a start, 
 
 The waters heave around me ; and on high 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
 vVhither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
 mine eve. 
 
 n. 
 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoc'er it lead ! 
 Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
 Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
 prevail. 
 
 III. 
 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of one, 
 Tim 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 bmce my young days of passion joy, or pain, 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
 And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
 Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling ; 
 So that it wean me from the weary dream 
 Of selfish grief r gladness so it fling 
 Forgetfulness around me it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 
 
 He, who grown aged in this world of woe, 
 In deeds, r.ot 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 : le can tell 
 Why thought seeks refuge in tone caves, yet rife 
 With airy images, and snapes which dwell 
 sstill ummpiur'd. though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T is to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense, that we endo"? 
 With form our fancy, gaining as we givf 
 The life we image, ev'n as I do now. 
 What am I ? Nothing ; but not so ar*. t'.ou, 
 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' deartu 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly : I have thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'erwtought, 
 A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
 My springs of life were poison'd. 'T is too late ! 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
 In strength to bear what time cannot abate, 
 
 And fed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Something too mach of this: but now 'tis past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long-absent HAROLD re-appears at last ; 
 He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
 Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er hca!; 
 Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
 In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His had been quaflT'd too quickly, and he found 
 The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
 And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pa**, 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and grew ken, 
 Entering with every step he took, through man) u. scene. 
 
 X. 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And sheathea with an invulnerable mind, 
 That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
 And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
 Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
 Fit speculation ! such as in strange land 
 He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
 
 To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
 
 The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cherk. 
 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
 
 Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfoid 
 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing time, 
 
 Ye' with a nobler aim than in his yvith's fonrt prrrt
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But soon lie 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 
 \ life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; 
 Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
 Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends, 
 He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
 For nature's pages, glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 
 He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
 
 Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
 
 Dial keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
 brink. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 : 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Seif-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 
 With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
 
 The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
 
 That all was over on this side the tomb, 
 
 Had made despair a smilingness assume, 
 
 Which, though 't were wild, as on the plunder'd 
 
 wreck 
 
 When mariners would madly meet their doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, 
 Old yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Stop ! for thy tread is on an empire's dust ! 
 An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
 Von<! hut the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
 A.S the ground was before, thus let it be ; 
 Flow that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
 Vnd is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
 1 Uou firs', and List of fields ! king-making victory 7 
 
 xvm. 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
 In "pride of place" ' here last the eaglo flew, 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
 And foam in fetters ; but is earth more free? 
 Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
 Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
 What ! shall reviving thraldom again be 
 The patch'd-up idol of enlightened days? 
 Shall we, who struck the lion down, shall we 
 Pay the wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
 And servile knees to thrones V No ; prove before ye prais"l 
 
 XX. 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
 
 . For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
 The tranipler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
 Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
 Have all men borne, and broken by the accord 
 Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
 Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword 
 
 Such as Harmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 3 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising kncfl 
 
 XXII. 
 
 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 moev, 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet 
 But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once ium 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier man before ! 
 Arm ! arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roai 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did heai 
 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 ncai. 
 His heart more truly Knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could qu>P 
 He rush'd into the field, and, *oremost hgrumg, fcB.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, : nd tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking 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 ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 
 Or whispering, with white lips " The foe ! They come! 
 they come !" 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 
 And Evan's,* Donald's b fame rings in each clansman's 
 ears ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And Ardennes 6 waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall gnw 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder ccld ?nd 
 low. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strfe, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, the daj 
 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, 
 
 B ider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
 Partly because they blend me with his line, 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song , 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
 J'he death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
 
 n.nv fach'd no nobler breast than thine, younjj, gallant 
 Howard 
 
 XXX 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 In his own kind and kindred, whom to leach 
 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
 The archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of fame 
 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. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourru 
 The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
 The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
 The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements arc gone ; 
 The bars survive the captive they enthral, 
 The day drags through though storms keep out the SUB 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 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 break* 
 And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
 Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
 And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
 Yet withers on till all without is old, 
 Showing no visible sign, for snch things are untold 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There is a very life in our despair, 
 Vitality of poison, a quick root 
 Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
 As nothing did we die ; but life will suit 
 Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit, 
 Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's ' shorr, 
 All ashes to the taste ; did man compute 
 Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
 Such hours 'gainst years of life, say, would he imiin 
 three-score ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
 They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
 Thou, who didst grudge him ev'n that fleeting spar 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
 Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
 Their children's lips shall echo them, and say 
 " Hire, where the sword united nations drew, 
 Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
 And this is much, and all which will not pass awaj.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
 Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
 One moment of 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 seek'st 
 Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
 And shake again ''ie world, the thunderer of the scene! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
 Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
 That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame, 
 Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
 The flatterer of thy fierceness, 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. 
 
 XXXVIH. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Yet well thy soul hala 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 ; 
 When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
 'T is but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot wl.o choose. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or full alone, 
 Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
 But men's thoughts were the steps which puved (hy 
 
 throne, 
 
 Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
 Tho part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
 (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
 Like stc-i Diogenes to mock at men ; 
 t' a sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.' 
 I 2 
 
 XLII. 
 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
 By their contagion ; conquerors and kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet tilings, 
 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 their's ! One breast laid open were a school 
 Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
 That should their days, surviving perils past, 
 Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
 Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
 With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
 Which eats into itself, and rusts mgloriously. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
 Must look down on the hate of those-below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Away with these ! true wisdom's world will bo 
 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, vuit, 
 And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. 
 
 XLV II. 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
 Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
 All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
 Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
 There was a day when they were young and ;>rou<l 
 Banners on high, and battles pass'd below, 
 But they who fought are in a bloody shroud. 
 And those which waved are shredless dust ere n-w* 
 And the bleak battlements shall bear no future bkv> 

 
 ti'2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XLvm. 
 
 Beneath those battlements, within those walls, 
 Powei dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
 Each robber chief upheld his armed hails, 
 Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
 Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
 What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should have, 
 But history's purchased page to call them great ? 
 A wider space, an ornamented grave 1 
 
 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
 as brave. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
 What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
 With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
 Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
 But still their 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. 
 
 L. 
 
 Butlnou, 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 
 
 Rven now what wants thy stream? that it should 
 Lethe be. 
 
 LI. 
 
 V thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
 But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
 And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks 
 Their *ery graves are gone, and what are they? 
 The 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. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
 
 Yet not insensibly to all which here 
 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 
 In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
 
 Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
 
 And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
 
 Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
 
 Joy was not always absent from his face, 
 
 **ut o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 
 trace. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
 Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
 Leap kindly back 10 Kindness, though disgust 
 Hath weaird it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
 For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
 In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
 
 %ud in itf tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 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 was ; and though in solitude 
 Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
 
 In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow, 
 
 LV. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
 Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
 That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
 Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 By peril, dreaded most in female eyes , 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
 
 Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour 
 
 1. 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels " 
 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 
 Between the banks which bear the vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
 
 And fields which promise corn and wine, 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
 
 Whose far white walls along them shine, 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy vvert thou with me ! 
 
 2 
 And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, 
 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
 
 And many a rock which steeply 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 ! 
 
 3. 
 I send the lilies given to me ; 
 
 Though long before thy hand they touch, 
 I know that they must wither'd be, 
 
 But yet reject them not as such ; 
 For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
 
 When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
 And know'st them gather'J by the Rhine, 
 And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 
 
 4. 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 
 The charm of this enchanted ground, 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 
 Some fresher beauty varying round ; 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 
 To Nature and to me so dear, 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine !
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
 There is a small and simple pyramid, 
 Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
 Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
 Our enemy's but let not that forbid . 
 Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
 Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
 Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
 Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, 
 His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
 And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
 Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
 For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
 The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
 The charter to chastise which she bestows 
 On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 12 
 
 .LVIIJ. 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein, 13 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
 The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
 Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
 Or lonely contemplation thus might stray ; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
 Where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
 Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
 Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
 There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
 The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 
 And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
 Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
 'T is with the .thankful glance of parting praise; 
 More mighty spots may rise more glaring shine, 
 But none unite in one attaching maze 
 The brilliant, fair, and soft, the glories of old days. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
 Of coining 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 effaces happy as the scene, 
 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
 Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near 
 them fall. 
 
 LXIl. 
 
 But these recede. Above me are the \lj. 
 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 thundeVbolt of snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
 Gather around these summits, as to show 
 How earth may pierce lo heaven, yet leave vain nvifl 
 below. 
 
 Lxm. 
 
 But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
 There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, 
 Moral! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
 May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
 Nor blush for those who conquor'd on that plain ; 
 Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
 Themselves their monument ; the Stygian coast 
 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each waiuk-r m k 
 ghost. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 While Waterloo with C annaj's carnage vies, 
 Moral 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-ental'.'d corruption ; they no land 
 Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
 
 Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause 
 
 LXV. 
 
 By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
 A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
 'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
 And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
 Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
 Making a marvel that it not decays, 
 When the coeval pride of human hands, 
 Levell'd Aventicum, 15 hath strew'd her subject lands. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And there oh ! sweet and sacred be the name I- 
 Julia the daughter, the devoted gave 
 Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
 Nearest to heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
 Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
 The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
 And then she died on him she could not save. 
 Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
 And held within their um one mind, one neart, one 
 dust. 16 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But these are deeds which should noi pass away, 
 And names that must not wither, though the eariji 
 Forgets her empires with ajusidecay, 
 The enslavers and the enslaved, tneir deaih and birlti , 
 The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
 Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe 
 And from its immortality look forth 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, '* 
 [mpenshably pure beyond all things below
 
 64 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 The stillness of their aspect, in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their fair 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. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 
 
 All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
 
 In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 
 We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 
 
 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
 strong. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 
 And colour things to come with hues of night ; 
 The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
 To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
 The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
 But there are wanderers o'er eternity, 
 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
 And love earth only for its earthly sake ? 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy 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? 
 
 LXXH. 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me ; and to me, 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 And thus 1 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 so-row was I cast, 
 To act ami suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
 Though youug, yet waxing vigorous as the blast 
 Which if would cope with, on delighted wing, 
 
 <i*e c&y-cold bonds which round our being 
 
 LXX IV. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form, 
 Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, 
 When elements to elements conform, 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
 The bodiless thought ? the spirit of each spot, 
 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lotJ 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and SKICS, a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
 glow? 
 
 LXXVL 
 
 But this is not my theme ; and I return 
 To that which is immediate, and require 
 Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
 To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
 A native of the land where I respire 
 The clear air for a while a passing guest, 
 Where he became a being, whose desire 
 Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, 
 
 The which to gam and keep, lie sacrificed all rest. 
 
 LXXVH. 
 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 His love was passion's essence as a tree 
 On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
 Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
 Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
 But his was not the love of living dame, 
 Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
 But of ideal beauty, which became 
 In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
 Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet , 
 This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
 Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
 From hers, who Dut with friendship his would meet , 
 But to that gentle touch, through brain ?nd breast 
 FUsn'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more blesl. 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all thr v sef n i>o<wei*
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
 Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
 Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
 For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
 But he W3J phrenzied, wherefore, who may know? 
 Since catue might be which skill could never find ; 
 But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, 
 fo that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning show. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
 As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
 Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
 Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
 Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
 Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
 Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, 
 Til 1 by the voice of him and his compeers, 
 
 Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown 
 fears? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
 The wreck of old opinions things which grew 
 Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
 And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
 But good with ill they also overthrew, 
 Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
 Upon the same foundation, and renew 
 Dungeons ani thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, 
 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
 Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
 They might have used it better, but, allured 
 By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
 On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
 With her once natural charities. But they, 
 Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
 They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
 What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
 The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
 That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
 With their own' hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear 
 Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
 Fix'd passion holds his breath, until the hour 
 Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
 It came, it cometh, and will come, the power 
 f o punish or forgive in one we shall be slower. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
 Tom ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
 l?at I with stem delight* should e'er have been so moved. 
 14 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and, drawing near, 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more , 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life and infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires, 't is to be forgiven, 
 That in our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar, 
 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themseleet 
 a star. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still tnough 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 hos< 
 Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
 All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 
 And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
 The soul and source of music, which makes know n 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty ; 't would disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm 
 
 XCJ. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high places and the peak 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, 20 and thus taxe 
 A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
 Unrear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
 Columns and idol-avrellings, Goth or Greek, 
 With nature's realms oi worship, earth and air, 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy praye-
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The sky is c anged! and such a change ! Oh night, 11 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 Of a d->rk eye in woman ! Far along, 
 From ,,eak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
 i'ack to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 And this is in the night: most glorious night! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 And now again 't is black, and now, the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appoar as lovers ho 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 j 
 It self expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters, war within themselves to wage. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way, 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
 And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
 The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
 His lightnings, as if he did understand, 
 That in such gaps as desolation worit'd, 
 1 here the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
 With night, and cl< ads, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the far rolf 
 Of your departing voices is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless, if I rest. 
 But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the hu.nan breast ? 
 Jr do ve find, at leng'h, like eagles, some high nest ? 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, could I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
 All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word, 
 And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; 
 Hut. as it is, 1 live and die unheard, 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as & iword. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 The morn is up again, the dewy mom, 
 With breath all incense, and with cheek all blom, 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful sco; n, 
 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. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love ! 
 Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought 
 Thy trees take root in love ; the snows above 
 The very glaciers have his colours caught, 
 And sunset into rose-hues si es them wrought 47 
 By rays which sleep there 1- vingly : the rocks, 
 The permanent crags, tell h tre of love, who sought 
 In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
 
 Which stir and sting the- soul with hope that woos, the* 
 mocks. 
 
 C. 
 
 Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, 
 Undying love's, who here ascends a throne 
 To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
 Is a pervading life to 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 how 
 
 CI. 
 
 All things are here of Aim ; from the black pines, 
 Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
 Which slope his green path downward to the shoie 
 Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
 B 1 ;' '!'.! 'eaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 
 
 cn. 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
 And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, 
 Who worship him with notes rrore sweet than words, 
 And innocently open their glad wings, 
 Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
 Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
 The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
 Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. 
 
 cm. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
 That tender mystery, will love the more, 
 For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
 And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, 
 For 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
 He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights, in its eternity '
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 C7 
 
 CIV. 
 
 T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
 Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
 Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness : 't is lone, 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
 throne. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 23 
 Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame : 
 They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
 Thoughts which should call down thunder and the 
 
 flame 
 Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
 
 On man and man's research could deign do more than 
 smile. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
 Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
 A wit as various, gay, grave, sage, or wild, 
 Historian, bard, philosopher combined ; 
 He multiplied himself among mankind, 
 The Proteus of their talents : but his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule, which, as the wind, 
 Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, 
 
 Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 
 
 cvn. 
 
 The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
 And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
 In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
 And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer : 
 The lord of irony, that master-spell, 
 Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
 And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Yet, peace be with their ashes, for by them, 
 If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
 It is not ours to judge, far less condemn ; 
 The hour must come when sucli things shall be made 
 Known unto all, or hope and dread allay'd 
 By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, 
 Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; 
 And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
 T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 But let me quit man's works, again to read 
 His Maker's spread around me, and suspend 
 This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
 Until it seems prolonging without end. 
 The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
 And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
 May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
 To their most great and growing region, where 
 The earth to her embrace compels the power of air. 
 
 CX. 
 
 Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee, 
 Full flashes on the soul the light of age->, 
 Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won the<> 
 To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
 Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
 Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; stiL, 
 The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hit. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Thus far I have proceeded in a theme 
 Renew'd with no kind auspices : to feel 
 We sre not what we have been, and to deem 
 We are not what we should be, and to steel 
 The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
 With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,- - 
 Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, 
 Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought ; 
 Is a stern task of soul : No matter, it is taught. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And for these words, thus woven into song, 
 It may be that they are a harmless wile, 
 The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
 Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
 My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
 Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am no* 
 So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
 As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
 I stood and stand alone, remember'd or forgot. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee, 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
 Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, ana stiJ 
 
 could, 
 Had I not filed 2 * my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me, 
 But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
 Though I have found them not, that there may be 
 Words which are things, hopes which will not Of 
 
 ceive, 
 
 And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
 Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; * 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem, 
 That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 My daughter ! with thy name this song begun 
 My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end 
 I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none 
 Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
 To whom the shadows of far years extend 
 Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
 My voice shall with thy future visions blencl. 
 And reach into thy heart, when mine is co.u, 
 A token and a tone, even from thy father's nicuid.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 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 to this. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
 With desolation, and a broken claim : 
 Though the grave closed between us, 't were the 
 
 same 
 
 1 know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
 My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
 And an attainment, all would be in vain, 
 Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 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 might' st have been to me! 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 
 liuel monte chc divide, c quel die scrra 
 Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. 
 
 AEIOSTO, Satira \u. 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 
 etc. etc. etc. 
 
 MY DEAR HOBHOCSE, 
 
 AFTER an -interval of eight years between the com- 
 position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
 the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to 
 the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not ex- 
 traordinary 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, thai 
 though not ungrateful I can, or could be, to Childe 
 Harold, for any public favour reflected through the 
 poem on the poet, to one, whom I have known long, 
 and accompanied far, whom I have tound wakeful over 
 my sickness, and kind in my sorrow, glad in my pros- 
 perity, and firm in my adversity, true in counsel, and 
 trusiy 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 vou ir. its complete, or at least concluded 
 
 state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
 thoughtful, and comprehensive of my compositions, J 
 wish to do honour to myself by the record of manj 
 years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, f 
 steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours 
 to give or to receive flattery ; yet -the praises of sin 
 cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend- 
 ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to 
 relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been 
 so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as 
 to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to 
 commemorate your good qualities, or rather the ad- 
 vantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
 Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the an- 
 niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past ex- 
 istence, but which cannot poison my future, while 1 
 retain the resource of your friendship, and of my owr. 
 faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- 
 lection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this 
 my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, 
 such as few men have experienced, and no one could" 
 experience without thinking better of his species and 
 of himself. 
 
 It has been our fortune to traverse together, at vari- 
 ous periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and 
 fable Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : and 
 what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years 
 ago, Venice and Rome have been more, recently. The 
 poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied 
 me from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardon- 
 able vanity which induces me to reflect with compla- 
 cency on a composition which in some degree connects 
 me with the spot where it was produced, and the ob- 
 jects it would fain describe ; and however unworthy il 
 may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, 
 however short it may fall of our distant conceptions 
 and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respec: 
 for what is venerable, and a feeling for what is glorious, 
 it has been to me a source of pleasure in the produc- 
 tion, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I 
 hardly suspected that events could have left me for 
 imaginary objects. 
 
 With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
 will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
 preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated 
 from the author speaking in his own person. The fact 
 is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which 
 every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the 
 Chinese in Goldsmith's " Citizen of the World," whom 
 nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain 
 that I asserted, and imagined, that I had drawn a dis- 
 tinction between the author and the pilgrim ; and the 
 very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disap- 
 pointment 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 it- 
 self, and not on the writer ; and the author, who has no 
 resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, tran- 
 sient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary 
 efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 
 
 In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
 tion, either in the text or in the nots, to have touched 
 upon the present state of Italian uteraUiie, <od p^-hatw
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
 I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of ex- 
 ternal 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 
 disseit upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
 dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impartiality 
 which would induce us, though perhaps no inatten- 
 tive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs 
 of the people amongst whom we have recently abode, 
 to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more 
 larrowly examine our information. The state of lite- 
 ary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to 
 have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impar- 
 tially between them is next to impossible. It may be 
 enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from 
 heir own beautiful language "Mi pare che in un 
 Baese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed 
 nsieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono 
 tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non 
 na perduto 1'antico valore, in tutte- essa dovrebbe essere 
 a prima." Italy has great names still Canova, Monti, 
 UgoFoscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, 
 A.lbrizzi, Nezzofanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and 
 Vacca, will secure to the present generation an hon- 
 ourable place in most of the departments of art, sci- 
 ence, and belles-lettres ; and in some the very highest ; 
 Europe the world has but one Canova, 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La 
 oianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qualun- 
 que altra terra e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si 
 commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing 
 to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doc- 
 trine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
 grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect 
 more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must 
 be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not 
 struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, 
 or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, 
 the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their 
 tonceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of 
 beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated 
 revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair 
 of ages, their still unquenched " longing after immor- 
 tality," the immortality of independence. And when 
 we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard 
 the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, " Roma ! 
 Roma ! Roma ! Roma non e piu come era prima," it 
 was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with 
 the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled 
 from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. 
 Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, 
 and of the world, by me.n whose conduct you yourself 
 bave exposed in a work worthy of the better days of 
 our history. For me, 
 
 " Non movero mai corda 
 
 Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 
 
 What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
 it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
 ascertained that England has acquired something more 
 than a permanent army and a suspended Hubeas Cor- 
 pus ; it is enough for them to look at home. For what 
 thuv have done abroad, and especially in the South, 
 K 
 
 verily they will haie their reward," and at no very 
 distant period. 
 
 Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and ajre v 
 able return to that country whose real welfare cai. be 
 dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you thu 
 poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more bow 
 truly I am ever 
 
 Your obliged 
 
 And affectionate friend, 
 
 BYRON 
 
 Venice, January 2, 1818. 
 
 I. 
 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; ' 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 
 isles ! 
 
 II. 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, a 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
 And such she was ; her daughters had their dowert 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless Eas, 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers : 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased 
 
 III. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,* 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear : 
 Those days are gone but beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade but Nature doth not die : 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despona 
 Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'ei, 
 For us re-peopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 And more beloved existence : that which lao 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
 First exiles, then replaces wh.it we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early flow ers have cbnt. 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the TOK!.
 
 70 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
 The first from hope, the last from vacancy ; 
 And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
 And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : 
 Yet there are things whose strong reality 
 Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
 More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
 And the strange constellations which the muse 
 O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 
 
 VII. 
 
 I saw or dream'd of such, but let them go 
 They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams ; 
 And whatsoe'er they were are now but so : 
 I could replace them if I would, still teems 
 My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
 Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
 Let these too go for waking reason deems 
 Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
 And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I Ve taught me other tongues and in strange eyes 
 Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
 Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 A country with ay, or without mankind ; 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 The invioiate island of the sage and free, 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Perhaps 1 ioved it well : and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
 My spirit shall resume it if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
 With my land's language : if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline, 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull oblivion bar 
 
 X. 
 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honour'd by the nations let it be 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me 
 " Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." * 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted ; they have torn me, and I bleed : 
 
 [ should have known what fruit would spring from such 
 a seed. 
 
 XL 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord : 
 And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
 The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood * 
 Stand, uut in mockery of his wither'd power, 
 Over tne proud Place where an emperor sued, 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 
 Wliun Venire was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reign 
 An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt , 
 Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
 Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
 From power's high pinnacle, when they have fey 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! T 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering fo 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? ' 
 Are they not bridled 1 Venice, lost and won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre, 
 Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
 The " Planter of the Lion," ' 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 are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Statues of glass all shiver'd the long Pie 
 Of her dead doges are declined to dusf , 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pilt 
 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
 Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
 Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 
 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
 Redemplion rose up in the Attic Muse, " 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chanl the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt he rends his captive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
 Thy choral memory of the bard divine, 
 Thy love of Tasso, should hare cut the knot 
 Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
 la shameful to the nations, most of all, 
 Albion ! to thee : the ocean quef n should not 
 Abandon ocean's children ; in the fall 
 Of Venice think of thine, despi'e thy watery w*H
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 71 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood she to me 
 Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I can repeople with the past and of 
 The present there is still for eye and thought, 
 And meditation chasten'd down, enough ! 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought : 
 And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught : 
 There are some feelings time cannot benumb, 
 Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow ll 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
 Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
 Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
 Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
 The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
 Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
 Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, 
 And grew a giant tree ; the mind may grow the same. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
 Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
 In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
 The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
 And the wolf dies in silence, not bestow'd 
 In vain should such example be ; if they, 
 Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
 Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
 May temper it to bear, it is but for a day. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 AH suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event 
 Ends : some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
 Return to whence they came with like intent, 
 And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent 
 Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
 And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
 According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But ever and anon of grief subdued 
 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
 And slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
 Aside for ver: it may be a sound 
 A tone of music, summer's eve or spring, 
 A flower the, wind th ocean which shall wound, 
 Striking the eiectnc chain wherewith we are quickly 
 bound ; 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
 
 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
 
 Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
 
 When least we deem of such, calls up to ><ew 
 
 The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
 
 The cold the changed perchance the dead anew 
 
 The mourn'd, the loved, the lost too many ! yet bow 
 few! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
 Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
 Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of nature's heavenly hand, 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
 
 The beautiful, the brave the lords of earth and sea, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all art yields, and nature can decree ; 
 Even in thy desert, what b 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. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night 
 Sunset divides the sky with her a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to b 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the west, 
 Where the day joins the past eternity ; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air an island of the blest j 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but stifl ' 
 Ton sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhcetian hill, 
 As day and night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order: gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd with* ft 
 glows, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Fill'd with the fade of heaven, which, from afar, 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all ilt. 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 dav 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new colour as it gasps away, 
 
 The last still loveliest, till -'t is gone and &il is f
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 'Fhe.e is a tomb in Arqua ; rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bunes of Laura's lover ; here repair 
 Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
 Watering the tree which bears his lady's name ' * 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; '* 
 The mountain-village where his latter days 
 Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride 
 An honest pride and let it be their praise, 
 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 'lhan if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
 Is one of that complexion which seems made 
 iTor 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. 
 
 xxxni. 
 
 Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
 And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
 Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
 With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
 Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
 If from society we learn to live, 
 T is solitude should teach us how to die ; 
 It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
 No hollow aid ; alone man with his God must strive. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Or, it may be, with demons, " who impair 
 The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
 in melancholy bosoms, such as were 
 Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
 And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,. 
 Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
 Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
 Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
 rfce tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 f errara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
 Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
 There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats 
 Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
 Of Este, which for many an age made good 
 Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
 Patron or tyraiA, as the changing mood 
 Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
 Fhe we<'h winch Dante's brow alone had worn before. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
 And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
 The miserable despot could not quell 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
 With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
 Scatter'd the clouds away and on that name attend 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
 Would rot in its oblivion in the sink 
 Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
 Is shaken into nothing ; but the link , 
 
 Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
 Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn 
 Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
 From thee ! if in another station born, 
 Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Thou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough and wider 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 1S 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
 That whetstone of the teeth monotony in wire . 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 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 combined and countless throng 
 
 Compose a mind like thine ! though all in one 
 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a 
 sun. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, 
 Thy countrymen, before thee bom 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 wort> . 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust " 
 The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
 For the tme laurel-wreath which glory weaves ta 
 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 ai 
 Whate'er it strikes ; yon head is doubly sacred now.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILQRIMAGE. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Italia! ohltana! 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 ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
 Be thy sad weapo i of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 21 
 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 
 JEgma. lay, Piraeus on the right, 
 And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
 Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
 [ a ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
 The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
 And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
 The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
 These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
 Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
 The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Th<. page is now before me, and on mine 
 His country's ruin added to the mass 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
 And I in desolation : all that was 
 Of then destruction is; and DOW, alas! 
 Rome Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titantic form, 24 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side 
 Mother of arts! as once of arms ; thy hand 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
 Piu'ent of our religion ! whom the wide 
 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
 Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
 Shill yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
 Rwl Jie barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 
 K 2 15 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
 Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
 A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
 Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps 
 To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
 Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
 Was modern luxury of commerce born, 
 And buried learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills" 
 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 fax, 
 And to the fond idolaters of old , 
 
 Envy the innate flash which such a soul could moulJ . 
 
 L. 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
 Reels with its fulness ; there for ever there 
 Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art, / 
 
 We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
 Away ! there need no words, nor terms precise, 
 The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
 Where pedantry gulls folly we have eyes: 
 
 Blood pulse and breast, confirm the Dardan sliej* 
 herd's prize. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
 Or to more deeply blest Anehises? or, 
 In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
 Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war? 
 And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are 
 With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
 
 Showcr'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an 
 urn? 
 
 Ln. 
 
 Glowing, and circumfused in speechless lore, 
 Their full divinity inadequate 
 That feeling to express, or to improve, 
 The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
 Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
 Of earth recoils upon us ; let it go! 
 We can recall such visions, and create, 
 From what has been or might be, things which JK>W 
 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 How well his ccnnoisseurship understands 
 The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell 
 Let these describe the undescribable : 
 I would not their vile breath should cnsp the utrua-u 
 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.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2 ' 
 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
 Even in itself an immortality, 
 Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
 The particle of those sublimities 
 Which have relapsed to chaos : here repose 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, 28 and his, 
 The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
 (lore Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. 29 
 
 LV. 
 
 These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
 
 Might furnish forth creation : Italy ! 
 
 Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
 
 rents 
 
 Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
 And hath denied, to every other sky, 
 Spirits which soar from ruin : thy decay 
 Is still impregnate wiih divinity, 
 Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 But where repose the all Etruscan three 
 Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
 The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
 Of the Hundred Tales of love where did they lay 
 Their bones, distinguish'd from our 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 filial earth entrust? 
 
 LVH. 
 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 30 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 31 
 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 3I 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
 
 Ills life, his fame, his grave, though rifled not thine 
 own. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Boccaccio to his pa ont earth bequeath'd " 
 His dust, and lies it not her great among, 
 With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
 O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
 That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
 The poetry of speech ? No ; even his tomb 
 UpC -rn, must bear the hymtia bigot's wrong, 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
 
 f\or claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
 Ve for this want more noted, as of yore 
 The Oajsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
 Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : 
 Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
 Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
 The immortal exile ; Arqua, too, her store 
 Of tuneful relics oroudly claims and keeps, 
 While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. 
 
 LX. 
 
 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 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
 In Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, 
 Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
 There be more marvels yet but not for mine ; 
 For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
 My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, 
 Than art in galleries : though a work divine 
 Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
 Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Is of another temper, and I roam 
 By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
 Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
 For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
 Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
 The host between the mountains and the shore, 
 Where courage falls in her despairing files, 
 And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
 Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattcr'd o'er 
 
 LXI1I. 
 
 Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
 And such the storm of battle on this day, 
 And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
 To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray 
 An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! " 
 None felt stern nature rocking at his feet, 
 And vawning forth a grave for those who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet '. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 The earth to them was as a rolling bark 
 
 Which bore them to eternity ; they saw 
 
 The ocean round, but had no time to mark 
 
 The motions of their vessels ; nature's law 
 
 In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
 
 Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 
 
 From their down-toppling nests ; asJ bellowing herds 
 
 Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
 words. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
 Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
 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'eo 
 A little rill of scanty stream and bed 
 A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
 And Sanguinettr, tells ye where the dead 
 
 Made the earth ^vet, <d turn'd the ur wUing waters red.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave " 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
 Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters 
 > mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters ! 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And on thy happy shore a temple sti!!, 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
 Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
 While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
 Lown where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
 tales. 
 
 Lxvni. 
 
 Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! 
 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 U. weary life a moment lave it clean 
 With Nature's baptism, 't is to him ye must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The roar of waters! from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Their Phlcgethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is an eternal April to ihe ground, 
 Making it all one emerald : how profound 
 The gulf! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
 vVith his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 I'o 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 cnly thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
 With many windings, through the vale : look back! 
 Lo! \vhereitcomes like an eternity, 
 As if to sweep down ail things in its track, 
 r>arn""<r the eye with dread, a matchless cataract," 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, "" 
 Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, boars serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
 Love watching madness with unalterable mien. 
 
 Lxxm. 
 
 Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
 The infant Alps, which had I not before 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
 The thundering lauwine* 9 might be worshipp'd 
 
 more; 
 
 But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
 Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
 Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near, 
 And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
 And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
 Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
 Athos, Olympus, ./Etna, Atlas, made 
 These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
 All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
 Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman'* itid 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
 Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
 And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
 May he, who will, his recollections rake 
 And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
 The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by wonl ** 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
 My sickening memory ; and, though time hath tanj.'h' 
 My mind to meditate what then it Icarn'd, 
 Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
 By the impatience of my early thought, 
 That, with the freshness wearing out before 
 My mind could relish what it might have sough), 
 If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
 Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 
 
 LXXVH. 
 
 Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
 Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
 To understand, not feel thy lyric flow 
 To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
 Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
 Our little life, nor bard prescribe his an. 
 Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce, 
 Awakening without wounding thu touch'd lieait, 
 Yet fare tliec well upon Soracte'f ridge we nail
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 I/we mother of dead empires ! and control 
 Ir fheir shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are oui woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken uirones and temples, ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; 
 An empty um within her wither'd hands, 
 Whose hcly dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 4I 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
 R.se, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire, 
 Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride j 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
 Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : 
 Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
 And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The double night of ages, and of her, 
 Night's daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
 All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
 The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
 And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
 But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
 Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
 Our hands, and cry "Eureka!" it is clear 
 When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! 42 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. 
 Was, for earth, for never shall we see 
 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
 free ! 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, ** 
 Triumphant Sylla ! thou who didst subdue 
 Fliy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel 
 The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
 >f hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
 O'er orostrate Asia; thou, who with thy frown 
 Annihilated senates Roman, too. 
 With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
 
 With n signing smi'e a more than earth.y crown 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The dictatorial wreath, couldst thou divine 
 To what would one day dwindle that which mode 
 Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
 By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid 7 
 She who was named eternal, and array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer she who veil'J 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
 Her rushing wings Oh ! she who was almighty hail'd! 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
 The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
 Too swept off senates while he hew'd (he throne 
 Down to a block immortal rebel ! See 
 What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
 And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
 His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
 His day of double victory and death 
 Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield hi* 
 breath. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 The third of the same moon whose former course 
 Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
 Deposed him 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 all we deem delightful, and consume 
 Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
 Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
 Were they but so in man's, how different were his doc n 1 
 
 Lxxxvn. 
 
 And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
 The austerest form of naked majesty, 45 
 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Csesar lie, 
 Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
 An offering to thine altar from the queen 
 Of gods and men, great Nemesis ? did he die, 
 And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
 Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 
 
 Lxxxvin. 
 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! * 
 She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
 The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
 Where, as a monument of antique art, 
 Thou standest: mother of the mighty heart, 
 Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
 Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
 And thy Imbs black with lightning dost thou yet 
 Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forgtlT 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thou dost ; but all thy foster-babes are dead 
 The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd. 
 And fought and conquer'!], and the same course steer' d 
 At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
 Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd. 
 Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
 But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave-
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 77 
 
 xc. 
 
 Fhe fool of false dominion and a kind 
 Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 4 ' 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
 And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
 The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold ; 
 Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
 At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he bcam'd, 
 
 XCI. 
 
 And rame and saw and conquer'd ! But the man 
 Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
 Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
 With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
 A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
 With but one weakest weakness vanity, 
 Coquettish in ambition si ill he aim'd 
 At what : can he avouch or answer what he claim'd ? 
 
 XCII. 
 
 And would be all or nothing nor could wait 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
 Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
 On whom we tread : for this the conqueror rears 
 The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
 And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
 A universal deluge, which appears 
 Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
 An3 ebbs but to reflow ! Renew thy rainbow, God ! 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 What from this barren being do we reap ? 
 Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 48 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
 And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
 Opinion and omnipotence, whose veil 
 Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
 And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
 Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
 And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
 much light. 
 
 xcrv. 
 
 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 
 fheir fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 I speak not of men's creeds -they rest between 
 Man and his Maker but ol things allow'd, 
 Averr'd, and known, and daily, hourly seen, 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
 The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
 Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
 And freedom find no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington ? Has earth no more 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
 To freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
 Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
 And vile ambition, that built up between 
 Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
 And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
 Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
 
 Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst !>n 
 second fall. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
 Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind : 
 Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
 But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find 
 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north ; 
 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 There is a stern round tower of other days, 4 * 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
 Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
 Standing with half its battlements alone, 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; 
 What was this tower of strength? within its cave 
 What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? A woman's gra\ e 
 
 C. 
 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
 Worthy a king's or more a Roman's bed ? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
 What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
 How lived how loved rhow died she ? Was she rid 
 So honour'd and conspicuously there, 
 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 
 
 CL 
 
 Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
 Who love the lords of others ? such have been, 
 Even in die olden time, Rome's annals say. 
 Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
 Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
 Profuse of joy or 'gainst it did she war, 
 Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
 Love from amongst her griefs 1 for such the 
 are.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 en. 
 
 Perclaac'. she /Jiea in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
 Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
 In her dark eyt, prophetic of the doom 
 Her.ven gives its favourites early death ; i0 yet shed 
 A sunset charm around her, and illume 
 With hectic light, the Hosperus of the dead, 
 Ol tier consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 
 
 era. 
 
 Perchance she died ii age surviving all, 
 Charms, kindred, children with the silver gray 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
 (t may be, still a something of tho day 
 When they were braided, and her proud array 
 And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
 
 By Rome But whither would conjecture stray? 
 
 Thus much alone we know Metella died, 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride ! 
 
 CIV. 
 
 1 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 
 Ot dying thunder on the distant wind : 
 Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
 Till 1 had bodied forth the heated mind 
 Forms f om tne floating wreck which ruin leaves behind; 
 
 CV. 
 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
 But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
 Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
 1 1iere woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, 
 As I now hear them, in the fading light 
 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
 And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine 
 "Vhat are our petty griefs ? let me not number mine. 
 
 cm 
 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
 In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
 In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
 Deeming it midnight: temples, bathj, or halls? 
 Pronounce who can ; for all that learning reap'd 
 From her research hath been, that these are walls 
 Hehoid the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty falls. 51 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; ** 
 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, 
 First freedom, and then glory when that fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last. 
 And history, with all her volumes vast, 
 Hath but one page, 't is bettor written here, 
 Where gorgeous tyranny had thus amass'd 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
 
 Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask Away with words! 
 
 draw near, 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Admire, exult despise laugh, weep, for here 
 There is such matter for all feeling : man ! 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
 This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
 Of glory's gewgaws shining in the van, 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 
 
 Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to 
 build? 
 
 ex. 
 
 Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
 Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
 What are the laurels of the Caesar'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,* 1 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Buried in air, the deep-blue sky of Rome, 
 And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
 A spirit which with these would find a home, 
 The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
 The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
 But yielded back his conquests : he was more 
 Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
 With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
 His sovereign virtures still we Trajan's name adore.** 
 
 cxn. 
 
 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 hepp 
 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 Oi" K' 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood ; 
 Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
 From the first hour of empire in the bud 
 To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
 But long before had freedom's face been veil'o 
 And anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
 Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutca, 
 Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 cxiv 
 
 Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
 From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
 Redeemer of dark centuries of shame 
 The friend of Petrarch hope of Italy 
 Rienzi! last of Romans ! ss While the tree 
 Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, 
 Even for thy tomb a garland let it be 
 The forum's champion, and the people's chief 
 H3r new-born Numa thou with reign, alas ! too brief. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart i8 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
 Or wert, a young Aurora of the air, 
 The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
 Who found a more than common votary there 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 Fhou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 The mosses of thy 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 works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 Prison'd in marble ; bubbling from the base 
 Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
 The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep-blue eyes, 
 Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its 
 skies. 
 
 cxvni. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria ! thy all-heavenly bosom beating 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
 The purple midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy, and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamour'd goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy love the earliest oracle ! 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
 And love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
 Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
 Mak3 them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
 
 Expei the venom and not blunt the dart 
 
 The dull satiety which all destroys 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys 7 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Alas ! our }'oung affections run to waste, 
 Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
 But weeds of dark luxuriance,ares of ' aste 
 Rank at the core, though tempting to tne eves. 
 Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
 And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plan * 
 Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies 
 O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 Oh love ! no habitant of earth thou art 
 An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
 A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
 The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
 And to a thought such shape and image given, 
 
 As haunts the unquench'd soul parch'd wearied 
 wrung and riven. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
 
 And fevers into false creation : where, 
 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ' 
 
 In him alone. Can nature show so fair? 
 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 
 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men 
 
 The unreach'd paradise of our despair, 
 
 Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
 
 And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ) 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Who loves, raves 't is youth's frenzy but the cur* 
 Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
 Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
 Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
 Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 Reaping the whirldwind from the oft-so\vn winds ; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
 
 Seems ever near the prize, wealthiest when most u 
 done. 
 
 CXX1Y. 
 
 We wither from our youth, we gasp away 
 Sick sick ; unfound the boon unslaked the thirst. 
 Though to ihe last, in verge of our decay, 
 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first 
 
 But all too late, so are we doubly curst. 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice 't is the same, 
 Each idle and all ill and none the worst 
 For all are meteors with a different name, 
 
 And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flj>me. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Few none find what they love or could have lov.-d, 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipathies but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong : 
 And circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscreator, makes and helps along 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
 Whose touch turns hope to dust the dust we all o 
 trod.
 
 ttO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 Our life is a false nature 't is not in 
 The harmony of things, this'hard decree, 
 This uneradicable^aint 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. , 
 
 cxxvn. 
 
 Yet let us ponder boldly s ' 't is a base 
 Abandonment of reason to resign 
 Our right of thoughl our last and only place 
 Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine: 
 Though from our birth the faculty divine 
 Is chain'd and tortured cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
 And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
 Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
 The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
 blind. 
 
 C XXVIII. 
 
 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 moon-beams shine 
 As "t were its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
 Of contemplation ; and tha azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
 Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent, 
 A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
 And magic in the ruined battlement, 
 For which the palace of the present hour 
 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Oh time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
 Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
 And only nealer when the heart hath bled 
 Time! the corrector where our judgments err, 
 The test of truth, love, sole philosopher, 
 For all beside are sophists, fron. thy thrift, 
 Which never loses though it doth defer 
 Time, the avenger ! unto tnee I lift 
 My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
 \nd temple more divinely desolate, 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
 Ruins of years though few, yet full of fate : 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
 Hear me not : but if calmlv I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall net whelm me, let me not have worn 
 llus iron in my so.u in vain shall they not mourn? 
 
 CXXKII. 
 
 And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Left 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 ! 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ? Awake ! thou shall, utf 
 must, 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 It b not that I may not have incurr'd 
 
 For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
 
 I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
 
 With a just weapon, it had llow'd unbound ; 
 
 But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
 
 To thee I do devote it thou shall take 
 
 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found 
 
 Which if / have not taken for the sake 
 
 But let that pass I sleep, but thou shall yet awake. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
 f shrink from what is suffer'd: let him speak 
 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
 But in this page a record will I seek. 
 Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse . 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 That curse shall be forgiveness Have I not- 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven !- 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away ? 
 And only not to desperation driven, 
 Because not altogether of such clay. 
 As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy, 
 Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
 The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
 And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain, 
 But there is that within me which .=hall l\r<: 
 Torture and time, and breathe when I empire ; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mi-te lyre, 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and nK f 
 In hearts all rocky now the late rentiers' of w>v*>
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 81 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 The seal is set. Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
 Derives from tliee a sense so deep and clear 
 That we become a part of what has been, 
 Ind grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
 In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
 And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 Of worms on battle-plains or listed spot? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 I see before me the gladiator lie : 59 
 He leans upon his hand his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and nw 
 The arena swims around him he is gone, 
 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
 who won. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 He heard it, br.t he heeded not his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay 
 There were his young barbarians all at play, 
 There was their Dacian mother he, their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday 6 
 All this rush'd with his blood Shall he expire, 
 
 And unavenged.? Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, " 
 My voice sounds much and fall the stars' faint rays 
 On the arena void seats crush'd walls bow'd 
 
 4nd galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
 bud. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 A ruin yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass 
 Vnd marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
 'lath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
 Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd. 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
 away. 
 
 Ifi 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loops of tiw \ 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; " 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 Heroes have trod this spot 't is on their dust ye treaii 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; " 
 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 
 And when Rome falls the world." From our own 
 
 land 
 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty ^-all 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, 
 
 The world, the same wide den of thieves, or what y 
 will. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime 
 Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, 
 From Jove to Jesus spared and blest by time ; "* 
 Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
 Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and mai. plod* 
 His way through thorns to ashes glorious dome! 
 Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrants' roAt 
 Shiver upon thee sanctuary and home 
 
 Of art and piety Pantheon ! pride of Rome ! 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ; 
 Dcspoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
 A holiness appealing to all hearts 
 To art a model ; and to him who treads 
 Rome for the sake of ages, glory sheds 
 Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
 Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 
 Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around 
 them close." 
 
 CXLVI1I. 
 
 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 ana plain- 
 An old man, and a female young and fair, 
 Fresh as a nursing-mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : but what doth she there, 
 
 With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bar* 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 Full swells the deep pur<5 fountain of young life, 
 Where on the heart and from the heart we lock 
 Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife 
 Blest into mother, in the innocent loon, 
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceive* 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradled noon 
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves 
 What may the fruit be yet? I know noi Cam wa 
 Ee's.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CL. 
 
 Hut 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 
 jlorn 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 
 )rink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
 no such tide. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 The starry fable of the milky way 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
 Where sparkle distant worlds : Oh, holiest nurse ! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 V~ith life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd on high, 6f 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
 Colossal copyist of deformity, 
 Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
 Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
 To build for giants, and, for his vain earth, 
 His shrunken ashes raise this dome : How smiles 
 The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
 TV view th< huge design which sprung from such a birth. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 But to ! 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 ha/e beheld the Ephesian's miracle 
 fa 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 survcy'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
 Standest alone with nothing like to thee 
 Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
 Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
 Forsook his former city, what could be, 
 Of earthly structures in his honour piled, 
 Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
 Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled 
 !n tlus eternal ark of worship undented. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not, 
 And vjiy ? it is not lessen'd ; but thv mind, 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
 His grown colossal, and can only find 
 A f abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 Shalt one uay. if found worthy, so defined, 
 See thy God tace to face, as thou dost now 
 If in Hnlv of Holips, nor be b'asted by his brow. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Thou movest but increasing with the advance 
 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth : BO, 
 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
 
 Vastness which grows but grows to hannonize 
 
 All musical in its immensities : 
 
 Rich marbles richer painting shrines where flamo 
 
 The lamps of gold and haughty dome which vies 
 
 In air with earth's chief structures, though their franm 
 
 Sits on the firm-set ground and this the clouds moot 
 claim. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make, 
 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 bv part, 
 
 The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Not by its fault but thine : our outward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp and as it is 
 That what we have of feeling most intense 
 Ojtstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
 Foolsour fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 
 Defies at first our nature's littleness, 
 Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
 Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
 In such a survey than the sating gaze 
 Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
 The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
 Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
 What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan 
 The fountain of sublimity displays 
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 Laocoon's torture dignifying pain 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 With an immortal's patience blending : vain 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
 And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
 The old man's clench ; the lons-envenom'd chain 
 Rivets the living links, the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
 The God of life, and poesy, and light 
 The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
 All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
 The shaft hath just been shot the arrow bright 
 With an immortal's vengeance ; in his cy 
 And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
 And majesty, flash their full lightnings by 
 Develooing in that one glance the Deity*
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 But in his delicate form a dream of love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
 And madden'd in that vision are cxprest 
 All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
 The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
 When each conception was a heavenly guest 
 A ray of immortality and stood, 
 Star-like, around, until they gather'd to a god! 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
 The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
 By him to whom the energy was given 
 Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
 With an eternal glory which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human thought; 
 And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
 One ringlet in the dust nor hath it caught 
 A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which, 
 't was wrought. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
 The being who upheld it through the past ? 
 Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
 He is no more these breathings are his last; 
 His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
 And he himself as nothing: if he was 
 Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
 With forms which live and suffer let that pass 
 His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
 That we inherit, in its mortal shroud, 
 And spreads the dim and universal pall 
 Through which all things grown phantoms ; and the 
 
 cloud 
 
 Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd, 
 Till glory's self is twilight, and displays 
 A melancholy haio scarce allow'd 
 To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
 Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 And send us prying into the abyss, 
 To gather what we shall be when the frame 
 Shall be resolved to something less than this 
 Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
 And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
 We never more shall hear, but never more, 
 Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
 These fardels of the heart the heart whose sweat was 
 gore. 
 
 CLXVTI. 
 
 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 slorm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
 The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
 Seems r<-yal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
 And paie, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasus a bahfc. 10 whom her breast yields no relief. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thcu ? 
 
 Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 
 
 Could not the grave forget thee, and lay 'ow 
 
 Some less majestic, less beloved hc&d ? 
 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 
 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 
 Which fill'd the imperial isles so full itseem'd to P<-I> 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be, 
 O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! > 
 
 Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
 Her many griefs for ONE ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
 Beheld her Iris. Thou, too, lonely lord, 
 And desolate consort vainly wert thou wed! 
 The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ' 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy briclal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
 The fair-hair'd daughter of the isles is laid, 
 The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes : 't was but a meteor 
 beam'd. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, 60 and hath flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
 Goou without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother and now tiure ! 
 How jr.any ties did that stem moment tear : 
 From thy sire's; to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppreso 
 
 The land which loved thee so that none could lov 
 best. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Lo, Nemi ! ' navell'd in the woody hills 
 So far, that the uprooting wind, which tears 
 The oak from his foundation, and -vhich smlls 
 The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
 And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface \vea. 
 A deep cold settled aspect non-.n can sha*<* 
 
 All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps thr <u vac*
 
 84 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And, near, Albano's scarce divided waves 
 Shine from a sister valley ; and afar 
 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
 "Arms and the man," whose re-ascending star 
 Rose o'er an empire ; but beneath thy right 
 Tully reposed from Uome ; and where yon bar 
 Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
 The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight." 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 But I forget. My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
 And he and I must part, so let it be, 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
 And from the Alban Mount we no\ behold 
 Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we follovv'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades : long years 
 Long, though not very many, since have done 
 Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
 We have had our reward and it is here ; 
 That we can yet feel gladdcn'd by the sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye elements ! in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted can ye not 
 Accord me such a being 7 Do I err 
 I. deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 
 
 CLXXVHI. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
 I love not man the '.ess, but nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the universe, and feel 
 *Vhai I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Koll on, t'nou deep and dark-blue ocean roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin his control 
 Slops with the shore- ; upon the watery plain 
 The wiecks are all thv deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 W hen, for i moment, like a drop of rain, 
 Hn sinks into ihy depths with bubbling groan, 
 
 a grave, unkivsU'd uncofHn'd, and unknown. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he .vield* 
 For earth'? destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs mako 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save tliee 
 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 decpy 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' piay 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 CLXXXIH. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almignty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sub.ime 
 The image of eternity the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 And I have loved thee, ocean ! and my j'oy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror 't was a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane as I do nere. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 My task is done my song hath ceased my them* 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
 The spell should break of this protracted dreain. 
 The torch shall be extinguish'd which nith li*. 
 My midnight lamp and what is writ, is writ. 
 Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
 That which I have been and my visions flit 
 Less palpably before me and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is f uttering, fan*, i ow
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 86 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 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 you, the moral of his strain. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 CANTO L 
 
 Note 1. Stanza i. 
 Yes ! righ'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. 
 
 THE little village of Castri stands partly on the site of 
 Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, 
 are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the 
 rock : " One," said the guide, " of a king who broke 
 his neck hunting." His Majesty had certainly chosen 
 the fittest spot for such an achievement. 
 
 A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, 
 of immense depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and 
 now a cow-house. 
 
 On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- 
 tery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
 with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and ap- 
 parently leading to the interior of the mountain ; prob- 
 ably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
 From this part descend the fountain and the " Dews of 
 Castalie." 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xx. 
 And rest ye at " our Lady's house of woe." 
 
 The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
 Senora de Pena, ' on the summit of the rock. Below, 
 at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Ho- 
 norius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
 the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 
 Note 3. Stanza xxi. 
 
 Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. 
 
 It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the 
 assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
 were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
 men, but that Englishmen were daily butchered : and 
 so far from redress being obtained, we were requestec 
 not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
 ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
 the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evenin 
 when the streets were not more empty than they gener- 
 illy are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in 
 a carriage wlih a friend ; had we not fortunately been 
 .xrmed, I have not the least doubt that we should hav< 
 adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime o 
 
 1 Since the publication of this poem I have been intbrmei 
 f the misapprehension of the term JVossa Senora de Pena 
 It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the n 
 which altars the signification of the word : with it, Pena tig 
 vfies a rock ; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I <1> 
 not think it if ssary to alter the passage, as, thoii-M the com 
 mon accepts in affixed to it is "our Lady of the Rock," I ma 
 well tissumf ie other sense, from the severities practised there 
 L 2 
 
 ssassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicilr 
 nd Malta we are knocked on the head al a handsomf 
 
 average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is eve* 
 
 )unished ! 
 
 Note 4. Stanza x.xiv. 
 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were lalo convei.ed ! 
 The convention of Cintra was signed in the palao 
 if the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lorn 
 Vellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He ha3, 
 ndeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed j.o 
 character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
 nd baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
 >redecessors. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xxix. 
 Vet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 
 The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a pal- 
 ace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs 
 are the most beautiful I ever beheld in point of deco- 
 ration ; we did not hear them, but were told that their 
 tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is 
 .ermed the Escurial of .Portugal. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
 
 "1 wixl him and Lusian slave, tliu lowest of the low. 
 
 As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
 them. That they have since improved, at least in cou- 
 rage, is evident. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xxxv. 
 
 When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore 7 
 
 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
 ius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the 
 Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 
 some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquesl 
 of Grenada. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza xlviii. 
 No ! as he speeds he chaunts : " Viva el Rey !" 
 
 "Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdi- 
 nand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
 songs ; they are chiefly in dispraise of the old King 
 Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I hava 
 heard many of them ; some of the -airs are beautiful. 
 Godoy, the Pnncipe de la Paz, was born at Badajoz, 
 on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the 
 ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted 
 the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of 
 Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards 
 universally impute the ruin of their country. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza 1. 
 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimFqn hue. 
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 
 The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo" in Ui 
 centre. 
 
 Note 10. Stanza li. 
 
 The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match 
 All who have seen a battery will recollect the pjr 
 midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 
 Sierra Morena was foitified in every defile through 
 which I passed in my way to Seville. 
 
 Note 11. Stanza Ivi. 
 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand before a battfti u wall. 
 Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 
 When the author was at Seville she walked Jailvon tn
 
 36 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Prailo, d'ecoralnd with medals and orders, by command 
 of the Junto. 
 
 Note 12. Stanza Iviii. 
 
 The seal love's dimpling finger hath impressed 
 Denotes how soft that chin that bears his touch. 
 "Sigilla in mento impressa amoris digitulo 
 Vesugio demonstrant mollitudinem." Jiul. Gel. 
 
 Note 13. Stanza Ix. 
 Oh, thou Parnassus ! 
 
 These Stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the 
 foot of Parnassus, now called Aiaropa Liakura. 
 
 Note 14. Stanza Ixv. 
 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. 
 
 Seville was the HISPALIS of the Romans. 
 
 Note 15. Stanza bo. 
 Ask re, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 
 This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
 best situation for asking and answering such a ques- 
 tion ; not as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the capital 
 of Bceotia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
 solved. 
 
 Note 16. Stanza Ixxxii. 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 
 
 " Medio de fonte leporum 
 Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat." Luc. 
 
 Note 17. Stanza Ixxxv. 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 
 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
 Governor of Cadiz. 
 
 Note 18. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 " War even to the knife!" 
 
 'War to the knife ;" Palafox's answer to the French 
 General at the siege of Saragoza. 
 
 Note 19. Stanza xci. 
 And thou, my friend ! etc. 
 
 The honourable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died of 
 a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the 
 fcetter half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 
 
 In the short space of one month I have lost her who 
 (jave me being, and most of those who had made that 
 being tolerable. To me the lines of YOUNG are no 
 fiction : 
 
 Insatiate archer ! coukl not one suffice ? 
 Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. 
 And thrice ere Ihrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 
 
 I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
 fate 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 
 o>* greatei honours, against the ablest candidates, than 
 those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have 
 sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it 
 was acqu : red, while his softer qualities live in the recol- 
 M-ction of friends who loved him too well to envy his 
 uoenority. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza i. 
 despite ' war and wasting fire 
 P iT of tne Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 
 a magazine during the Venetian siege. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza i. 
 
 But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow. 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt tho sacreil glow 
 That tnoughts oftliee and thine on pu'lisli'd breasts boaUw. 
 
 We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with \\luck 
 the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are 
 beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects an 
 too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the 
 littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, ' 
 of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his 
 country, appear more conspicuous than in the record 
 of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now 
 is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, 
 of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition 
 of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is 
 now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual 
 disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
 British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls 
 and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less 
 degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have ihe 
 plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have 
 only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the 
 bravest; but how are the mighty fahen, when two 
 painters contest the privilege of plundering the Par- 
 thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
 each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip 
 subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained for 
 the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to 
 render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. 
 
 The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire, 
 during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, 
 and a mosque. In each point of view it is* an object ol 
 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, 
 Drost in a little brief authority. 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven. 
 As make the angels weep." 
 
 Note 3. Stanza v. 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. 
 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burr 
 their dead ; the greater Ajax in particular was interre* 
 entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after thei 
 decease, and he was indeed neglected who had not an- 
 nual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his 
 memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc., 
 and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic a* 
 his life was infamous. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza x. 
 
 Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throno. 
 The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
 columns entirely of marble yet survive : originally ther 
 were 150. These columns, however, are by many sup 
 posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xi. 
 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 
 The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xii. 
 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath sp?red 
 
 At this moment (January 3, 1809), besides what ha 
 
 been already deposited in London, a Hydriot vessel i 
 
 in the Piraeus to receive every possible rc'.ic. TKus, a^ 1 
 
 heard a young Greek observe, in common wi'Ji oxinv 4
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 S7 
 
 his> countrymen for, lost as they are, they yet feel on 
 tiiis occasion thus may Lord Elgin boast of having 
 ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, 
 named Lusieri, is the agent of devastation ; and, like 
 the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the 
 same profession, he has proved the able instrument of 
 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 com- 
 plaint before the Waywode. Lord Elgin has been ex- 
 tremely happy in his choice of SLgnor Lusieri. During 
 a residence of ten years in Athens, he never had the 
 curiosity to proceed as far as Sunium, ' till he accom- 
 panied us in our second excursion. However, his works, 
 as far as they go, are most beautiful : but they are al- 
 most all unfinished. While he and his patrons confine 
 themselves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, 
 sketching columns, and cheapening gems, their little 
 absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox-hunting, 
 maiden-speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such 
 pastime ; but when they carry away three or four ship- 
 loads of the most valuable and massy relics that time 
 and barbarism have left to the most injured and most 
 celebrated of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain at- 
 tempt to tear down, those works which have been the 
 admiration of ages, I know no motive which can ex- 
 cuse, no name which can designate, the perpetrators of 
 this dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the 
 crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plun- 
 dered Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. 
 The most unblushing impudence could hardly go fur- 
 ther than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls 
 of the Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface- 
 ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one 
 compartment of the temple, will never permit that name 
 to be pronounced, by an observer, without execration. 
 
 1 Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens 
 itself and Marathon, Ihere is no scene more interesting than 
 Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and anist, sixteen columns 
 are an inexhaustible source of observation and design ; to the 
 philosopher the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversa- 
 tions will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck 
 with the beauty of the prospect over " hln that crown the 
 Mgean deep;" but for an Englishman. Colonna has yet an 
 addition:! I inteiest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. 
 Pallas and Plato are forgotten in the recollection of Falconer 
 and Campbell : 
 
 " 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 been at sea from a great dis- 
 tance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape 
 Colonna. the view from either side, by land, was less striking 
 than the approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, 
 we had a narrow escape from a parly of Mainotea. concealed 
 in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of 
 iheir 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 com- 
 plete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they lemained station- 
 ary, anil thus slaved our parly, which was too small to have 
 opposed any effectual resistance. 
 
 Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates; there 
 " The hireline artist plants his paltry desk. 
 And makes degraded Nature picturesque." 
 
 (Sec Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc.) 
 
 But tliere Nature, with the aid of art. has done that for her- 
 self. 1 wot lortunate enough to engage a very superior German 
 mist; and Impe tn renew my acquaintance with tins and many 
 iMli l.-'vaotine scenes, by the arriva 1 of his performance*. 
 
 On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
 
 ector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; 
 
 ut I have some early prepossessions in favour of Greece, 
 
 and do not think the honour of England advanced by 
 
 plunder, whether of India or Attica. 
 
 Another noble Lord has done better, because he ha 
 done less: but some others, more or less noble, yet 
 " all honourable men," have done bftt, because, after 
 a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to th 
 Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done 
 nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, 
 which almost ended in blood-shed ! Lord E.'s " prig," 
 see Jonathan Wylde for the definition of " priggisra," 
 quarrelled with another, Gropius ' by name (a very 
 good name too for his business), and muttered some- 
 thing about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of 
 the poor Prussian : this was stated at table to Gropius, 
 who laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The 
 rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have 
 reason to remember their squabble, for they wanted to 
 make me their arbitrator. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xii. 
 
 Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
 
 I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
 my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no com- 
 ment with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- 
 fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex- 
 tract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note 
 to the above lines : 
 
 " When the last of the Metopes was taken from the 
 Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the su- 
 perstructure, with one of the triglyphs, was thrown 
 down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed ; 
 the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the build- 
 ing, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, 
 in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, TAej ' 
 I was present." 
 
 The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present 
 
 Dis lar. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza xiv. 
 
 Where was thine aegis, Pallas! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and havoc on their way T 
 According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
 oned Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that 
 the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- 
 tish peer See CHANDLER. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza xviii. 
 
 the netted canopy. 
 
 The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from taB- 
 ing on deck during action. 
 
 Note 10. Stanza xxix. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. 
 
 Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 
 
 1 This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for tha 
 sole purpose of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorrr 
 to say, that he has. through the abused sanction of that most 
 respectable name, been treading at an humble distance in the 
 steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipfull of his trophies was detained, 
 and, I believe, confiscated 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 thai 
 his noble patron disavows all connexion with him, except M 
 an artist. If the error in the first an<i second edition of Uii? 
 poem has given the noble Lord a moment's pain. 1 am verf 
 sorry for it: Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the nam of 
 his agent ; and, though I cannot much condemn myself fat 
 sharing in the mistake of so many, I am happy in be me on* 
 of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I havens much y eajo 
 in contradicting this at I felt reeret in statins it.
 
 83 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Note 11. Stanza xxxviii. 
 Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou ruggeJ nurse of savage men ! 
 
 Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Cha- 
 onia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for 
 Alexander; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Al- 
 exander) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of 
 tne thirty-eighth stanza. I do not know whether I am 
 torrect in making Sr.anderbeg the countryman of Alex- 
 ander, who was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. 
 Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in 
 speaking of his exploits. 
 
 Of Albania, Gibbon remarks, that a country " within 
 sight of Italy, is less known than the interior of Ame- 
 rica." Circumstances, of little consequence to men- 
 tion, led Mr. Hobhouse and myself into that country, 
 before we visited any other part of the Ottoman domin- 
 ions ; and with the exception of Major Leake, then 
 officially resident at Joannina, no other Englishmen 
 have ever advanced beyond the capital into the interior, 
 as that gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha 
 was at that time, (October, 1809), carrying on war 
 against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, 
 a strong fortress, which he was then besieging : on our 
 arrival at Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his 
 Highness's birth-place, and favourite Serai, only one 
 day's distance from Bcrat ; at this juncture the Vizier 
 had made it his head-quarters. 
 
 After some stay in the capital, we accordingly fol- 
 lowed; but though furnished with every accommoda- 
 tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we 
 were nine days (on account of the rains) in accom- 
 plishing a journey which, on our return, barely occu- 
 pied 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 Dclvinachi, the frontier vil- 
 lage of Epirus and Albania Proper. 
 
 On Albania and its inhabitants, I am unwilling to 
 descant, because this will be done so much better by 
 my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably 
 precede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow 
 as I would to anticipate him. But some few observa- 
 tions are necessary to the text. 
 
 The Amaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
 their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in 
 dross, figure, and manner of living. Their very moun- 
 tains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The 
 kilt, though white ; the spare, active form ; heir dia- 
 lect, Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all car- 
 ried me back to Morven. No nation are so detested 
 and dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese : the 
 Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks 
 as Moslems ; and in fact t'aey are a mixture of both, 
 laid sometimes neither. Their habits are predatory: 
 all are armed ; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the 
 Montenegrins, Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous; 
 ne others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in 
 Jjaraoter. As ^ir as my o%vn experience goes, I can 
 upeak favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel 
 and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other 
 (>drt of 1 urxey which rame within my observation ; and 
 more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are 
 rare to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the 
 Moslem, Der*ish Tahiri ; the formo-r a man of middle 
 
 age, and the latter about my own. Basili was stnctlj 
 changed by Ali Pacha in person to attend us ; and Der- 
 vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through ths 
 forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and on- 
 ward to Messalunghi in ^Etolia. There I took him inta 
 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, whose throat they threatened to cut if I 
 was not cured within a given time. To this consola 
 tory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a reso- 
 lute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's prescriptions, I attributed 
 my recovery. I had left my last remaining English 
 servant at Athens ; my dragoman was as ill as myself, 
 and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention 
 which would have done honour to civilization. 
 
 They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, 
 Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was al- 
 ways squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; inso- 
 much that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit 
 of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his 
 having taken a woman from the bath whom he had 
 lawfully bought however a thing quite contrary to 
 etiquette. 
 
 Basili also was extremely gallant amongst his own 
 persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
 church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- 
 men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most hetero- 
 dox manner. Yet he never passed a church without 
 crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in 
 entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once 
 been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with 
 him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably an- 
 swered, " our church is holy, our priests are thieves ;" 
 and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the 
 ears of the first " papas" who refused to assist in any 
 required operation, as was always found to be neces- 
 sary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia 
 Bashi 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 
 Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. Basili 
 took his with an awkward show of regret at my in- 
 tended departure, and marched away to his quarters 
 with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for 
 some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered, 
 just as Signer Logotheti, father to the ci-devant Ang'o- 
 consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- 
 quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, 
 but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping 
 his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out 
 of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to 
 the h6"ur of my embarkation, he continued his lament- 
 ations, and all our efforts to console him only produced 
 (his answer, " M' aQctvtt," " He leaves me." Signer 
 Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing les 
 than the loss of a para, ' melted ; the padre of the 
 convent, my attendants, my visitors and I verily be- 
 lieve that even " Sterne's foolish fat scullion" would 
 have left her " fish-kettle" to sympathize with the un 
 affected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 
 
 1 P about the fourth of a faith ing.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 For my own part, when I remembered that, a short 
 time before my departure from England, a noble and 
 most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- 
 ino leave of me because he had to attend a relation 
 " to a milliner's," I felt no less surprised than humili- 
 ated by the present occurrence and the past recollec- 
 don. 
 
 That Dervish would leave me with sonic regret was 
 to be expected : when master and man have been 
 scrambling over the mountains of a dozen provinces to- 
 gether, they are unwilling to separate ; but his present 
 feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved 
 my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost 
 feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on 
 our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my ser- 
 vice gave him a push in some dispute about the bag- 
 gage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow ; he spoke 
 not, but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. 
 Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to ex- 
 plain away the affront, which produced the following 
 answfer: "I have been, a robber, I am a soldier; no 
 captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I have eaten 
 your bread ; but by that bread ! (a usual oath) had it 
 been otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog your ser- 
 vant, and gone to the mountains." So the affair ended, 
 but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave 
 the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. 
 
 Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- 
 tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : be that as 
 it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It is 
 very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull round- 
 about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party had 
 BO many specimens. 
 
 The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultiva- 
 tors of the earth in the provinces, who have also that 
 appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast o) 
 countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever be- 
 held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the 
 road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
 and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
 atrical ; but this strut is probably the effect of the.ca- 
 pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
 long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cour- 
 age in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though 
 they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never 
 saw a good Arnaout horseman : my own preferred the 
 English saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
 But on foot they arc not to be subdued by fatigue. 
 
 Note 12. Stanza xxxlx. 
 
 an.l pass'd the barren spot. 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. 
 
 Ithaca. 
 
 Note 13. Stanza xl. 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 
 Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. Th< 
 battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, bu 
 less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras ; here thi 
 author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 
 
 Note 14. Stanza xli. 
 Anil hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
 Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontor} 
 (the I .over's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown her 
 
 Mif. 
 
 17 
 
 Note 15. Stanza xlv. 
 
 many a Roman chief and Asian king. 
 
 It is said, that on the day previous to the battle o. 
 Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 
 
 Note 16. Stanza xlv. 
 Look where the second Cassar's trophies rose. 
 Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at sornt. 
 listance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- 
 Irome survives in a few fragments. 
 
 Note 17. Stanza xlvii. 
 
 Acherusia's lake. 
 
 According to Pouqueville, the Lake of Yanina ; biit 
 "ouqueville is always out. 
 
 Note 18. Stanza xlvii. 
 To greet Albania's chief. 
 
 The celebrated All Pacha. Of this extraordinary man 
 here is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. 
 
 Note 19. Stanza xlvii. 
 
 Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
 
 Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
 castle of Suli, withstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen 
 ears : the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this 
 contest there were several acts performed not unworthy 
 of the better days of Greece. 
 
 Note 20. Stanza xlviii. 
 
 Monastic Zitza, etc. 
 
 The convent and village of Zitza are (bur hours' jour- 
 ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa- 
 chalick. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Ache- 
 ron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cataract. 
 The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though 
 the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and 
 /Etolia may contest 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 Constanti- 
 nople, but, from the different features of the last, 
 comparison can hardly be made. 
 
 Note 21. Stanza xlix. 
 Here dwells the caloyer 
 The Greek monks are so called. 
 
 Note 22. Stanza li. 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. 
 The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vo 
 canic. 
 
 Note 23. Stanza h. 
 
 behold black Acheron : 
 
 Now called Kalamas. 
 
 Note 24. Stanza lii. 
 
 in his white capotp 
 
 Albanese cloak. 
 
 Note 25. Stanza Iv. 
 The sun had sunn behind vast Tomwit. 
 Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
 
 Note 26. Stanza Iv. 
 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring DJ. 
 The river Laos was full at the time the author pa.s.> 
 it ; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the *je **
 
 90 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 wide as the Thames i>a Westminster; at least in the 
 opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr. 
 Hobhouse. In the summer it must be much narrower. 
 It certainly is the finest river in the Levant ; neither 
 Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, 
 pproached it in breadth or beauly. 
 
 Note 27. Stanza Ixvi. 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 
 Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
 Note 28. Stanza Ixxi. 
 
 the red wine circling fast. 
 
 The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
 and indeed very few of the others. 
 
 Note 29. Stanza Ixxi. 
 Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 
 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
 from Ua\iKapt, a general name for a soldier amongst 
 the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic it means 
 properly " a lad." 
 
 Note 30. Stanza Ixxii. 
 While thus in concert, etc. 
 
 As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
 the Illyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral 
 songs, which are generally chaunted in dancing by men 
 or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely 
 a kind of chorus, without meaning, like some in our 
 own and all other languages. 
 
 Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 
 
 Naciarura, popuso. 
 
 Naciarura na civin 
 Ha pe uderini ti hin. 
 Ha pe uderi escrotini 
 Ti vin ti mar servetini. 
 
 Caliriote me surme 
 Ea ha pe pse dua live. 
 
 Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
 
 Gi egem spirta esimiro. 
 Caliriote vu le funds 
 Ede veto tunde tunde. 
 
 Caliriote me surme 
 Ti mi put e poi mi le. 
 
 Se ti puta citi mora 
 Si mi ri ni veti udo gia 
 
 be thou silent. 
 
 I come, I run ; open the 
 door that I may enter. 
 
 Open the door by halves, 
 that I may take my tur- 
 ban. 
 
 Caliriotes 1 with the dark 
 eyes, open the gate that 
 I may enter. 
 
 Lo, lo, I hear thee, my 
 soul. 
 
 An Arnaout girl, in costly 
 garb, walks with graceful 
 pride. 
 
 Caliriot maid of the dark 
 eyes, give me a kiss. 
 
 If I have kissed thee, what 
 hast thou gained? My 
 soul is consumed with 
 fire. 
 
 Va ie ni il chc cadale Dance lightly, more gently, 
 Celo more, more celo. and gently still. 
 
 I*iu hari ti tirete Make not so much dust to 
 
 I'lu huron cia ora seti. destroy your embroidered 
 
 hose. 
 
 The lasv. stanza would puzzle a commentator : the men 
 nave certainly buskins of the^ost beautiful texture, 
 tint the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be 
 addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 
 
 I The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently 
 it Calirio'e" " for what reason I inquired in vain. 
 
 and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes very white 
 ancle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer than the 
 Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. They 
 preserve their shape much longer also, from being al- 
 ways in the open air. It is to be observed that the 
 Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of thi 
 song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, are 
 spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied 
 by one who speaks and understands the dialect peiv 
 fectly, and who is a native of Athens. 
 
 Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa 
 Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 
 
 Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse 
 Si mi rini mi la vosse. 
 
 Uti tasa roba stua 
 Sitti eve tulati dua. 
 
 Roba stinori ssidua 
 Qu mi siru vetti dua. 
 
 Qurmini dua civileni 
 Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 
 
 Utara pisa vaisisso me simi 
 
 rin ti bapti. 
 Eti mi bire a piste si gui 
 
 dendroi tiltati. 
 
 Udi vura udorini udiri ci- 
 
 cova cilti mora 
 Udorini talti hollna u ede 
 
 caimoni mora. 
 
 I am wounded by thy love, 
 and have loved but to 
 scorch myself. 
 
 Thou hast consumed me ! 
 Ah, maid ! thou hast 
 struck me to the heart. 
 
 I have said I wish no dow- 
 ry, but thine eyes and 
 eyelashes. 
 
 The accursed dowry I want 
 not, but thee only. 
 
 Give me thy charms, and 
 let the portion feed the 
 flames. 
 
 I have loved thee, maid, 
 with a sincere soul, but 
 thou hast left me like a 
 withered tree. 
 
 If I have placed my hand 
 on thy bosom, what have 
 I gained? my hand is 
 withdrawn, but retains 
 the flame. 
 
 I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
 ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An 
 idea something similar to the thought in the last lines 
 was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in 
 contact with one of his " u-oicoXirioi," Critobulus or 
 Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting 
 pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and 
 therefore very properly resolved to teach his disciples 
 in future without touching them. 
 
 Note 31. Seng, stanza 1. 
 Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy 'larum afar, etc. 
 These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- 
 nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by 
 the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 
 
 Note 32. Song, stanza 8. 
 Remember the moment when Previsa fell. 
 It was taken by storm from the French. 
 
 Note 33. Stanza Ixxiii. 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic ofdcparted worth, etc. 
 Some thoughts on this subject will be found in IM 
 subjoined papers. 
 
 Note 34. Stanza Ixxiv. 
 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train. 
 
 Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
 has still considerable remains ; it was seized by Thrasy 
 bulus previous U. .he expulsion of the. Thirty
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Note 35. Stanza Ixxvii. 
 Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. 
 
 When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
 years. See GIBBON. 
 
 Note 36. Stnnza Ixxvii. 
 The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
 Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
 Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 
 
 Note 37. Stanza Ixxxv. 
 Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 
 On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
 snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
 tense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on the 
 plains, even in winter. 
 
 Note 38. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 
 Of 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 
 the end of time. 
 
 Note 39. Stanza Lxxxix. 
 When Marathon became a magic word 
 " Siste, viator heroa calcas !" was the epitaph on 
 the famous Count Merci ; what then must be our 
 feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two 
 hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The prin- 
 cipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few 
 or no relics, as vases, etc. were found by the excavator. 
 The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at 
 the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hun- 
 dred pounds ' Alas ! " Expende quot libras in duce 
 summo invenies?" was the dust of Miltiades worth 
 no more ? it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by 
 weight, 
 
 PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 
 1. 
 
 Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
 body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say 
 something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
 borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes,, to 
 have the goodness to marry her to somebody more o 
 a gentleman than a " Disdar Aga" (who by the by is 
 not an aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the 
 greatest patron oflarceny Athens ever saw (except Lore 
 E.), and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a 
 handsome annual stipend of 130 piastres (eight pounds 
 sterling), out of which he has only to pay his garrison 
 the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Otto- 
 man Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was onc 
 the cause of the husband of " Ida of Athens" nearl; 
 suffering the bastinado; and because the said " Disdar' 
 is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that 
 exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separat 
 maintenance in behalf of " Ida." Having premised 
 fhus much, on a matter of such import to the readers 
 of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention her 
 jirth-place. 
 
 Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
 associations which it would be pedantic and super- 
 fluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens 
 
 A'ould render it the favourite of all who have eves for 
 art or nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a 
 erpetual spring ; during eight months I never passed a 
 lay without being as many hours on horseback ; rain 
 s extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a 
 cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portusal, 
 and every part of the East which I visited, except Iou> 
 and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate 
 o 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 
 even. 
 
 The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but 
 the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of 
 VIegara, the change is strikingly perceptible. But I feai 
 Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of 
 a Boeotian winter. 
 
 W T e found at Livadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek 
 jishop, of all free-thinkers ! 1 lis worthy hypocrite 
 rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not 
 jefore his flock), and talked of a mass as a " coglic- 
 neria." It was impossible to think better of him for 
 this : but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his ab- 
 surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed 
 of Thebes, the remains of Chseronea, the plain of 
 Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of 
 Trophonius), was the only remarkable thing we saw 
 before we passed Mount Cithreron. 
 
 The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- 
 panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- 
 sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
 Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may 
 contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen 
 streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided 
 to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and 
 even that had a villanous twang, probably from the 
 snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever 
 like poor Doctor Chandler. 
 
 From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, 
 the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the^Egean, 
 and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
 opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or 
 Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, 
 the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
 equal it, though so superior in extent. 
 
 I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but, except- 
 ing the view from the monastery of Megaspelion (which 
 is inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the 
 descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza 
 to Arsos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond 
 the name. 
 
 " Stcrnitur, 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 doe 
 not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Sta- 
 tins, "In mediis audit duo littora campis," did actually 
 hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he 
 had better ears than have ever been worn in sucn 
 journey since. 
 
 "Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is still Un 
 most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may i. 
 Greece, but not of the Greeks; for Joannina, in Epiu*i 
 is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be supe 
 rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect i 
 its inhabitants. The Athenians are n mirkable <
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 their cunning , and the lower orders are not improperly 
 characterized 1 in th.tt proverb, which classes them with 
 " the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negro- 
 pont." 
 
 Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
 French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there was 
 never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
 Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- 
 puted with great acrimony. 
 
 M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty 
 years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
 artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have 
 known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently 
 declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve 
 to be emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of their 
 " national and individual depravity," while he forgot 
 that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which 
 can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 
 
 M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long 
 settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing 
 gravity : " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed 
 in the days of Themistocles ."' an alarming remark to 
 the " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished 
 Themistocles ; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque : 
 thus great men have ever been treated ! 
 
 In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most 
 of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc. of passage, 
 canvs over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
 same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn 
 the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by 
 his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. 
 
 Certainly it was not a little staggering, when the 
 Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
 of the day, who divide between them the power of 
 Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the 
 poor Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in 
 the utter condemnation, "nulla virtute redemptum," 
 of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in par- 
 ticular. 
 
 For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, 
 Knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less 
 than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most 
 threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- 
 sons of wit, and honour, and regular commonplace 
 books : but, if I may say this without offence, it seems 
 to me rather hard to declare so positively and pertina- 
 ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the 
 Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. 
 
 Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
 gyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw 
 and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
 demerits. 
 
 The Greeks will never be independent; they will 
 never be sovereigns, as heretofore, and God forbid they 
 ever should ! but they may be subjects without being 
 laves. Our colonies are not independent, but they 
 are free and industrious, and such may Greece be 
 noreaftpr. 
 
 At present, like the Catholics of Ireland, and the 
 ,e\vs throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
 ind heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and 
 physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a 
 Ktrusgie against truth ; they are vicious in their own 
 rletence. They are so unused to kindness, that when 
 ;'CT occasionally meet with it, they look upon it with 
 
 suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingen 
 if you attempt to caress him. " They are ungrateful, 
 notoriously, abominably ungrateful !" this is the gen- 
 eral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis ! for what ar 
 they to be grateful ? Where is the human being that 
 ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? TheV 
 are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and t> 
 the Franks for their broken promises and lying coun- 
 sels. They are to be grateful to the artist who engraves 
 their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them 
 away : to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and 
 to the scribbler whose journal abuses them ! This is the 
 amount of their obligations to foreigners. 
 
 II. 
 
 Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. 
 
 Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the 
 earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist 
 in different countries ; whose inhabitants, however di- 
 vided in religion and manners, almost all agree in op- 
 pression. 
 
 The English have at last compassionated their ne- 
 groes, and, under a less bigoted government, may 
 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 
 chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have 
 from mankind in general. , 
 
 Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
 at least the younger men of Europe devote much of 
 their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, 
 which would be more usefully spent in mastering theii 
 own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful 
 than they deserve ; and while every man of any pre- 
 tensions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often his 
 age, in the study of the language and of the harangues 
 of the Athenian demagogues, in favour of freedom, the 
 real or supposed descendants of these sturdy 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 lie no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the 
 Franks, to their becoming a useful dependency, or 
 even a free state with a proper guarantee; under 
 correction, however, be it spoken, for many and well- 
 informed men doubt the practicability even of this. 
 
 The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they 
 are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their 
 probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians; 
 but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by 
 that power, and the dreadful lesson they received after 
 the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been 
 forgotten. The French they dislike ; although the 
 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 possessed themselves of the Ionian 
 republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever appear with 
 arms in their hands will be welcome ; and when that 
 day arrives, Heaven have mercy on the Ot'.omans ; they 
 cannot expect it from the Giaours. 
 
 But instead of considering what (hey have been, aitd
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 ipecukl : ng 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, decry- 
 ing the Greeks in the strongest language ; others, gen- 
 erally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and 
 publishing veiy 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 fu- 
 ture fortunes of Peru. 
 
 One very ingenious person terms them the " natural 
 allies" of Englishmen ; another, no less ingenious, will 
 not al'ow them to be the allies of any body, and denies 
 their very descent from the ancients ; a third, more in- 
 genious than eitlier, builds a Greek empire on a Russian 
 foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of 
 Catherine II. As to the question of their descent, what 
 can it import whether the Mainotes are the lineal La- 
 conians or n.A 7 or the present Athenians as indigenous 
 as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to 
 which they once likened themselves ? What English- 
 man cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or 
 Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welchman, is afflicted 
 with a desire of being descended from Caractacus ? 
 
 The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
 things of this world, as to render even their claims to 
 antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel then in Mr. 
 Thornton, to disturb them in the possession of all that 
 time has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which they 
 are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their 
 own. It would be worth while to publish together, and 
 compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, 
 Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and prejudice 
 on the other. Air. Thornton conceives himself to have 
 claims to public confidence from a fourteen years' resi- 
 dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the 
 Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the real 
 state of Greece and her inhabitants, than as many years 
 spent in Wapping, into that of the Western Highlands. 
 
 The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if 
 Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
 than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
 should place no great reliance on his information. I 
 actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their 
 little general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
 himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
 four times at Constantinople in as many years. 
 
 As to Mr. Thornton's voyages 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 then does 
 he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a body 
 of men, of whom he can know little ? It is rather a cu- 
 rious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so lavishly 
 dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion of mentioning 
 rhe 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 
 jterature ; nor is there any probability of our being bet- 
 er acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- 
 mate, or their independence confirmed : the relations of 
 passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the 
 
 M 
 
 invectives of angry factors ; but till som-lh'mg more 
 can be attained, we must be content with the little to 
 be acquired from similar sources. ' 
 
 However defective these may be, they are preferaU 
 to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially o 
 the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such a* 
 De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that the British breed 
 of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- 
 tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know- 
 ledge' of English horses and Spartan men. His "phi- 
 losophical observations" have a much better claim to 
 the title of " poetical." It could not be expected that 
 he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
 brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy or< 
 the modern Greeks : and it fortunately happens, thai 
 the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers re- 
 futes his sentence on themselves. 
 
 Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of 
 De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
 reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
 who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and 
 policy, have been amply punished by three centuries 
 and a half of captivity. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 
 " I must have some talk with this learned Theban." 
 
 Some time after my return from Constantinople tu 
 this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin 
 burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at thii 
 distance an acceptable one, from the Captain of an 
 English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3, 
 containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, 
 there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
 Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
 Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those 
 remarks I mean to ground a few observations, ai:d 
 the spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient 
 excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
 connected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated 
 of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was born 
 
 1 A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouquo 
 ville, wlio have been guilty between them of Badly clipping 
 the Sultan's Turkish. 
 
 Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swal 
 lowed corrosive sublimate, in such quantities that he acquired 
 the name of " Suleyman Yej/cn," i. e. quoth the doctor, 
 " Suleyman, 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 the doctor's anecdote, he questions the doctor'* 
 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 nothing more 
 than Suleyman the eater," and ouite cashiers the supple- 
 mentary "sublimate." Now both are right and both ar 
 wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides "fourteen 
 years in the factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, or 
 ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will discover that 
 " Stdeyina'n yeyen," put together discreetly, mean ihe 
 " Shallower of sublimate," without any " Sulet/man" in Ilia 
 case; " Sulevma" signifying "corrosive sublimate," and not 
 being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an or- 
 thodox name enough with the addition of n After Mr 
 Thornton's frequent hints of profound orientalism, he might 
 have found this out before he sang such paeans over Dr 
 Pouqueville. 
 
 After this, I think "Travellers versus Factors" shall <*> 
 our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton has condemned 
 "hoc genus omne,"tbr mistake and misrepresentation. *' N 
 Sutor ultra crepidam." "No merchant beyond hi* hales' 
 N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton ' Sutor" w 
 proper name.
 
 SI 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 at Scio (n> the E.evic-v Smyrna is stated, I have reason 
 to think, incorrectly), an/], besides the translation of 
 Beccaria, and other works Mentioned by the reviewer, 
 has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may 
 trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately 
 arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here 
 in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloon. ' 
 Coray has recently been involved in an unpleasant 
 controversy with M. Gail, a a Parisian commentator and 
 editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in 
 consequence of the Institute having awarded him the 
 prize for his version of Hippocrates " Iltpi Maruv," 
 etc. to the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, 
 of the said Gail. To his exertions, literary and patriotic, 
 great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise 
 ought not to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado 
 (merchants settled in Leghorn), who sent him to Paris, 
 and maintained him, for the express purpose of eluci- 
 dating tne ancient, and adding to the modern researches 
 of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not considered 
 by his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two 
 last centuries : more particularly Dorotheus of Mity- 
 lene, whose Hellenic writings are so much esteemed by 
 the Greeks, that Meletius terms him, " Mira TOV 
 QovKvSi&tjv KOI Etvo^uvra apiaro; 'EXXjJvuv." (P. 224. 
 Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.) 
 
 Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
 and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
 the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more 
 particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
 Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
 The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
 a work on " True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine 
 II. But Potyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be 
 the only modern except Coray, who has distinguished 
 himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Poly- 
 zois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a 
 number of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor 
 less than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
 tents 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 des- 
 titute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, how- 
 ever, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have 
 edited the Epistles of Aristsenetus. 
 
 It is to be regretted that the system of continental 
 blockade has closed the few channels through which 
 the Greeks received their publications, particularly 
 Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
 children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
 Amongst their original works, the Geography of Mele- 
 tius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- 
 logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met 
 with : their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
 four languages, are numerous and excellent. Their 
 
 1 I havn in my possession an ex'.dllent Lexicon " rpt- 
 yXu<r<rov," which I received in exchange from 8. G , Esq., 
 for a small gem : my antiquarian friends have never forgotten 
 ., or forgiven me. 
 
 ? In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of " throwing 
 the insolvent Hellenists out of the windows." On this a 
 French critic exclaims, " Ah, my God ' throw a Hellcniste 
 nut of '.he window ! what sacrilege !" It certainly would be 
 it serious business for those authors who dwell in the attics : 
 but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity 
 uf alylp among the controversialists of all polished countries : 
 l.undor nr Edinburgh could hardly parallel this Parisian 
 Mlllition 
 
 poetry is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have Iat3ly 
 seen, is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, Eng- 
 lish, and French traveller, and the Waywode of Wal- 
 lachia (or Blackbey, as they term him), an archbishop, 
 a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in succes- 
 sion ; to all of whom under the Turks the writer attrib- 
 utes their present degeneracy. Their songs are some- 
 times pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally 
 unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous 
 " AtOrt ira'i&tf riav 'EAXiJvwv," by the unfortunate 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 intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
 Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, 
 if possible, for printing in London a translation of Bar- 
 thelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other 
 opportunity, unless he despatches the 31S. to Vienna 
 by the Black Sea and Danube. 
 
 The reviewer mentions a school established at Heca- 
 tonesi, 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 
 students and three professors, still exists. It is true, 
 that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, under 
 the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were constructing 
 a fortress instead of a college; but on investigation, 
 and the payment of some purses to the Divan, it has 
 been permitted to continue. The principal professor, 
 named Veniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to be a 
 man of talent, but a free-thinker. He was born in 
 Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, 
 Latin, and some Frank languages, besides a smattering 
 of the sciences. 
 
 Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this 
 topic than may allude to the article in question, I can- 
 not but observe that the reviewer's lamentation over the 
 fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it 
 with these words : " the change is to be attributed t(t 'heir 
 misfortunes, rather than to any physical degradation." 
 It may be true, that the Greeks are not physically de- 
 generated, 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 con- 
 nexion between moral degradation and national decay. 
 
 The reviewer mentions a plan, " we believe," by Po- 
 temkin, for the purification of the Romaic, and I have 
 endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of 
 its existence. There was an academy in St. Petersburg 
 for the Greeks : but it was suppressed by Paul, and ha 
 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. xxxi, of the Edinburgh Review, whera 
 these words occur : " We are told that when the capi 
 tal of the East yielded to Solyman" It may be pre 
 sumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be 
 altered to Mahomet II. 1 The "ladies of Constantinople," 
 
 1 Fn a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1S08, it a 
 observed, "Lord Byron passed some of his early yean in 
 Scotland, where he might have learned that pibroch does no* 
 mean a bagpipe, any moni thai due t means njiddli " Query 
 Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen ot JIP ULo
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A seems, at that ncriod spoke a dialect, " which would 
 not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian." I do not 
 know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
 in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much 
 altered ; being far from choice either in their dialect or 
 J.vpressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a 
 proverb : 
 
 " ii \6rjva TrpoTJj %b>pa 
 
 Tt yaiiapov; rptQcis rupa ;" 
 
 In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence: 
 " The vulgi: ialect 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 Caesar, spoke a purer dialect then Anna 
 Comnena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
 pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
 although the princess yXuirrav i%tv AKPIBiiS Arr<*j- 
 fyvoav. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek 
 is spoken : in the latter there is a flourishing school 
 under the direction of Psalida. 
 
 There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is 
 making a tour of observation through Greece : he is in- 
 telligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner 
 of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the 
 spirit of inquiry is not dormant amongst the Greeks. 
 
 The reviewer mentions Air. Wright, the author of the 
 beautiful poem " Horse lonicae," as qualified to give de- 
 tails of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, 
 and also of their language : but Mr. Wright, though a 
 good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where 
 he slates the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- 
 mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak 
 l Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- 
 leenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina (where, 
 next to Fanal, the Greek is purest), although the 
 capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but 
 Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper up 
 to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which I did not 
 advance), they speak worse Greek than even the Athen- 
 ians. J was attended for a year and a half by two of 
 these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is 
 Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen 
 (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount 
 of twenty thousand in the army of Veli Pacha) praised 
 for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provincial 
 barbarisms. 
 
 I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
 amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written 
 to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the 
 dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea (which last 
 governs in Veli Pacha's absence) are said to be favour- 
 
 burgh Review Ifarned that Solvman means Mahomet II. any 
 more than criticism means infallibility ? but thus it is, 
 "Ciedimus inque vicem prsebemus crura gagittis." 
 The mistake seemed to completely a lapse of the pen (from 
 the great similarity of the two words, and the total absence 
 Cf' error from the loriner pages of the literary leviathan), that 
 \ should have passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived 
 in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all 
 ucli detections, particularly t recent one, where words and 
 yllables are subjects of disquisitioii r;rui transposition : and the 
 cbove-meiitioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly 
 propelled IIIH to hint how much easier it is to be critical than 
 correct. Th* e**t/emen. having enjoyed many a triumph on 
 urn victories wiJl hardly begrudge mn a Blight ovation for 
 
 lie U resell 
 
 able specimens of their epistolary style, I also receive* 
 some at Constantinople from private persons, writtc* 
 in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique 
 character. 
 
 The reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on tht 
 tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 
 59) 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 para- 
 graph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of 
 the Romaic, as " a powerful auxiliary," not only to tho 
 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 bloood) 
 would be sadly perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," or any 
 other given " Auchinlech MS." with or withput a gram- 
 mar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it seema 
 evident, that none but a native can acquire a competent, 
 far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. 
 We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no 
 more believe him than we do Smollett's Lismahago, who 
 maintains that the purest English is spoken in Edin- 
 burgh. That Coray may err is very possible ; but if he 
 does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother 
 tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid 
 to the native student. Here the Reviewer proceeds to 
 business on Slrabo's translators, and here I close my 
 remarks. 
 
 Sir. W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen 
 Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Cell, Mr. Walpole 
 and many others now in England, have all the requisite* 
 to furnish details of this fallen people. The few obser- 
 vations I have offered I should have left where I made 
 them, had not the article in question, and, above all, 
 the spot where I read it, induced me to advert to those 
 pages, which the advantage of my present situation 
 enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 
 
 I have endeavoured to waive the personal feelings 
 which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of 
 the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to conciliate 
 the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance 
 of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from 
 a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
 ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more 
 particularly at this distance of time and place. 
 
 ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TURKS. 
 
 The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been mucn 
 
 exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished of 
 
 late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a 
 
 kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to voyageis. 
 
 It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turk* 
 and Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them 
 twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
 from themselves. As far as my own slight experience 
 carried me, I have no complaint to make ; but am in 
 debted for many civilities (I might almost say iut 
 friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his s'm 
 Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high r.iim 
 in the provinces. Suleyman Ago, late Governor o<
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 \thons, and now of Thebes, was a bon rivant, and as 
 social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
 table. During the carnival, when our English party 
 were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
 more happy to " receive masks " than any dowager in 
 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 \Vaywode himself triumphed in his 
 fall. 
 
 In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
 found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
 In transacting business with them, there are none of 
 those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, dif- 
 ference of exchange, commission, etc. etc., uniformly 
 found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even 
 on the first houses in Pera. 
 
 With regard to presents, and 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 Christian- 
 ity ; but there does not exist a more honourable, 
 friendly, and high-spirited character than the true Turk- 
 ish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It 
 is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, 
 but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, 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 
 civilization. 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. Regi- 
 mentals are the best travelling dress. 
 
 The best accounts of the religion, and different sects 
 of Islamism, may be found in D'Olisson's French ; of 
 their manners, etc., perhaps in Thorton's English. The 
 Ottomans, with 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 can at least say what they are not : 
 they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, they 
 rto not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an 
 er.emy advanced to tlieir capital. They are faithful to 
 tneir sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout 
 to tneir God without an inquisition. Were they driven 
 from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians 
 enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, 
 whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England 
 would certainly be the loser. 
 
 With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
 generally, and sometimes justly, accused, it may be 
 loubted, always excepting France and England, in what 
 useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other 
 nations. Is it in the common arts of life ? In their 
 manufactures ? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo ? 
 w is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and 
 .might, than a Spaniard ? Are their Pachas worse edu- 
 cated than a grandee ? or an Effendi than a Knight of 
 St. Jago ? 1 think P->. 
 
 I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
 vicing whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 
 
 the upper or lower House 'if Parliament. Now this 
 question from a boy of ten years old proved that his 
 education had not been neglected. It may be doubted 
 if an English boy at that, age knows the diffe-ence of 
 the Divan from a College of Dervises ; but I am ve-y 
 sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, sur- 
 rounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, 
 had learned that there was such a thing as a parlia- 
 ment, it were useless to conjecture, unless we supposa 
 that his instructors did not confine his studies to the 
 Koran. 
 
 In all the mosques there are schools established 
 which are very regularly attended; and the poor are 
 taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
 peril. I believe the system is not yet printed (though 
 there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
 printed on the late military institution of the Nizam 
 Gedidd): nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the 
 Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
 Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous 
 youth of the turban should be taught not to " pray to 
 God their way." The Greeks, also a kind of Eastern 
 Irish papists have a college of their own at Maynooth 
 no, at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much 
 the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as 
 the Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
 shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
 when they thus evince the exact proportion of Chris- 
 tain charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous 
 and orthodox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though 
 they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to 
 participate in their privileges : no, let them fight their 
 battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in 
 this world, and damned in the next. And shall we 
 then emancipate our Irish Helots ? Mahomet forbid ! 
 We s hould then be bad Mussulmans, and worse C hris- 
 tians ; at present we unite the best of both Jesuitical 
 faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish 
 toleration. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 AMONGST an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse 
 to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it is 
 less to be wondered at that we find so few publications 
 on general subjects, than that we find any at all. The 
 whole number of the Greeks, scattered up and dowp 
 the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at 
 most, to three millions ; and yet, for so scanty a num- 
 ber, it is impossible to discover any nation with so 
 great a proportion of books and their authors, as the 
 Greeks of the present century. " Ay," but say the 
 generous advocates of oppression, who, while they as- 
 sert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them 
 from dispelling it, " ay, but these are mostly, if not 
 all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good fcr 
 nothing." Well! and pray what else can they write 
 about ? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, partic- 
 ularly an Englishman, who may abuse the govern- 
 ment of his own country ; or a Frenchman, who may 
 abuse every government except his own, and who may 
 range at will over every philosophical, religious, scien- 
 tific, sceptical, or moral subject, sneering at tlte Greek 
 legends. A Greek must not write on politics, ai.d can- 
 not touch on science for want of instruct. . if S
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; therefore 
 lis countrymen are not poisoned with modern philoso- 
 ohy ; and, as to morals, thanks to the Turks ! there are 
 no such tilings. What then is left him, if he has a turn 
 "or scribbling ? Religion and holy biography : and it is 
 natural enough that those who have so little in this life 
 should look to the next. It is no great wonder then that 
 in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek wri- 
 ters, many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen 
 should have touched on any thing but religion. The 
 catalogue alluded to is contained in the twenty-sixth 
 chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical 
 History. From this I subjoin an extract of those who 
 have written on .general subjects ; which will be followed 
 by some specimens of the Romaic. 
 
 LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS. 1 
 
 Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
 published an extensive grammar, and also some politi- 
 cal regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
 death. 
 
 Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has 
 written and published a catalogue of the learned Greeks. 
 
 Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works 
 in the Turkish language, but Greek character, for the 
 Christians of Caramania, who do not speak Romaic, 
 but read the character. 
 
 Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
 the tour of England for the purpose of study (%dpiv 
 fiadi'iatu;) : but though his name is enumerated, it is 
 not stated that he has written any thing. 
 
 Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople: 
 many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, 
 and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
 C onstantinople. 
 
 Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
 academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 
 
 Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
 many works, particularly " A Commentary on Hesiod's 
 Shield of Hercules," and two hundred talcs (of what is 
 not specified), and has published his correspondence 
 with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his contem- 
 porary. 
 
 Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of the 
 book from whence these notices are taken. 
 
 Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : 
 nis Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is esteemed 
 by the modems (I quote the words of Meletius) pcra 
 T&v BovKvoiorjv Kal Hevo^uiru a;x-o? EXXiyywv. I 
 add further, on the authority of a well-informed 
 Greek, that he was so famous amongst his countrymen, 
 that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and 
 Xenophon were wanting, ho was capable of repairing 
 the loss. 
 
 Marinus Count Tharboures, of Ccphalonia, professor 
 of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member of 
 that academy and those of Stockholm and Upsal. 
 He has published, at Venice, an account of some 
 marine animal, and a treatise on the properties of 
 iron. 
 
 Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 
 
 1 It is to be observed that the names given are not in chro- 
 nological ordei , but consist of some selected at a venture from 
 mungst those who nourished from the taking of Constanti- 
 novlu to the time of Meletius. 
 18 
 
 He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
 which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. 
 See the dissertation which he published in Paris 177''. 
 
 George Constantino has published a four-tongue.1 
 lexicon. 
 
 George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, a vj 
 Romaic. 
 
 There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and 
 Romaic, French, etc., besides grammars, in every 
 modern language, except English. 
 
 Amongst the living authors the following are most 
 celebrated : ' 
 
 Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric 
 in Hellenic. 
 
 Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vi- 
 enna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 
 
 Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
 lator of Fontenelle's " Plurality of Worlds " ( a favounto 
 work amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a teacher o 
 the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris, in both of 
 which he is an adept. 
 
 Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhet- 
 oric. 
 
 Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written " th 
 r4 pcooBdpSapov," on logic and physics. 
 
 John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated into 
 French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be ac 
 excellent Hellenist and Latin scholar. 
 
 Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geo 
 graphical work : he has also translated several Italia* 
 authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 
 
 Of Coray and Psalida some account ha* been already 
 given. 
 
 GREEK WAR SONG.* 
 
 1. 
 
 AEY TE raHtf rdv 'EXX^vuv, 
 !> Kaipclf TV; b%is >/X0v. 
 
 A; (pavdficv a^tot {xcivtav 
 jroB ^iaf &G><?av rjjy dp^ijv. 
 
 Aj irari7<rw/iv atcpciias 
 rov t>yov rijf rvpavvl&of. 
 
 a!cxf>6v. 
 
 fa for 
 
 as 
 
 (jOtv ilaOe T&V E 
 
 pSiv rJ ai/ia 
 irodwv. 
 
 \lvtvfiara laKop-mapiiva, 
 
 rijtpa Xnfcrt -rtvofiv ; 
 '2 Triv (fxiivSiv rijf aa\i;iyy6$ ftov 
 
 truva^Qfin oXa oitov. 
 Triv firraXo^ov ^t]TUTe, 
 
 Kal viKare vptt iravrow. 
 
 Ta ei-Xa uj Au'SuuEv, eta 
 
 1 These names are not taken from any pulilicatwa. 
 
 2 A translation of this song will be found at par* in
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 3. 
 
 irapra, S-opra, ri KOipaaat 
 \ ~vov \fiBapyov, ffaOvv ; 
 '71 vrjtrov, Kpdfc AdijvaSj 
 
 TOW dvfyju; fraivcpfvov, 
 (fioScpov KOI Tpofiepov. 
 
 Ta SirXa a; \dSufiev, etc. 
 
 4. 
 
 6 irou e/; raj Stp/iOTruXay 
 
 irijXt/iov air3; xpoTti, 
 xal Toi/s Hipaas atpavifa 
 
 xal a!>Tu)v KaTaxparei. 
 Mr rptaxoaiovs dvipas, 
 
 ds TO KCVTpOV TTfO^iapel, 
 
 /tat, il; XfW Svuiapivos, 
 t; rj ni^a ruv /Jourtt. 
 
 Ta 6VXa a; XdSu/ttv, etc. 
 
 ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 
 
 P'iiror;, AyyXo;, icat Fa'XXo; Kauvovres T?IV 
 
 ri> 'EXXa^o;, cat /?X/irovr; rqy dfJXt'av r^v icara- 
 aTaatv, elpu'iTTiaav KaTap%as eva Tpaixov ^tXAX^va 
 i5td j>a fidBouv r/jv alriav, p.tr' avrbv cva /xjjr/io^oXtrjjv, 
 ?ra i/(i /JXa^/irEijv, c~fira cva irpay^artur^v /cat i/a 
 rpottrraira. 
 
 KIT? ^aj, ai <pi\t\\riva, jrfl; tj>ipet; rf/v cric\aSiav 
 cal r^v a!raprjy6pr]Tov T&V TotipXaiv rvpavvlav, 
 *>; rat; fvXais KOI v6pia/tovs xal fft&rjpoSetr/tlav 
 iraifaiv, Trapftevuv, yvvaixiav avi'iKovarov <f>Qopttav* 
 Atv trX0" f'fftij d-fiyo^oi (Kiiviav r<2v EXX^vwv 
 rCi/ e\tv9ipii>v KOI co<f>iav KOI rtav ^cXorarpWuv, 
 <cai iraif CKtivoi cnridvijiTKav yta rqv IXcvQcptav 
 Kai Tiapa fffif v~oKctade el; firotav rvpavvtav, 
 Kai iroTov ylvos wf f<ri5 ivrddi] ^(aTurjtivov 
 tl; rfjv ao<piav, ilvvafiiv, tt; K 6'Xa ^aKovaptvov 
 rias vvv iKaraarfiaaTt rfiv tparivfiv EXXai5a. 
 /3a5a ! dij Eva axl\tQpov, dj axoTttvr/v \aftTrdSav 
 O/t&ci, <t>i\rare PpaiKC, clni pas rfiv uiri'av, 
 f/i) KpvuTjis rVoTf ij/ia/v, XUE T^V &i:opiav. 
 
 6-MAE'AAHNOZ. 
 
 r Foxr<r-ayyXo-ya'XXoi, EXXaj, /cat o^i aXXot, 
 
 fray, cif Xf'rf, iruffov ^sydX//. 
 
 vBy ^* a0Xia, Kai ava^ia 
 
 i<f> ov ap^tcev fi afiadia. 
 
 8(7' Iiyxopouaav vd rfjv %vT,vfi<jr) 
 
 mSr' c., ', %ttpov rfjv iitiyouai, 
 
 aiT>) ortva'^fi, ra Tixva Kpd^u, 
 
 <rrd v<i 7r/)OK(irrouv SXa irpo<rrdti } 
 
 xai TOT' i*ni$ci on ncp&ifat 
 
 liiptlv tKctro irou ri]V <j>\oyl$ti. 
 
 Ma OTTIS roX/i^(Tj va Tr/v ^vievijcrji 
 
 tdyu ffTov aStiv ^(<flf Ttva xpiatv. 
 
 't tie ahove is the commencement of a long dramatic 
 tmitv on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry ; it 
 it rontcm ptible as a composition, but perhaps curious 
 u a *pecimen of their rhyme ; I have the whole in MS. 
 
 but this extract will be found sufficient. The Romaic 
 in this composition is so easy as to render a version aj 
 insult to a scholar ; but those who do not understand 
 the original will excuse the following bad translation of 
 what is in itself indifferent. 
 
 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 
 leam the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then a 
 Vlackbey, 1 a Merchant, and Cogia Bachi or Primate. 
 
 Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 
 
 Why bear ye the yoke of the Oiloman" 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 ease 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 unresistin? increase, . 
 
 Oh shameful dishonour ! the darkness of Greece ? 
 
 Then tell us, beloved Achaean ! 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 not much injured the original in the few 
 lines given as faithfully, and as near the " Oh, Miss 
 Bailey! unfortunate 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, con- 
 tain 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 Ro- 
 maic. 
 
 SCENE FROM 'O KA*ENE2. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI BT 
 8PIRIDON VLANTI. 
 
 2KHNH Kr. 
 
 IIAATZIAA t; TTIV noprav TOV %aviov, /rat ol avtitflev. 
 
 IIAA. ii Qccl dvo TO TtapaBvpi fiou ttf>dv>j va anovctt 
 rfiv <p<i>vnv TOV av&p6s /tov av avTbs tlvat toi>, c$6aaa ct 
 xatpov va TOV ^vrponaVa). [EiyatVa tva; ^ouXo; axi 
 TO ipyaartipi.] IlaXtKa'pt, JT/; /iow, ai wapa<aXu. noiof 
 etvat CKCI els ixtivovs TOVS OVTUOCS ', 
 
 AOYA. Tpcis ^pfioiftoi avepcs- Eva; b Kiip Euyt- 
 vto;, b aXXo; o xiip Maprto; NfaToXtTavo;, icat & Tphot 
 b Kiip K.6vTC Alav&po; Ap^/vn?;. 
 
 IIAA. Ava'/t<ra /; airou; iiv tiva* b <tXoui-<o;, uv 
 2/iu; ti'fv aXXa^fv ovo/ita. 
 
 AEA. Na Qj rj (caXij rv^i; TOV Kvp KjyEvt'ou. [II( 
 
 6AOI. Na ^, va ^. 
 
 IIAA. At'^S; nvai b avfpas /iou ^Uj-fc aXXj KaXl 
 avdpiaire, xdv.1 fiov Tyv %aplv va pf cvvT^oQevcji 'TTUV* 
 
 1 Vlackbe} Prince of Wallaohia
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 99 
 
 cr'i aiiTovs Toi); aQivrdfit;, OTTOU 5Au> va roij TTJI'^U /<fav. 
 
 ^OT". Opiff/io'f era;' (trvvrjOiainivov oip<ptKtov TSJv oov- 
 \evT&v. ) [Tfiv ifntd^ct a-b TO IpyaaTijpi rou Ttai- 
 yridiou.] 
 
 I'lA. Kp<5ia, KapStd, tcd^ere /caXijv Kaj)3iuv, fv uvai 
 -/TOT!?, [n^af T?JV ViTTopiav.] 
 
 BIT. fej/'i aicQdvopai TrtDj d-0alVfc). [Suv/p^srat 
 fif roV favTov TTJS.] 
 
 [A.ITO TO irapdOvpa TIOV iird&iiiv (f>aivovTat 3Xo(, 
 orrou at]Kovii)vTai OTTO TO Tpairi^t avy^iapivoi, ltd 
 TOV ^aifiviafiuv rou Atdvopov j3XiV<i)VTaj Ttjv 
 nXuYic5a, KOI SiaTi avrbs fefjgKI JTCJJ ^Aci va 
 rijv ^lOvtiiffT;.] 
 EYF. 6^1, OTU0J/TE. 
 MAP. M>iv <ca//vT... 
 AEA. 5,'ijicu), 0uyc air" <5<j5. 
 
 IIAA. BoflSaa, 0or/6tia ['l>ru)'a diro T^v fficaXav, 6 
 AtavSpo; 3t'X vd rqv a.KO\ovOfiar) u.1 rb anaoOl, Kal 6 Ei y. 
 TOV Suora.] 
 
 [TPA. Mf tva ndro /<f fyayl e!f f<(av wtr^fra rijiji 
 d~3 ri irapaOvpt, Kal Qtvyti 15 TOV /ca0vt.] 
 
 [IIAA. Euyai'i'ft drro ri ipyaarfipi TOO jraiyvt^(oD 
 rpl)u>vTaf, Kill <ptvytt i; rd ^aVi.] 
 
 [EYT. M< ap^ara tl; T& %ipi trpb; SiaQlvrevaiv rrj; 
 n\dr$i&as, harrier TOV Atdvlpov, bxou T!)V (carorp/- 
 
 X '-l 
 
 [MAP. Kiiyalvu Kal avrij atya aiyd dirJ TO tpya- 
 gT/jpi, xai (jitvyti X/yaivraj' Rumores fuge.] [Povpdptf 
 ttvye.] ' 
 
 | Oi AouXoi drd TO epyaar^pi axtpvovv tit ri %dvi t 
 fat K\tiouv TTIV 77o'prav.] 
 
 [BIT. MfYfJ els TOV Katpcvf PotjOr/pivT] dri TOV 
 Pi^X^.ov.] 
 
 AEA. Ad<rT Tfirov S(Xa) vci //6u va cfifno els 
 tiettvo TO 'XO.VL [M< TO (7ira6i ij TO %lpt ivavTlov TOV 
 
 Ei/EVIOU.] 
 
 EYT. Op^i, ^<^ yivoiTO TOTI' ctaai tva$ aK\ripoKdp&os 
 IvavTiov T>J{ yvvamo; <rou, *cai t yC) SeXft TIJV StcupevTevatii 
 
 ii (S TO ZffTtpOV dtfta. 
 
 AEA. Io5 /ci/jva) o/j/cov jr^f ^Af( ri //Tavoc(i<r^f. 
 [Kuvijy^ T^K Eiy/i'iov f TO yaaOi.] 
 
 EYF. Afv af (poSovnat. [KaTaTp/^Ei T^V AeavSpor, 
 Kal TOV /?in'a va avpOij oiricut ToVov, oroD tdpioKiavTas 
 ivoiKTuv TO airrjTi Tqf ^opcvTpia;, lu.6atvu ei; aiiTo, Kal 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Platzida, from the door of the Hotel, and the Others. 
 
 Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
 heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived 
 in time to make him ashamed. [A servant enters from 
 the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those cham- 
 bers ? 
 
 Scrv. Three Gentlemen : one Signor Eugenio ; the 
 other Signor Martio, the Neapolitan; and the third, 
 my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 
 
 Pla. Flaminio is not amongst these, unless he has 
 changed his name. 
 
 Ijeamler. [IVilhin, drinking.] Long liv the good 
 fortune of Signor Eugenio. 
 
 AOTIWCOJ, irov $"> vo tirrg- <f>tvyt Tats 
 
 [The whole company.] Long live, etc. (Literally, 
 Na' $fj, vd fa May he live.) 
 
 Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To tnt 
 Serv.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany 
 me above to those gentlemen : I have some business. 
 
 Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old office 
 of us waiters. [7/e goes out of the Gaming-house.] 
 
 Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage,] 
 Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 
 
 Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him 
 as if fainting.] 
 
 [From the windows above all within are seen rising 
 from tlie table in confusion: Leander starts at 
 tite sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures 
 to threaten her life.] 
 
 Eugenio, No, stop 
 
 rjartio. Don't attempt 
 
 Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 
 
 Pla. Help ! Help ! [Flies down the stairs : Leander 
 attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio hinders 
 him.] 
 
 [Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony 
 from the window, and runs into the Coffee-house. 
 
 f Platzida runs out of the Gaming-house, and takes 
 shelter in the Hotel.] 
 
 [Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-house, and 
 goes off" exclaiming, "Rumores fuge." The Servants 
 from the Gaming-house enter the Hotel, and shut tht 
 door.'] 
 
 [Victoria remains in the Coffee-house assisted by 
 Ridolpho.] 
 
 [Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims,] 
 Give way I will enter that hotel. 
 
 Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
 drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop 
 of my blood. 
 
 Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Men- 
 acing with his sword.] 
 
 Eugenio. 1 fear you not. [ He attacks Leander, and 
 makes him give back so much that, Jinding the door of 
 the dancing girPs house open, Leander escapes through, 
 and so finishes.] 1 
 
 AIA'AOrOI OiKIAKOI. FAMILIAR DIALOGUES. 
 Ai vu^Ttforrjs va irpaypia. To ask for any thing. 
 Saj jra/xneaXu, ooacTt pi av I pray you, give me if you 
 
 bpifyrc. please. 
 
 if peri /IE. Bring me. 
 
 Aav('(TTt ut. Lend me. 
 
 ni;ya(VT va fyTfatTC. Go to seek. 
 
 1 EwvETai "finishes" awkwardly enough, but it it 
 the literal translation of the Romaic. The original of thu 
 comedy of Goldoni's I never read, but it does not appear one 
 of his best. "II Bugiardo" is one of the most lively, but I 
 do not think it has been translated into Romaic : it is much 
 more amusing than our own " Liar," by Foote. The char- 
 acter of Lelio is better drawn than Young Wilding. Go. 
 doni's comedies amount to fifty ; some perhaps the best in 
 Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one of (he best 
 specimens of nuloliiopraphy, and, as Gibbon has observed, 
 "more dramatic than any of his plays." The above scen 
 was selected as containing some of the most familiar Romaic 
 idioms, not for any wit which it displays, since there is more 
 done than said, the greater part consisting of stage direction* 
 The original is one of the few comedies by Holdoni whic.li \ 
 without the buffoonery of the speaking Harleauin.
 
 100 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 T&pa cvdvs. Now directly. 
 
 Acv SAoi X(r|a va TOU rd I will not fail to tell him 
 
 U dxpiSt, uov Ktpi, Kaptri My dear Sir, do me this 
 
 eliru. of it. 
 
 j airi/v T/jv X a P' v - favour. 
 
 UpoaKvvfyaTd fiov elf Tqv My compliments to her 
 
 Eyui aaf raoaxaXw. I entreat you. 
 
 ap)(6vTiaaav. ladyship. 
 
 Eya <ra; fopc/u>. I conjure you. 
 
 TltiyalveTe f/tvpoaBd ical aaf Go befijre and I will follow 
 
 E)'i <ras TO ^T<3 3ia %dotv. I ask it of you as a favour. 
 
 aKo\ovO&. you. 
 
 YiroxpiwatTt jit fi'j rAaov. Oblige me so much. 
 
 H^Etlpu) xoXaTo xplo; ftov. I well know my duty. 
 
 
 H|t!po) ri flvaf ftov. I know my situation. 
 
 Ac5yia epuriied, 9 dydxtjf. Affectionate expressions. 
 
 Ml *ta/ivT va fvTpfirufiat You confound me with so 
 
 Zuij fiov. My life. 
 
 pe Taij Tocraij <f>i\otj>po- much civility. 
 
 Ad-pit!); fio'i J/uviJ. My dear soul. 
 
 truvai; au{. 
 
 AyaTrijTf jiov, dxpiBe uov. My dear. 
 
 6*XT XoiTrdv va xa/ia) ^/av Would you have me then 
 
 Kap<5i'ra ^ou. My heart. 
 
 d%pu6Tr)Ta ; be guilty of an incivility? 
 
 AyoVi; //ou. My love. 
 
 YTrdyw tji^poaQd Sid vd aaf I go before to obey 3'ou. 
 
 Aia vd tl^apiaT^ajis, va To thank, pay compliments, 
 
 Aia vada/ju Ttjv Trpoyrayfiv To comply with your com 
 
 xdpjf vcpiiroiriatf, Kal and testify regard. 
 
 aaf. mand. 
 
 QiXixaif Sc&waes. 
 
 Afv dyarru ToVaty Titpmoi- I do not like so much cer 
 
 Eyui aaf cv^apiarS. I thank you. 
 of yvtapl^ia \dptv. I return you thanks. 
 
 tiaef. emony. 
 Alv eiuai T\et<af vepi- I am not at all ceremoni- 
 
 2af ?^at (mixptos KOTU I am much obliged to you. 
 TroXXa. 
 
 TTOtrjTtK6f. OUS. 
 
 AVT& ilvai Td <caX;JTpov. This is better. 
 
 Eyui JAui rd teduti /ifrd I will do it with pleasure. 
 
 Tdo-ov rb ica\nrepov. So much the better. 
 E^T X<iyov, ^T ilxaiov. You are in the right. 
 
 Mf 5X/7V ftov rfiv Kapoiav. With all my heart. 
 
 
 Mf icaX>7V //ou Kapbiav. Most cordially. 
 
 A<a va ^6ai(i<r)j, va dp- To affirm, deny, consen', 
 
 Xdf 7/iai tird^pfof. I am obliged to you. 
 
 vriBrjf, vii avyKaTavetayf, etc. 
 
 Efyai 0X05 itix6f aaf. I am wholly yours. 
 
 KT\. 
 
 Ei/tai 5o5X(5j aaf. I am your servant. 
 
 E<vai dX^flii'di', f'vai dX^- It is true, it is very true. 
 
 TafffivoVarof <5otXoj. Your most humble servant. 
 
 0/OTOTOV. 
 
 EioTEKard roXXd cvyeviK6(. You are too obliging. 
 
 Aia vd adf elvta rfo dXjJ- To tell you the truth. 
 
 IloXXu irupd$ta6c. You take too much trouble. 
 
 dctav. 
 
 Td ^w iia x,"P av P av v " ^ have a pleasure in serv- 
 
 OVTUS, crfy clvat. Really, it is so. 
 
 aas douXcviTb]. ing you. 
 
 Iloiof u/j^ifia'XXft ; Who doubts it? 
 
 EICTTE iryvi/coj Kal einrpocr- You are obliging and kind. 
 
 Atv EiVai TTOffai; a/ji^ifioX/a. There is no doubt. 
 
 <yopoj. 
 
 Td utarevw, iev rd via- I believe it, I do not be- 
 
 Airi eivat irp/irov. That is right. 
 
 Ttvii). lieve it. 
 
 TY 5/XfT ; W hat is your pleasure ? 
 
 A/yui Td vat. I say yes. 
 
 Ti ipi^T ; What are your commands? 
 
 Afyu> Td oyi. I say no. 
 
 25$ irapoicaXw vd pi fie- I beg you will treat me 
 
 BaXXu arl^ri/ta BTI eivat. I wager it is. 
 
 Ta%eipi$eadt i\cvOcpa. freely. 
 
 BaXXo)(7TiYi;//a Unltv elvai I wager i' is not so. 
 
 Xupif Ktpmoinacs. Without ceremony. 
 
 frfr. 
 
 25f dya-S) f'f 6X17? pou cap- I love you with all my 
 
 Na<, fid riiv itiariv pov Yes, by my faith. 
 
 Sia;. heart. 
 K<;( fX<i o/ioi'ojf. And I the same. 
 
 Ei's TTJV avvciltiaiv /<ou. In conscience. 
 Mci T^V tipfiv fiov. By my life. 
 
 Ti/i>;o-T/ /< /if rais n-po- Honour me with your 
 
 Nai, aaf iuvva. Yes, I swear it to you. 
 
 OTaya'ts aa(. commands. 
 
 Saj Ajivvut uadv rifirjuivof I swear to you as an hon- 
 
 E^;T riitores vd pe irpo- Have you any commands 
 
 avOpwtto;. est man. 
 
 ard^trt ; for me ? 
 npoora(T TOV 5oBXiJv aaf. Command your servant. 
 
 Saj AUVVU i-ndvia tls rt/v I swear to you on my hoii- 
 rififiv jtov. our. 
 
 Upoafiivta raj xpotrayds I wait your commands. 
 
 nioTtJ(rTf fit. Believe me. 
 
 aaf. 
 Ml KdfiveTC fityd\rjv rtpfjv. You do me great honour. 
 
 H/i7ropu vd <raf T> ^ffiajw- I can assure you of it. 
 
 CO). 
 
 $6dvovv>i ircpiiroirjacs, aaf Not so much ceremony, I 
 
 HfaXa /Jn'Ar; arl^fta S, ri I would lay what bet you 
 
 uoa/caXoD. beg. 
 
 S/XfTf ^id TOUTO. please on this. 
 
 Ii^otr(cuvi?<7T ^<c pfpovf Present my respects to the 
 
 Mi) rti^ij Kal ddaTti$ty&* You jest by chance ? 
 
 pov TOV ap^ovra, n ^dv gentleman, or his lord- 
 
 (^OpaTtJT) J 
 
 xtpiov. ship. 
 B(>aiwjT/ rov JTUJ rdf Assure him of my remem- 
 
 O^iXcrTE pt rd oXa <raj ; Do you speak ser.ouslv ? 
 Eyii <ray J//iXw fie rd 5X ' I speak seriouslj' to voti. 
 
 (vGunui'uji, brance. 
 ttSatuiacrl rov wiZf rdr Assure him of my fricnd- 
 
 jtov, Kal adf Xfyu> T>)V and tell you thn tinih. 
 
 <lv<ixw. ship. 
 
 Eyu aaf rd (JtCaiuttu. 1 assure ou oi u
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 101 
 
 Td fVpo^i7ri'(7r. You have guessed it. 
 Tb iViTu^r. You have hit upon it. 
 2,5s ffiimruw. I believe you. 
 
 3. 6Xa [ra Tpa'y/iara] ^ia 3. HdvTa tt aurou f'yf' 
 ftlo-ov TOV [X<5you] iyivijoav, VETO- icai ^wpjy auroC iylv 
 Kal x<apls avTov &tv eyive CTO oiice iv, o yiyovev 
 
 ripfVfi va aas iricTettroi. I must believe you. 
 
 xavfva etTi eyive. 
 
 Atird tci> enat dSvvaTov. This is not impossible. 
 Td XoiTor us tlvat pi Ka\r)v Then it is very well. 
 
 4. Eiy aurSv ?rov ^uij- 4. Ev a'ir^i far) ^v, /ta 
 itaj ^ w^ ^rov ro 0aiy ruf fi far) }jv TO <t>G>s T&V dtBpfr 
 
 upav. 
 
 ' v g- ' 
 
 KaXa, (taXa. Well, well. 
 
 r 1 
 
 AJJ- iivai d\ri6tv6v. It is not true. 
 
 5. KaZ TO (^(Sy ?y rtjv 5. Kal TO 0Cy ^v r? axo- 
 
 EiVai v//u<5fy. It is false. 
 
 o-KOTiiav Qeyyet, Kal {/ axo- Tla<j>atvci, KalriOKoirtaairrt 
 
 A?v ?vai T(TTOTCS a*b auro". There is nothing of this. 
 
 Teia Itv Tb KaTd\aSe. ou Kar/Xa6v. 
 
 E7i-at va i//(5oy, pia It is a falsehood, an impos- 
 
 6. Eytvfv ?vay av6piairos 6. Eyfvroav9pa>iroydir- 
 
 dndTr]. ture. 
 
 airfcrraX^fi'oy anb Tbv Qebv, EoraX/ifvoy Traoa GEOU, ^vo^ 
 
 Eyui daTil^opovv (t^opa- I was in joke. 
 
 Tb dvo/id TOV Iijidvvrjs. u.a airiji jwavj'ijy. 
 
 rfua). 
 
 
 Eyi TO etxacia va ye\d<ria. I said it to laugh. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tf; dXrjOela. Indeed. 
 
 
 Mf dpfo-fj Kari iroXXrf. It pleases me much. 
 Suy(caravuo> els rouro. I agree with you. 
 
 THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS, FROM 
 MELET1US. 
 
 A?<J T!JV ij.rj<f>6v jio'j, I give my assent. 
 
 
 A * ' ' ~ ^ T An Tint nnrm p thi 
 
 OPXOMENOS KOIVWC SVOITTOU TrdXiy Tror^ trXoufftw- 
 
 EI/IQI <ni^0&>voy, t< OT/I- I agree. 
 
 rar?; cai iV^upwrar);, irpoTipov Ka\ovu.iiTj BoiurKaJ 
 
 <pwvov. 
 
 A^vai, i'y rqy bnoiav JJTOV b NaJy ruv Xap/rwv, /y 
 
 Eyui <5fv 0Aw. I will not. 
 
 rdv 8ro?ov ffX7paivov rt'X>; oj 6?;SToi, ourivoy ri C(5y>o{ 
 
 y ^ s J 
 
 i'y aui-)v Tr\v tr6\iv ra Xapir;o-ia, rou oiroi'ou dyCv^f 
 
 4ia va (rufiSouXfuS^f, vd To consult, consider, or re- 
 
 clipov eiriypa<pas ev <m;Xaiy ev&ov TOV KTtaQlvTOS Vaou fir' 
 6v6uaTi Trjs GfordKou, iwd rou irpiaTocvadapiov Aiovros, 
 
 ^ X .1 > V 
 
 firl T&V 6aai\l(i>v Ba(riXci'ou, Afovroy, a( Kwfcrravri'voi), 
 
 Ti 7rpf7r( va a'^u/iv ; What ought we to do 1 
 Ti $a Kd/ta/jtev ; What shall we do? 
 
 i-^ovaas ouruiy v ^fv r_5 fttq xoivwy. 
 " Oi^ tvixiav Tbv dywva TUV Xapir^<rfav. 
 
 Ti /if trup6oi;Xrir va KU- What do you advise me to 
 
 Mqviy imXWfo* Avrioyfuy dffJ Mai^pou. 
 
 ^j; do? 
 
 Kijpuf. 
 
 6irtiov rpdrov -S/Xo/<v ;<ra- What part shall we take? 
 
 ZuiXoy ZufXou Ila'^ioy. 
 
 'Af Kaput jtev CT^HJ. Let us do this. 
 
 Patl'wody. 
 Nouu^vioy NOUUT/VIOU A.0t]vutos. 
 
 E7i'ai /caX^rj-poy f'yai va It is better that I 
 
 Iloii/rijy IrtSv. 
 
 Zra95r dXi'yov. Wait a little. 
 
 
 Afv !jdc\ev etvat Ka\$rtpov Would it not be better 
 
 AiX ' 
 
 va ; that ? 
 
 AiroXXdooroy ATroXXoodTou Kp^y* 
 
 Eyci dyarouo-a aX>;rpa. I wish it were better. 
 
 
 A^iJffErf jte. Let me go. 
 
 Pd^nrroy PoJiVrou Apy^oy. 
 
 Av ^ouv els TOV roVov aas, If I were in your place, 
 
 tavtas AjroXXo^drou rou $ avi'ov A^oXfuy dir4 Kii^iX' 
 
 tyui I 
 
 Ki0aow^df 
 
 E7vai Tb ic'iov. It is the same. 
 
 At?^*5rpioy IIappv/(ricov KaX^?^di j (oy. 
 
 The reader by the specimens below wtu be enabled to 
 compare the modern with the ancient tongue. 
 
 KaXXforparoy E^a/cto-rou 6)?5aioy. 
 IIoi;rrjy Sarijpwv. 
 A.pTjvia$ A^poxXfovy G^6a?cy. 
 
 PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHN'S 
 
 fTroAcpiriJy. 
 
 GOSPEL. 
 
 AaipdOfoy Awpofit'ou Tapavnvdy. 
 
 N/ov. AufovriKdv. 
 
 ^ HoiJ/r^y Tpay^iwv. 
 
 Kf^a'X. a. Ke<pd\. a. 
 
 So^ofcXijy 2o0o*cXf'ouy A9^vaioy. 
 
 I. EJS r)v dpx?iv %TOV o 1. EN dp^ij ^v b Xdyoy, 
 
 Kafi/pij^oy QeoS&pov QrjSatos. 
 
 Aiyoj' Kal b Xdyoy ^rov pcra Kal b Xdyoj %v Ttpbs TOV 
 
 notrtTfis KiauutStSv- 
 
 fieou' ftai Qebg !/TOV b Xdyof. Qebv, xal Qebs tfv b Xdyoy. 
 
 AX/^avJpoy ApiVnuvoy A0?vaio;. 
 
 . Erouroy ^rov y r^v 2. OSroy !jv In &PXJJ 
 
 rirojfpjrijy. 
 
 Ij-^ffi tr Ocnv. irpbs rdv Qiov. 
 
 ArraXoj ArraXow AfJijvalef.
 
 f02 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 T&V vfipriTov aytava, TUV 
 i&as avXi/tTTaj. 
 
 QrjSalos. 
 
 Q"6e iviK&v 
 
 Tl 
 
 A(oX/j; Ka 
 
 rpar<'0j Euvtxou 6;fia?oj. 
 
 AvSpa; avXijoraf. 
 Aio/cX!jf KaXXi/5&iu Gij^aTo 
 
 Avi3pa{ qytyidvaj. 
 Pd&Trrof PoJiVrron Apy?o?. 
 
 ioro/ifi'ouj P<5ioj. 
 K<i>/if>d;. 
 KaXX/crrparo? EfaK/croti 6>7<>a7oj. 
 
 Ta iTtivlKia. 
 Kdt/ttfftHiv HotrjT/j(. 
 AX/fayiJpo? Apurrtiiivos A.0qvaiof. 
 
 ]> 5t TJ} /r/pa <3upciuj. 
 Mvafflvia ap%ovTos aywvoQtTiovros rj 
 XapiraTiov, tvapi6aT<i> TtdvTutv 01 mi it tvixuiaav TO. 
 XapiTfi'ria. 
 
 EaXiriy/tTaj. 
 ti'Xivcj <I>tXwi> A0avio;. 
 
 uJita? Duxpario; QelSciof. 
 Tlottrds- 
 
 Kpdruv KX/uv 
 
 AiXt 
 
 Ilcpiycvci; Hp 
 
 KQ) Apyioy. 
 
 ^ariof A/iaXaiu AioXcu; 
 
 TpoyatviiJj. 
 KXan<5i3tt)oo5 IToti0<fo Topavnvrfy. 
 
 Kw^ntDOdc. 
 
 /cdorparof "T(Xo<TTporu; Gti'Sao;. 
 Ta fnftafM Kufiatu^oj. 
 sp^os Hpo^dru Kopwvrff." 
 
 fey aXXy Xifl^. 
 
 oj IIoXv<cporouj iapaiw/iOf iioytrtavof avSptaot 
 \opaytlcavTtf vncaVavrcj Jtovuirot) aviQrjKav rfyiuvoj ap- 
 ^jvroj oiXi'oyroj X/of alovros a\Kta6ivtos." 
 
 Ev fV/p<(i X/0<(. 
 "Swdp^ta apxovrof, ftivug $ti\ov6i'ta, ap^i ..... if Eu- 
 
 <(i)X Apxctdfiu) (ptaiecla ......... 85 aff/^axa ord raj <rovy- 
 
 ypa<t>G> vtba T&V iro\tfidp%u>v, uri riav xarorrauv, ai/fXi!- 
 ^tvof raf <rovyypa<pus Ta; Kiptvas -nap ti^pdva, r^ $i&tav 
 ii) vaa't<Xctv .............. xq Ti/jidftetiov <pi*>Kttas, Kfi iapo- 
 
 TfXtTv \vaiidfto), KTJ itovvaov Kayiaotiuta ^?;puvtjo <cdr 
 
 Swrfp^a) ap^ovrof, fteivb; dXaX;a/icvi'(i> F apvCv, jroXtJ- 
 *Xt!os rafi/af onrfitaKt tf?i>i\v dp^tidftia (jxaxtii drd raj 
 u r4 KaraXuTrov Kar ri ^/dipiaua ria fduia, avc- 
 rdf ?avyypj. r a>v ri> uliievas trap a<a<pi\av, K!; 
 
 ev<ppova (fiUKin;. K^ rap 5a)in5(riov t 
 icfi \val!>apov iafioTt\iof iti&a riav 
 
 \ (a 
 
 Irj Mfvoi'rao 'Ap^tXa'u //avdf jrparu). 6/*oX- 
 oya EuSwXu F fXarii;, o (cfj rjj rdXi fpyopEviuv. Eirfi^i) 
 KtKOfilffTrj EufiwXof Trap ri;j TrdXioj rd fidvctov anav Kaf 
 rdj bftoXoyiaf rdj TtfliVaj ^uvap^co ap%ovTOs, fitivi>{ 
 SciXovOiw, Krl O\IT 6tf>ct\{Ttj aJrii ?r( oiflfv irdp rdv rruXiv, 
 dXX' dff/^i rrdira rrtpi ravr3{, r^ aTO^E^davfit r^ irdXi rd 
 e^ovrff rdf bito\oylaSj ti piv TTOTJ Icfofiii'ov %p6vov 
 Ef'SiuXti f^i vo/ifa; F ?TI drfrrapa ftoiitaoi aovv iirrrvj iid 
 KOTlij; Fi KaTi irpoGdrv; aaiiv ?yu{ ^EiXi'^f dp^( T<3 ^pdvu 
 5 mawrif 6 //rd 6vvap%ov ap%ovTa tp^Oftevios diroypa- 
 (pecBrj &c ECjJuiXoi' (car' tviaurov Exaffrov Trap r3v Tartar 
 xi) T&V vijiiav uv TdTC (caflpara TUV TrpoSdrtav, KTI TO>V 
 I'/yflv, (c^ rCv flovSJv, Kri TWV (Trrwv, x^ <ariva daaftaiuiv 
 5i*^ TD rX?9o{ /ii airoypdQtGO !>&t jrXiova raiv ycypaft- 
 
 fitvdiv iv TIJ <rovy%ti>pciat fi StKaTtf ij Ti tvvoftiov 
 
 Et>j3a)Xov i<j>t!\t Xi; rui/ ip^oficviuv dpyovpla 
 
 TCTTapaKovTa EtlfiuXu Ka0' IKUHTOV cviavT&v, 
 
 K>I riKov <pepiT<j> &pajfjia( raj fivaf havTa; (card 
 
 fjufa T&V Krl e/nrpaKTo; caTia riv cpvofttviov 
 
 xal rd /^r/j." 
 
 fev afXXotf Xi'floif. 
 
 apQdptxos, Kal dXXat." Ev ovie/tia tirtypaifiij i&ov rdvcv, 
 q TrvfE/ia, a 6( r;/Js iivoypdipo/jnv, ol raXaiot vpoaiyoa* 
 0ov. Kai rd ^ijf. 
 
 The following is the prospectus of a translation of 
 Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master. Mar- 
 marotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 
 
 EfAHSIS TmorrA<I>IKH. 
 Ilpdf TOVS iv ^iXoyV(f Kal 0X/XX;vay. 
 O2OI tlf /?SXia Tavro^oTrd Ivrpvtjiiaaiv, fi%t6pow 
 r6aov tlvat ri ^pfiaifiov Ttjs laroplaf, It* avrrjf yap 
 f^ivplaKirai 5 rXf'oi/ pfpa^pixr^ifvi; TTa\ai6rt]t, not 5U>- 
 povvrai 5y In Kardirrpy rjOr/, trpd^cts xai Itoixfjcrcts ;roX- 
 Xuv icai titaQipuv if)vG>v xai yevijiv &v rfiv fivfi/iriv Stcffus- 
 aro Kal iia<ri!><TCi ti loropoci) Ai>Jyi;(r(j its aluva T& 
 a~avTa. 
 
 Mia TtToia i 
 (LcJf'Aifi??, Sj xpci 
 It6voi va TVJV (vr 
 
 rw jrpoyrfvuv /<a{, i:66tv iriJrc ai waif cvpiBrjaav tlf T&f 
 irarpiias pas, ovrt ra rjBii fa xaropBuftara Kal rfii 
 tioiKT](ri'v raf ; Av ipdirrjcuifiev TOVS dXXcyV7f, i]^cvpovt 
 va H'fS Itavovv $%t pdvov tOTOpiK&f TT/V ap^tjv ical Ttjt 
 &V Ttpoydvwv /iaf, dXXd cai rojroypa'0irij /tas 
 Ta( 5/<r(f T&V vaTptiuv fiaf, Kal o'lovtl ^cip- 
 ayiayol ytv6[tcvoi ftt TOV; ycwypaQiKoti; Ttiiv iriV^jcaj, ^105 
 X/youv, fto t7i'ai a! A.9?/vai, Wii !/ Xra'pr^, txti aj Ofjfiai. 
 Jj fit\ia a-ni^ti fj ftta iiiap%la d:ri ri)> X 
 
 ripn (tvat tlairtiicTijTos, xat Iv rairy 
 eiirclv avayxala' tiarl XourJv /J?s 
 
 roira
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 10; 
 
 Xi7V. Tot-rot <Jjico<3<5fii7<r rfiv piav rrdXiv, tKcivos rr.v oX- 
 Xi?v, Kal rX. npoaiTi av ipurfiaiapiv aiirovs rovs firi 
 EXX^vaj xtipaytayoiis pas, xoQtv ivapaKivfjdriaav v<5 
 Ifcpcvvrjoovv ap%as r&aov iraXad{, dvuTrcoTo'Xuj /5j 
 diroftptVovraj //{ auroij rouj Xd"you{. " Ka0<if 6 
 Extras Ava'xapo-i?, av otv htpiipxi.ro ra ?ravu</>po<ruva 
 iKuva /cXiuara rijj EXXu'c5os, uV tiv iu<j>opciro rd d(ciua- 
 ra, ra ijdii Kal ToCj vo>ouj r<3v EXXiJvwi', i;0iX //ffvi; 
 2ict!0i;f ira? rd Jvo^a a< rd rpayua' ourai <cai o fipircpos 
 larpbs, Sv ofv (udvOave. TO row iTTjroKparous, <5fv eovvaro 
 vd npoxuptiafl ds rfiv r^vv rov. Av b iv //utv vopoOirris 
 iev (^iral,t ra. rov SoXuvof, AvKovpyov, xal TlirraKov, 
 lev tciivaro vaL pvOiirjiTr] Kal va Ka\ttpy>'/<rjl ra ijdri riav 
 binoytviav rov Av 6 PI?TU/> Si v tfqvikfyn raj eixppaSclas 
 KOI rov; ^apitvria^ov; rou A^offQfVous, icv ivcpyovaev 
 ilf rat </^X" J v oxpoariav rou' Av b N/of Ava^ap- 
 o-if, o Kt'pioj A66af Bap0oXo^a?of <5fv dvcyivawrKt //f 
 fctyaX;;!' eTUjiovriv Kal aictyiv rov; rX/ov lyKpirov; avy- 
 ypa<j>c~i; ruv feXXlJvui', f^fpruvaiv alroiis Kara fiddos f-i 
 rplaKovra Avu crn, liv ^tXtv Ifrfdin) rovrrjv rqv ircpl 
 feXX/Jvuv (oropi'av rou, ijrij IIf/Jt^y>;(r<j row N/ov Ava- 
 vdpactiis Tap' airou TTpocwvopdaQr;, Kal tls 3Xaj Taj 
 tipuraiicaj &aXrot>; pryXojr7i'<T0>/." Kai fv f vl \6ytf, 
 o! va)Tfpo(, ac &cv CKtpvav Sid bor/yoiis rov; irpoyovovs 
 pas, fi9i\av iau>( trtpii/i/puvraj /larai'uf ft l%pt rov vvv 
 Aura &tv tivai Xdyta lv8mm**pflHm Sta TO (f>i\oycvfs 
 Tpaticov, tlvai <5f 0iXaX)70ou{ rtppavov,oo-ris iptrdippaae 
 r)v Ntov Avd^ap<7iv affi roE raXXixoD t/j ro rEp/iavi<coV 
 
 Av XoirSv /cai ^?j S/Xajptv va ite8l!;upcv rtjf yvwatai 
 rwv Xa^Trpdiv KaropBdijiftnav bov ctea/jav ol Sau/iauro 
 (Kiti'Oi xpoTrdropts f]jtZv, av irt0upaipv va ^a'fluptv r^ 
 irpdo^ov KOI av&aiv ruv tij raf r/^vaj cai 7rrr^aj Ka 
 tij (ra'St aXXo t7^oj paOrjottas, av l^wutv ntpicpytiav va 
 yvwplVw^itv ffdOtv KaraySftcda, xal bnolovs Savpaarov 
 Kal /jfyaXous avcpas, d Kal irpoyoVotif ^wv, ^EU, ^? 
 ^fv yv(up/o/iv, ('{ (caipov OJTOU o! dXXoyfvaf ^au/ia^oucri 
 avroif, aZ <ls a'arrpaj iravro(H<roi"v p0/;(7<<)S trfSovrat 
 as <njv<5pa'p.a>/iv aravrfj irpoOu/iwf tJf T^I/ 3o<riv roB 
 5iu//a<ri'ou rourou o p wyypa///jarbs rou Nfou Ava^apo-t 
 
 H//(f ouv of (nroyfypafiu/vot $t\o/it:v tm\tm -rrpo- 
 QVU.US rfiv itcriitppao-iv rov B(6'Xiou pf r^v <car5 rd 5uva- 
 rov ^/iiv /caXT/v tjtpdaiv r~j$ vvv :a9' >;us o/iiXi'ac, fai 
 W<5vr roEro ?? r-Jrov, 5Xouv rd (cXXa)T('<7t ^f rooj 
 ytuypa^ocouf ir/raxa? pf 7rXu; Pwfiai<cf Xfffif iyxt)(- 
 apaypivovs ds f&tKd aas ypdpfiarn, rpoariOi vres S , r 
 oXXo ^p>5<rifiov icai apu6$tov ds rf/v laropiav. 
 
 6Xov rd (rtiyypa/Jua 5/X y/i'i cJj rrf/iouf ZuScxa Kara 
 plunoiv rfis iraXcr ; s *<5<i<n:u?. H n//i) 6Xou rou crvyypap- 
 jaro{ flvat Qiopivta icKal^n rtjj Bifvvijs ^i<i r^v irpoo-- 
 QflKijv rSv yoiypu^tK(3v TTivaVaiv. O (itXoyfvrjf o7v <ruv- 
 Ipoprjriis rpfJT va rXijpwtfi; ('? ta'0 rd/iov ^lopi'vt 
 rai Kapavravc'a E'XOCTI rrjf Bi/vvi;?, (cai roCro x u ^'f ' 
 ufav rp<5oo(Tiv, uXX' ul3uf OTOU 0/Xfi rip -rrapa&oOjj o r 
 ru-(u^fvof cai fitptvos. 
 
 THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 
 
 ii TlATEPA uas orroii elaai ds reuj ovpavoif uj 
 aytaadfj rb Svoud aov. AS c\0i] q 0aai\tla ao\-. AS 
 'ivy re 3(\rjud aov, KtiO^s ds rbv ovpavbv, crti KO? dt 
 fiv yijv. Tb \pd>p.i uas rb KaOtjucpivov, $6s uaj rb ar]j,- 
 tpov. Kai avy%(i>p!iaf uas r>\ xpi>) uas, Ka0(5f xai lutif 
 rvy%<i>povucv rovs Kpto<j>ti\lras uas. KaJ ufjv uas V'P* 
 :ls trtipaaubv, dXXd iXcvdiptaai uas a-ab rbv rcovripdv* 
 ")ri tCixrj aov clvai >; 0aai\da oi, ;} Ivvauis, Kal f, i3dfa 
 ' roiif (Lt'jJvQS* A.ui]V. 
 
 IN GREEK. 
 
 FIATEP riutbv, o e v roTj ovpavols, ayiaa8/jru> rb Svoud 
 o'ou. EX0/ra q 0aai\da aov ycvriOtjria rb 5l\r;ud aov, 
 if ev ovpavS, Kal tnJ rtjs ynS' Tov aprov fjuiav rbv litioti- 
 aiov Sbs quiv afijiipov. Kai atpcs t>ulv ra 6<pci\>juara ijuwv, 
 <uf <cai riuds ouptcuev rols o<pei\irais t;uS>v. Kai ufi 
 datvtyKys 'Ifas ds xetpaaubv, dXXa pvaat r/uas u~4 ro8 
 Kovijpov. 6ri aov cariv q ftaai\da, Kal q ovvauis, Kai q 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 feppui/i/voi <ca2 
 Trjs vptrtfJS aydn 
 
 Btvifp;f. 
 Hpffi/rof. 
 ou, 1799. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xviii. 
 In "pride of place" here last the eagle flew. 
 PRIDE of place" is a term of falconry, and means 
 the highest pitch of flight See Macbeth, etc. 
 
 " An eagle towering in his pride of place 
 Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd." 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xx. 
 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
 See the famous Song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
 The Best English translation is in Eland's Anthology 
 by Mr. Denman : 
 
 " With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," etc. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxi. 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 
 On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
 ball was given at Brussels. 
 
 Notes 4 and 5. Stanza xxvi. 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. 
 
 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
 " gentle Lochiel" of the " forty-five." 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xxvii. 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
 The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of 
 the " forest of Ardennes," famous in Boiaido's Orlando, 
 and immortal in Shakspeare's " As you '.Ike it." H u 
 also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot o) succe*fu. 
 defence by the Germans against the RomiJ wicroach-
 
 104 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 merits.- I nave ventured to adopt the name connected 
 
 with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xxx. 
 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 
 
 My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
 intelligent and accurate. The place where Major How- 
 ard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there 
 was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) which 
 stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side. 
 Beneath these he died and was buried. The body 
 has since been removed to England. A small hollow 
 for the present marks where it lay ; but will probably 
 Boon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the 
 grain is. 
 
 After pointing out the different spots where Picton 
 and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
 " Here Major Howard lay ; I was near him when 
 wounded." I told him my relationship, and he seemed 
 then still more anxious to point out the particular spot 
 and circumstances. The place is one of the most 
 marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two 
 trees above-mentioned. 
 
 I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
 it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, 
 Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
 action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
 viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, 
 Leuctra, Chseronea, and Marathon; and the field around 
 Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little 
 but a better cause, and that undefinabie but impressive 
 halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated 
 fpot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except 
 perhaps the last mentioned. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza xxxiv. 
 Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 
 The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
 were said to be fair without, and within ashes. Vide 
 Tacit. Histor. 1. v. 7. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza xli. 
 
 For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 
 The great error of 'Napoleon, "if we have writ our 
 annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind 
 of his want of all community of feeling for or with 
 them; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than 
 the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious 
 tyranny. 
 
 Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well 
 as individuals ; and the single expression which he is 
 said to have used on rsturning to Paris after the Russian 
 winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over 
 a fire, " This is pleasanter than Moscow," would prob- 
 ably alienate more favour from his cause than the 
 destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 
 
 Note 10. Stanza xlviii. 
 
 What want these outlaws conquerors should have ? 
 " What wants that knave 
 That a king should have ?" 
 
 irss King James 9 question, on meeting Johnny Arm- 
 strong and his followers in full accoutrements See 
 
 th Ballad. 
 
 Note 11. Song, stanza 1. 
 The castle crag of Drachenfels. 
 
 The castie of Drachenfela stands on the highest sum- 
 mit of " the Seven Mountains," over the Rhine banks ; 
 
 it is in ruins, and connected with some singular tradi. 
 tions : it is the first in view on the road from Bonn, 
 but on (he opposite side of the river ; on this bank, 
 nearly facing it, are the remains of another called th 
 Jew's Castle, and a large cross commemorative of the 
 murderof a chief by his brother. The number of castle* 
 and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides 
 is very great, and their situations remarkably beautiiul. 
 
 Note 12. Stanza Ivii. 
 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him werj*. 
 
 The monument of the young and lamented General 
 Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the 
 last day of the fourth year of the French republic) stil 1 
 remains as described. 
 
 The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
 long, and not required ; his name was enough ; France 
 adored, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him. 
 His funeral was attended by the generals and detach- 
 ments from both armies. In the same grave General 
 Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of 
 the word ; but though he distinguished himself greatly 
 in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there ; his 
 death was attended by suspicions of poison. 
 
 A separate monument (not over his body, which is 
 buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, 
 opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits 
 was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on 
 the Rhine. The shape and style are different from 
 that of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple and 
 pleasing : 
 
 "The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 
 
 to its Coinmandfir-in-Chief, 
 
 HOCHE." 
 
 This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
 among the first of France's earlier generals, before 
 Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the 
 destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 
 
 Note 13. Stanza Iviii. 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter'd wall. 
 
 Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. " the broad Stone of Honour," 
 one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- 
 mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of 
 Leoben. It had been and could only be reduced by 
 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 compar- 
 ison, but the situation is commanding. General Mar- 
 ceau 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. 
 
 Note 14. Stanza Ixiii. 
 Unsepulchrcd they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost 
 
 The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones di- 
 minished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in 
 the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record 
 of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still 
 remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Bnrgun- 
 dians for ages (all who passed that way moving a bone to 
 their owi. country) and the less justifiable larcenies of the 
 Swiss postilions, who carried them off to sell for knife- 
 handles ; a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by 
 the bleaching of years had rendered them in great re- 
 quest. Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 10 3 
 
 M may have made the quarter of a hero, for which the 
 *olo excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer-by might 
 have perverted them to worse uses than the careful pre- 
 servation which 1 intend for them. 
 
 Note 15. Stanza Ixv. 
 
 Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 
 Aventicum (near Moral) was the Roman capital of 
 Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 
 
 Note 16. Stanza Ixvi. 
 
 And held within their um one mind, one heart, one dust. 
 Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
 after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned 
 to death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was 
 discovered many years ago ; it is thus 
 
 Julia Alpinula 
 
 Hicjaceo, 
 Infelicis patris intelix proles, 
 
 DPS Aventiae sacerdos. 
 
 Exorare patris necem non potui ; 
 
 Male niori in latis ille erat. 
 
 Vixi Annos XXIII. 
 
 I know of no human composition so affecting as 
 this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are the 
 names and actions which ought not to perish, and to 
 which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from 
 the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass 
 of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
 for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from 
 whence it recurs at length with all the nausea conse- 
 quent on such intoxication. 
 
 Note 17. Stanza Ixvii. 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. 
 This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 
 1316), which even at this distance dazzles mine. 
 
 (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the 
 distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentine 
 in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my 
 boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mir- 
 ror is sixty miles. 
 
 Note 18. Stanza Ixxi. 
 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 
 
 The colour of the Rhone at G ene va is blue, to a depth 
 
 of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt 
 
 or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 
 
 Note 19. Stanza Ixxix. 
 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all they see'k possesU 
 This refers to the account in his " Confessions" of his 
 passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetol (the mistress of St 
 Lambert), and his long walk every morning for the sak< 
 of the single kiss which was the common salutation o 
 French acquaintance. Rousseau's description of his 
 leelings on this occasion may be considered as the mos 
 passionate, yet not impure description and expression 
 of love that ever kindled into words ; which after ai 
 must be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate 
 to the delineation: a painting can give no sufficien 
 idea of the ocean. 
 
 Note 20. Stanza xci. 
 Of earth o'er-gazing mountains. 
 It is tc be recollected, that the most beautiful an 
 impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Chris 
 tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on th 
 Mount. 
 
 eloquence, the most effectual and splendid specimen* 
 were no f . pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
 dressed the publick and popular assemblies. Cicero 
 spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect 01 
 the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceive! 
 from the difference between what we read of the emo- 
 tions then and there produced, and those we ourselves 
 experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing 
 to read the Iliad at Sigseum and on the tumuli, or by 
 the springs with mount Ida above, and the plain anc 1 
 rivers and Archipelago around you ; and another to trim 
 your taper over it in a snug library this I know. 
 Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
 lethodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
 nthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines 
 the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass 
 or to question), I should venture to ascribe it to the 
 ractice of preaching in the Jields, and the unstudied 
 nd extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 
 
 The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
 n the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im 
 iressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
 risons and prayers wherever they may be at the stated 
 tours of course frequently in the open air, kneeling 
 pon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose ol 
 a bed or cushion as required) ; the ceremony lasts sonrs 
 minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, am: 
 mly living in their supplication ; nothing can distur': 
 hem. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these 
 men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
 upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
 general rite Much was ever performed in places of 
 worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
 jersuasion under the sun ; including most of our own 
 sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armerow, 
 .he Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Muny 
 of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the 
 Turkiui empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of 
 heir belief and its rites : some of these I had a distant 
 view of at Patras, and from what I could make out oJ 
 them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan descr.p- 
 tion, and not very agreeable to a spectator. 
 
 Note 21. Stanza xcii. 
 
 The sky is changed ! and such a change ! Oh nigli 
 The thunder-storms to which these lines refei oo 
 curred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have 
 seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimap 
 several more terrible, but none more beautifuL 
 
 Note 22. Stanza xclr. 
 And sunset into rose-hues ees them wrought 
 Rousseau's Helo'ise, Letter 17, part 4, note. "Cea 
 montagnes sont si hautes, qu'une demi-heure apres le 
 soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de sea 
 rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches 
 ime belle couleur de rose qu'on apercoit de fort loin." 
 This applies more particularly to the heights over 
 Meillerie. 
 
 " J'allai b Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant deux jo>jr 
 que j'y re&tai sans voir personne, je pris pour cetta 
 vilie un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, 
 et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon roman. 
 Je dirois volontiers a ceux qui ont du gout et qui sonl 
 sensibles : Allez k Vevay visitez le piys, examine' .e 
 
 sites, promenez-vous sur te lac, et dites si la nature 
 
 '*' waive the question of devotion, and turn fc> human I n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, po.ir un 
 N 19
 
 106 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Claire et pour iin Saint-Prcux ; mais ne les y chcrchez 
 pas." Les Confessions, Uvre iv. page 306. Lyon, 
 1796. 
 
 In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the lake of 
 Geneva ; and as far as my own observations have led 
 me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all 
 liic scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his " He- 
 Joise," I can safely say, that in this there is no exagge- 
 ration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (with the 
 scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St, Gingo, 
 Meillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhone), with- 
 out being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation 
 to the persons and events with which it has been peo- 
 pled. But this is not all ; the feeling with which all 
 around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is 
 invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive 
 order than the mere sympathy with individual passion ; 
 it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended 
 and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of 
 its good and of its glory : it is the great principle of the 
 universe, which is there more condensed, but not less 
 manifested ; and of which, though knowing ourselves a 
 part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty 
 of the whole. 
 
 If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
 associations would not less have belonged to such 
 scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by 
 their adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty 
 by the selection; but they have done that for him 
 which no human being could do for them. 
 
 I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail 
 from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St. 
 Gingo during a lake-storm, which added to the magni- 
 liccnre of all around, although occasionally accompa- 
 nied bj- danger to the boat, which was small and over- 
 loaded. It was over this very part of the lake that 
 Rousseau has driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame 
 \Volmar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. 
 
 On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the 
 wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some 
 fine old chesnut trees on the lower part of the moun- 
 tains. On the opposite height is a seat called the Cha- 
 teau de Clarens. The hills are covered with vineyards, 
 and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods ; 
 one of these was named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it 
 is 'emarkable that, though long ago cut down by the 
 brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard (to whom 
 the land appertained), that the ground might be in- 
 closed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an 
 execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still 
 point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by 
 the name which consecrated and survived them. 
 
 Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the 
 preservation of the "local'habitations" he has given to 
 " airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has 
 cui down some of his woods for the sake of a few 
 casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the 
 rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. 
 Tl^e road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree 
 with a remarK which I heard made, that " La route 
 ut mieux que les souvenirs." 
 
 Note 23. Stanza cv. 
 
 Lausanne and Ferney '. ye have been the abodes. 
 foHaae and Gibbon. 
 
 Note 24. Stanza cxiii. 
 Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 " if it be thus, 
 
 For Banquo's issue have I filed my miiul." 
 Macbeth. 
 
 Note 25. Stanza cxiv. 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve, 
 It is said by Rochefoucault that "there is altcayt 
 something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
 displeasing to them." 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza i. 
 
 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand. 
 
 THE communication between the Ducal palace and the 
 prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gal- 
 lery, high above the water, and divided by a stone wall 
 into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, called 
 " pozzi," or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the 
 
 lace ; 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 of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under 
 the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. 
 They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of lh 
 French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up th 
 deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, de- 
 scend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, 
 half choked by rubbish, to the depth of two storeys 
 below the first range. If you are in want of consolation 
 for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may 
 find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the 
 narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of 
 confinement themselves are totally dark. A small hole 
 in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and 
 served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A 
 wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was ihe 
 only furniture. The conductors tell you that a light 
 was not allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, 
 two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They 
 are directly beneath one another, and respiration is 
 somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner 
 was found when the republicans descended into these 
 hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined 
 sixteen years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath 
 had left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, 
 which are still visible, and may perhaps owe something 
 to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to 
 have offended against, and others to have belonged to, 
 the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from 
 the churches and belfries which they have scratched 
 upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a spe- 
 cimen of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. 
 As nearly as they could be copied by more than one 
 pencil, three of them are as follows : 
 
 1. 
 
 NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO, HSNSA c TACI 
 SE FUGIR VUOi DI SP10N1 INSID1E e LACC'
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 .07 
 
 It PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
 MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 
 
 1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- 
 TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
 DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 
 
 IACOMO. GR1TTI. SCRISSE. 
 
 2. 
 
 UN PARLAR POCO et 
 NEGARE PRONTO et 
 
 UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
 A NOI ALTRI MESCHIM 
 
 1605. 
 
 EGO IOHN BAPTIST A AD 
 ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 
 
 3. 
 
 DI CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIG 
 DI CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDERO IO 
 
 V*. LA S TA . CH. RA. R!A. 
 
 The copyist has followed, not corrected, the solecisms; 
 some of which are however not quite so decided, since the 
 letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only 
 need be observed, that Bestemmia and Mangiar may 
 be read in the first inscription, which was probably 
 written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety 
 committed at a funeral : the Cortellarius is the name of 
 a parish on terra firma, near the sea : and that the last 
 initials evidently are put for Viva la Santa Chiesa 
 Kattolica Romano. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza ii. 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers. 
 
 An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 
 has made use of the above image, which would not be 
 poetical were it not true. 
 
 "Quo Jit ut qui superne urbem contemplelur, turritam 
 Ulluris imaginem media oceano Jiguratam se putet in- 
 spicere." ' 
 
 Note 3. Stanza iii. 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
 
 The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
 stanzas, from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the inde- 
 pendence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the 
 original on one column, and the Venetian variations on 
 the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once common, 
 and are still to be found. The following extract will serve 
 to show (he difference between the Tuscan epic and the 
 "Canta alia Barcariola." 
 
 Original. 
 Canto V armi pietose, e'l capitano 
 
 Che M gran sepolcro libero di Cristo. 
 Molto eg Ii oprb col senno, e con la mano 
 
 Molto Boffri nl glorioso acquisto ; 
 E in van I" Inferno a lui a' oppose, e in vano 
 
 S' armb d' Asia, c di Libia il popol misto, 
 Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i santi 
 Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 
 
 Venetian. 
 L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
 
 E de Gnffredo la immortal braura, 
 Che nl fin 1' ha libera co strassia. e dogia 
 
 Del nostro buon Gesii la sepoltura ; 
 De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
 
 Missier Plii'on no I' ha bu mai paura; 
 Dio 1' ha agmt.1, e i compagni sparpagnai 
 Tutii '1 gh' i ha messi insicme i di del Dai. 
 
 1 Mai :i Antonii S?al>n!li, de Venetse Urbis situ, narratio, edit 
 Turin. 1527 lib. 1. fol. 'JOi 
 
 Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
 and continue a stanza of their once familiar bare? 
 
 On the 7th of last January, the author of Child" 
 Sarold, and another Englishman, the writer of tm 
 notice, rowed^o the Lido with two singers, one of \\ hor.i 
 was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. The former 
 ilaced himself at the prow, the latter at the stern of the 
 )oat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazetta, they 
 jegan to sing, and continued their exercise until we 
 arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other 
 issays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; 
 and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
 The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the two. 
 and was frequently obliged to prompt his companion, 
 told us that he could translate the original. He added, 
 that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, but har 
 not spirits (morbin was the word he used), to learn anj 
 more, or to sing what he already knew : a man mus 
 lave idle time on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and 
 said the poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me, 
 am starving." This speech was more affecting 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 
 lis 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 his subject altogether to 
 repress. From these men WP. iearnt that singing is not 
 confined to the gondoliers, and that, although the chaunt 
 is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still several amongst 
 the lower classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. 
 
 It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to 
 row and sing at the same time. Although the verses of 
 the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet 
 much music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon holi- 
 days, those strangers who are not near or informed 
 enough to distinguish the words, may fane) that many of 
 the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The 
 writer 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 furnisned a very exact, as well 
 as agreeable, description. 
 
 " In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- 
 sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chaunt them with 
 a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present on 
 the decline : at least, after taking some pains, I could 
 find no more than two persons who delivered to me in 
 this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late 
 Mr. Berry once chaunted to me a passage in Tasso in the 
 manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 
 
 " There are always two concerned, who alternately 
 sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by 
 Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no 
 melodious movement; and is a sort of medium between 
 the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it approaches to 
 the former by recitativical declamation, and to the lattei 
 by passages and course, by which one syllable is detained 
 and embellished. 
 
 " I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer placed 
 himself forwards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded 
 to St. Georgio. One began the song : when he had ena&l 
 his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so continued 
 the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, Inn 
 same notes invariably returned, but, according to ai
 
 (08 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a 
 xmaller stiriss, sometimes on one, and sometimes on 
 another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the 
 whole s'rophe as the object of the poem altered. 
 
 " On the whole, however, the sounds w^ 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 
 gondola, while the other went to the distance of some 
 hundred paces. They now began to sing against one 
 another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
 both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. 
 I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to 
 the other. 
 
 " Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong 
 declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the 
 ear from far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly- 
 succeeding transitions, which necessarily required to be 
 sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains suc- 
 ceeding the vociferation of emotion or of pain. The 
 other, who listened attentively, immediately began where 
 the former left off", answering him in milder or more 
 vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe 
 required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the 
 plendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few 
 gondolas, that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- 
 creased the striking peculiarity of the scene ; and, amidst 
 all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the char- 
 acter of this wonderful harmony. 
 
 " It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, 
 lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these 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 is scarcely 
 to be heard. 
 
 "At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- 
 known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach 
 the two strangers ; be 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, Uiey entertain themselves without fatigue ; the 
 hearers, who ure passing between the two, take part in 
 Se amusement. 
 
 " This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
 tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
 fulfils its des.gn in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
 plaintive, but. not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
 wa r ceiv rw>ssible to refrain from tears. My companion, 
 woo otherwise was not a very delicately organized person, 
 
 said quite unexpectedly : ' e singolare come quel canii 
 intenerisce, e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio.' 
 
 "I was told that the women of Libo, the long ro\ 
 of islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns, ' 
 particularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma!a- 
 mocca and Palestnna, sing in like manner the works of 
 Tasso to these and similar tunes. 
 
 " They have the custom, when their husbands are 
 fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings 
 and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with 
 great violence, till each of them can distinguish the 
 responses of her own husband at a distance." 2 
 
 The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes 
 of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. 
 The city itself can occasionally furnish respectable au- 
 diences for two and even three opera-houses at a time ; 
 and there are few events in private life that do not call 
 forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a physician 
 or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman preach his 
 maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an operation, 
 would a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, 
 are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a birth, or a 
 law-suit, the Muses are invoked to furnish the same num- 
 ber of syllables, and the individual triumphs blaze abroad 
 in virgin white or party-coloured placards on half the cor- 
 ners of the capital. 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 and snow-storms are accustomed to 
 descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, 
 which, in its common course, is varied with those surprises 
 and changes so recommendable in fiction, but so different 
 from the sober monotony of northern existence ; amuse- 
 ments are raised into duties, duties are softened into 
 amusements, and every object being considered as equal- 
 ly making a part of the business of life, is announced and 
 performed with the same earnest indifference and gay 
 assiduity. The Venetian gazette constantly closes iu 
 columns with the following triple advertisement : 
 Charade. 
 
 Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church of St. 
 
 Theatres. 
 St. Moses, opera. 
 
 St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
 St. Luke, repose. 
 
 When it is recollected what the Catholics believe then 
 consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it worth> 
 of a more respectable niche than between poetry and the 
 playhouse. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza x. 
 
 Sparta hnth many a worthier eon than he. 
 The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the strangers 
 who praised the memory of her son. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza ft. 
 
 ft. Mark yet sees his lion wliere he stood 
 Stand. 
 
 The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the In 
 valides, but the gospel which supported the paw that ' 
 now on a level with the other foot. The horses, _sa, 
 are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set ou, 
 and are, as before, half hidden under me porcn window 
 of St. Mark's church. 
 
 1 Tho writer meant I Ado, which is not a long row of is;a,.as, 
 but a long island littua, the shore. 
 
 2 Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156 sdit. 1807 ; and 
 Appendix xxbc. to Black't Life of Tasso.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Their history, after a dv.-pcrate struggle, has been 
 atisfactorily 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 pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. 
 But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
 the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, 
 at last and for ever, the pretension of his countrymen 
 to this noble production. 1 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 The- 
 sdosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite play of the 
 Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
 t ne of their literary characters. One of the best speci- 
 Jiens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable volume 
 of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. 
 Several were prepared for the recovered horses. It is 
 to be hoped that the best was not selected, when the 
 following words were ranged in gold letters above the 
 cathedral porch : 
 
 QCATUOR . EQUORCM . SIGNA . A . VENETIS . BY- 
 ZANTIO . CAPTA . AD . TEMP . D . MAR . A . R . 8 . 
 MCC1V . POSITA . QUJE . HOSTILIS . CUPIDITAB . A . 
 MDCCCIII . ABSTULERAT . FRANC . I . IMP . PACIS . 
 ORBI . SATS . TROPH.KUM . A . MDCCCXV . VICTOR . 
 REDUXIT. 
 
 Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be per- 
 mitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in 
 transporting the horses from Constantinople was at 
 least equal to that of the French in carrying them to 
 Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to have 
 avoided all allusions to either robbery. An apostolic 
 prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing, over 
 the principal entrance of a metropolitan church, an in- 
 scription having a reference to any other triumphs than 
 those of religion. Nothing less than the pacification 
 of the world can excuse such a solecism. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xii. 
 
 The Suabiao sued, and now the Austrian rnipns 
 An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt. 
 
 After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians, 
 entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
 and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make him- 
 self absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisal- 
 pine dominions, the bloody struggles of four-and-twenty 
 years were happily brought to a close in the city of Ven- 
 ice. The articles of a treaty had been previously 
 agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. and Barba- 
 rossa, and the former, having received a safe-conduct, 
 had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in com- 
 pany with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the 
 consuls of the Lombard league. There still remained, 
 lowever, many points to adjust, and for several days 
 the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 
 Juncture it was suddenly reported that the emperor 
 had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the 
 capital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted 
 upon immediately conducting him to the city. The 
 Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards Tre- 
 viso. The Pope himself was apprehensive of some dis- 
 aster if Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, 
 DUI was re-assured by the prudence and address of 
 
 1 Sui qnattro caval.i del'a Basilica Hi S. Marco in Venezia. 
 Lettcra di Andrea Mustoxidi Corcirese. Padovn per Bettoni 
 comoagni, L81& 
 
 Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Se\eral embassies passe/* 
 between Chioza and the capital, until, at last, the emporov 
 relaxing somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside hi 
 leonine ferocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb." " 
 On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, sa. 
 Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp 
 from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
 Early the next morning, the Pope, accompanied by the 
 Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy 
 whom he had recalled from the main land, togethei 
 with a great concourse of people, repaired from the 
 patriarchal palace to Saint Mark's church, and solemnly 
 absolved the emperor and his partisans from the ex- 
 communication pronounced against him. The chan- 
 cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, re- 
 nounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. 
 Immediately the doge, with a great suite both of tht 
 clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting 
 on Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from the Lido 
 to the capital. The emperor descended from the galley 
 at the quay of the Piazetta. The doge, the patriarch, 
 his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice, with 
 their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn 
 procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. 
 Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the ba- 
 silica, attended 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 tho 
 Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person of 
 Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, and throw- 
 ing off his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length 
 at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his> 
 eyes, raised him benignantly from the ground, kissed 
 him, blessed him ; and immediately the Germans of the 
 train sang, with a loud voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord. 
 The emperor then taking the Pope by the right hand, 
 led him to the church, and, having received his bene- 
 diction, returned to the ducal palace." 2 The ceremony 
 of humiliation was repeated the next day. The Pope 
 himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint 
 Mark's. The emperor again laid aside his imperial 
 mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated as 
 verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding 
 the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting tho 
 gospel, preached to the people. The emperor put him- 
 self close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening ; and 
 the pontiff, touched by this mark of his attention, for 
 he knew that Frederic did not understand a word ho 
 said, commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate 
 the Latin discourse into the German tongue. The creed 
 was then chaunted., 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 held the horse's rein to the water side, had 
 not the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
 formance, and affectionately dismissed him with his 
 benediction. Such is the substance of the account 'eft 
 by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present at ihe 
 ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by every sub- 
 sequent narration. It would not be worth to minute 
 a record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well n 
 
 1 "Qnibus auditis, imperator. operanle eo, qui corda prin- 
 cipum iicut vult ct quando vult humililer mclinat, lcon:nl 
 teritate deposits, ovinam mansuetudinem induit." RnmujidJ 
 Snlernitam. Chromcon. apud Script. Her. Itai. Un. VII. p *S> 
 
 2 Ibid. p. 23L
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 of superstition. TV states of Lombardy owed to it the 
 confirmatiin of iheir privileges; and Alexander had 
 reason to tiiank the Almighty, who had enabled an in- 
 firm, unarmed old man to subdue a terrible and potent 
 sovereign. 1 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xii. 
 
 Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 The reader will recollect the exclamation of the high- 
 lander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee! Henry Dandolo, 
 when elected doge, in 1192, was eighty-five years of age. 
 When he commanded the Venetians at the taking of 
 Constantinople, he was consequently ninety-seven years 
 old. At this age he annexed the fourth and a half of 
 the whole empire of Romania, 2 for so the Roman em- 
 pire was then called, to the title and to the territories of 
 the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire 
 were preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of 
 Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above designa- 
 tion in the year 1357. 3 
 
 Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person : 
 two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- 
 gether, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their 
 higher yards to the walls. The doge was one of the first 
 to rush into the city. Then was completed, said the 
 Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sybil. " A 
 gathering together of the powerful shall be made amidst 
 the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind leader : they 
 shall beset the goat they shall profane Byzantium 
 they shall blacken her buildings her spoils shall be dis- 
 persed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have measured 
 out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a half." 11 
 
 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 Constanti- 
 nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name 
 of the rebel apothecary who received the doge's sword, 
 and annihilated the ancient government in 1796-7, was 
 Dandolo. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza xiii. 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass 1 
 Are they not bridled ? 
 
 After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
 Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 
 armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 
 
 1 See the above-cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second 
 sermon which Alexander preached, on the first day of Au- 
 gust, before the e\.>peror, he compared Frederic to the prodigal 
 son, and himself to the forgiving father. 
 
 2 Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important , and has written 
 Romani instead of Romania: Decline and Fall, chap. Ixi. 
 note 9. But the title acquired by Dnndolo runs thus in the 
 chronicle of his namesake, the Doge Andrew Dandolo: 
 Duc.ali titulo addiilit, " Quartx partis et dimidia* totius im- 
 peril Romania." And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii. para x.xxvii. 
 ap. Script. Rer. Ital. torn. xii. page 3.11. And the Romania) 
 is observed in the subsequent acts of the doges. Indeed the 
 continental possessions of the Greek empire in Europe, were 
 then generaUy known by the name of Romania, and that ap- 
 pellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to 
 Thrace. 
 
 3 See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid. p. 498. 
 Mr. Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, 
 *ho says, " il gual titnlo si uan fin al Doge Giovanni Dol- 
 fiao." SPP Vite de' Duchi de Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. 
 em. xxii. 530. 641. 
 
 fr " Fiet pntentinm in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, caero 
 pnediico, Hircum ainlngent, Ryznntium prophanabunt, a>di- 
 ficia denigralumt; spolia disporgentur, Hircus novus balabit 
 uque dum LIV. pe<ie et IX. pollices et semis praemensurati 
 JuK-urui:'.." Chrunicon. ibid, pan zxxiv. 
 
 Signor of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the in- 
 most despair. An embassy was sent to the conquerors 
 with a blank sheet of paper, praying :hem 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, aftei 
 the victory at Pola, had shouted, " to Venice, to Ven- 
 ice, and long live St. George," determined to annihilate 
 their rival, and Peter Doria, their commander-in-chief, 
 returned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's 
 faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace from 
 the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, 
 until we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses 
 of yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist St. 
 Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you 
 quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of our com- 
 mune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, that you 
 have brought with you U> give up to us, I will not have 
 them : take them back ; for, in a few days hence, I 
 shall come and let them out of prison myself, both these 
 and all the others." ' In fact, the Genoese did advance 
 as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; 
 but their own danger, and the pride of their enemies, 
 gave courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious 
 efforts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them care- 
 fully recorded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was 
 put at the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese 
 broke up from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in 
 October ; but they again threatened Venice, which was 
 reduced to extremities. At this time, the 1st of Janu- 
 ary, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising 
 on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The 
 Venetians were now strong enougli to besiege the Ge- 
 noese. Doria was killed on the 22d of January by a 
 stone bullet a hundred and ninety-five pounds weight, 
 discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza 
 was then closely invested ; five thousand auxiliaries 
 amongst whom were some English Condottieri, com- 
 manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. 
 The G enoese, in their turn, prayed for conditions, bul 
 none were granted, until, at last, they surrendered al 
 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 outfit of the expedition, fell into the hands of the 
 conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable 
 answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their do- 
 minion 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 Ven 
 ice at the time. 2 
 
 Note 9. Stanza, xiv. 
 The " Planter of the Lion." 
 Plant the Lion that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the 
 
 1 " Alia fe di Dio, Signori Veneziani, non haverete mai pace 
 dal Signore di Padoua, ne dal nostro comune di Geneva, se 
 primieramente non mettemo le hriglie a quelli vostri cavallr 
 sfrenati, che sono su la Reza del Vostro Evangelista S. Marco. 
 Infrenati che gli havremo, vi faremo stare in buona pace. B 
 questn e la intenzione nostrn, e del nostro comune. Questi 
 miei fratelli Genovesi, che havete menati con voi per donarci 
 non li voglio ; rimanetegli in dietro perche io intendo da qui 
 a pochi giorni venirgli a riscuoter dalle vostre prigioni e lora 
 e gli allri." 
 
 2 "Chronica della guerra di Chioza." ttc.Scrip' Rt 111 
 torn, xv p. 699 to 804.
 
 CHLLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word 
 pantajoon Pianta-ieone, Pantaleone, Pantaloon. 
 
 Note 10. Stanza xv. 
 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
 
 The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
 century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand 
 souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was 
 no more than about one hundred and three thousand, 
 and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the official 
 employments, which were to be the unexhausted source 
 of Venetian grandeur, have both expired. 1 Most of th< 
 patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
 disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the de- 
 molition of seventy-two, during the last two years, ex- 
 pressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many 
 remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
 and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks 
 of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or 
 are sinking, in the general decay. Of the " gentil uomo 
 Veneto," the name is still known, and dial is all. He 
 is but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and 
 kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is que- 
 rulous. Whatever may have been the vices of the re- 
 public, and although ths natural term of its existence 
 may be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
 course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected 
 from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the 
 ubjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
 to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it was 
 for the last time unfurled ;. and the cowardice and the 
 tieachery of the few patricians who recommended the 
 fatal neutrality, were confined to the persons of the 
 traitors themselves. 
 
 The present race cannot be thought to regret the 
 loss of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic gov- 
 ernment; they think only on their vanished indepen- 
 dence. They pine away at the remembrance, and on 
 this subject suspend for a moment their gay good-hu- 
 mour. Venice may be said, in the words of the scrip- 
 ture, " to die daily ;" and so general and so apparent 
 is the decline, as to become painful to a stranger, not 
 reconciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring as it 
 were, before his eyes. So artificial a creation, havin" 
 lost that principle which called it into life and sup- 
 ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
 sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of 
 slavery, which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
 since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
 they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd 
 of dependants, and not present the humiliating specta- 
 cle of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
 liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
 which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires 
 to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances ; but 
 many peculiarities of costume and manner have by 
 degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride com- 
 mon to all Italians who have "been masters, have not 
 been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That 
 splendour which was a proof and a portion of their 
 power, they would not degrade into the trappings 
 
 of their subjection. They retired from the space wh-k 
 they had occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens 
 their continuance in which would have been a symptom 
 of acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered b 
 the common misfortune. Those who remained in th 
 degraded capita' might be said rather to haunt thu 
 scenes of their departed power, than to live in them. 
 The reflection, " who and what enthrals," will hardly 
 bear a comment from one who is, nationally, the friend 
 and the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be 
 allowed to say thus much, that, to those who wish to 
 recover their independence, any masters must be an 
 object of detestation ; and it may be safely foretold that 
 this unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
 before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
 choked canals. 
 
 Note 11. Stanza xvi. 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. 
 The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 
 
 Note 12. Stanza xviii. 
 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 
 
 Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- 
 
 seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Othello. 
 
 Note 13. Stanza xx. 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow 
 Loftiest on lot'tiest and least shelter'd rocks. 
 Tannen is the plural of tonne, a species of fir pecu- 
 liar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
 where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can ba 
 found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than 
 any other mountain tree. 
 
 Note 14. Stanza xxviii. 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven. 
 
 The above description may seem fantastical or exag- 
 gerated to those who have never seen an oriental or ac 
 Italian sky ; yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient 
 delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as 
 contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of 
 the Brenta near La Mira. 
 
 Note 15. Stanza xxx. 
 
 Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we 
 now know as little of Laura as ever. 1 The discoveries 
 of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no 
 longer instruct or amuse. 2 We must not, however, 
 think that these memoirs are as much a romance as 
 Belisarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr. 
 Beattie, a great name, but a little authority. 3 His "la- 
 bour " has not been in vain, notwithstanding his "love" 
 has, like most other passions, made him ridiculous. 4 
 The hypothesis which overpowered the struggling Ita- 
 
 1 " Nonnullorum e nobilitate immense sunt opes, adeo ut 
 vir cstimari possint : id quod tribus e rebus oritur, parsimonia, 
 eommercio, atque iis emolumentis, qus e Repub. porcipiunt, 
 quie hanc ob causam diuturna fore creditur." See l)e Prin- 
 upatibus Italia? Tractalus, edit. 1631. 
 
 1 See A historical and critical Essay on the Life nd Char- 
 acter of Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on a Historical Hy- 
 pothesis of the Abbe de Sade: the first appeared about iha 
 rear 17S4 ; the other is inserted in the fourth volume of the 
 Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh ; and both 
 have been incorporated into a work, published under the fiml 
 title, by Baiiantyne in 1810. 
 
 2 Memoirs pour la Vie de Petrarque. 
 
 3 Life of Beattie, by Sir. W. Forbes, t. ii. p. Hfc 
 
 4 Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs " a tab.mr of lore," (se 
 Decline and Fall, cap. Ixx, note 1.) and followe 1 >iiin with 
 confidence and delight. The compiler of a very vo.ummouf 
 work must take much criticism upon trust: Mr. Gibbon >ia 
 dune BO, though not so readily as some other authors.
 
 112 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 lians, and cairied along ess 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 the re-established ancient 
 prejudice. 
 
 It seems then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
 and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
 The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, 
 may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
 Sastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- 
 thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
 parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
 the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to 
 the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
 If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
 written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited, with- 
 in the space of twelve hours ; and these deliberate du- 
 ties were performed round the carcass of one who died 
 of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day 
 of her death. These documents, therefore, are loo de- 
 cisive : they prove, not the fact, but the forgery. Either 
 the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. 
 The Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; the conse- 
 quent deduction is inevitable they are both evidently 
 false. 1 
 
 Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty 
 virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who 
 honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre of 
 an honest French passion, and played off for one-and- 
 twenty years her little machinery of alternate favours 
 and refusals 1 upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
 indeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made 
 responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- 
 interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian. 3 
 It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of 
 Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which he 
 prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely 
 not of the mind, 1 and something so very real as a mar- 
 riage project, with one who has been idly called a 
 shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least 
 six places of his own sonnets. 5 The love of Petrarch 
 was neither platonic nor poetical ; and, if in one passage 
 of his works he calls it " amore veemenceissimo ma 
 unico ed onesto," ho confesses, in a letter to a friend, 
 
 1 The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. 
 Horace Walpole. See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 
 
 2 " Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de favours et de 
 rigueurs bien menagee. une femme tendre et gage amuse, 
 pendant vingt-un ans, le plus grand poete de son siecle, sans 
 faire la momdre breche a son honneur." Mem. pour la 
 Vie de Petrarque. Preface aux Francais. The Italian editor 
 of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord 
 Woodhouselee, renders the " femme tendre et sage," "rif- 
 finatu civetta." Rillessioni intorno a Madonna Laura, p. 234. 
 vol. iii. ed. 1811. 
 
 II In a dialogue with 8t. Augustin, Petrarch has described 
 Laura as having a body exhausted with repeated ptuhs. The 
 old editors read and printed perturbqtionihus; but M. Capn^r- 
 pnier, librarian to the French King, in 1762, who saw the MS. 
 in the Paris library, made an attestation that " on lit et qu'on 
 (jit lire, pnrtubus exhaustum." De Sarte joined the names 
 of Messrs. Doudot and Bejut with M. Capperonier, and in the 
 whole discussion on this j, tubs, showed himself a downright 
 literary rogue. See Riflessioni. etc., p. 267. Thomas Aquinas 
 i* called in to settle whether Petrarch's mistress was a chaste 
 maid or a continent wife. 
 
 4 " Pismalion. quanto lodarti del 
 Dell' iromagine tua, so, mille volte 
 N* avotiquel rh' i' sol una vorrei." 
 
 Snnetto 53, Quando piunsc a Simon I' 
 alto concetto. Le Rime, etc., par. i. 
 pair. 189. edit. Ven. 1756. 
 Stc RiBessioni, etc., p. 291. 
 
 that it was guilty and perverse, that i\ aosorbed hut 
 quite, and mastered his heart. 1 
 
 In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for 
 the culpability of his wishes ; for the Abbe de Sade 
 himself, who certainly would not have been scrupu- 
 lously delicate, if he could have proved his descent from 
 Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence 
 of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the 
 poet, we have no security for the innocence, except 
 perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us, 
 in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his 
 fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost 
 all recollection and image of any "irregularity." 2 But 
 the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned 
 earlier than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the mem- 
 ory or the morality of the poet must have failed him, 
 when he forgot or was guilty of this slip. 3 The weakest 
 argument for the purity of this love has been drawn from 
 the permanence of effects, which survived the object of 
 his passion. The reflection of M. de la Bastie, that 
 virtue alone is capable of making impressions which 
 death cannot efface, is one.of those which every body 
 applauds, and every body finds not to be true, the mo- 
 ment he examines his own breast or the records of 
 human feeling. 4 Such apophthegms can do nothing for 
 Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except with the 
 very weak and the very young. He that has made even 
 a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage, cannot 
 be edified with any thing but truth. What is called 
 vindicating the honour of an individual or a nation, is 
 the most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing; 
 although it will always meet with more applause than 
 that sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious 
 desire of reducing a great man to the common standard 
 of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our 
 historian was tight in retaining his favourite hypothetic 
 salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely saves 
 the honour of the still unknown mistress of Petraich.* 
 
 Note 16. Stanza xxxi. 
 They keep his dust in A/qua, where he died. 
 Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return 
 from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, 
 in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his cele- 
 brated visit to Venice in company with Francesco No- 
 vello de Carrara, he appears to have passed the four last 
 years of his life between that charming solitude and 
 Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
 in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
 July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his 
 library chair with his head resting upon a book. The 
 chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arquii, 
 which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been 
 attached to every thing relative to this great man, from 
 
 1 " duella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occu 
 pava e mi regnava nel cuore." 
 
 2 Azion disonesta, are his words. 
 
 3 " A questa confessione cosi sincere died? forse occaiiona 
 unanuova caduta ch' ei fece. " Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., torn, 
 v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag. 492. 
 
 4 " 11 n'v a Que la vertu settle qui spit rapnlile de faire del 
 impressians que la mart n' efface pan." M. He Bimard. Baron 
 de la Bastie, in the Memoires dp 1'Arademie Hes Inscription* 
 et Belles-Letties fur 1740 and 1751. See also Rilles.sioni etc 
 p. 295. 
 
 5 " And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexo cbl 
 he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoyinz the ryinph n! o >e 
 17." Decline and Fall, cap. Ixx. p. 327. vol. xii OCL ID. 
 haps the if is here meant for although
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 113 
 
 .he moment of his death to the present hour, have, it 
 may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the 
 Shakspearian memorials of Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 
 Arqui (for the last syllable is accented in pronun- 
 ciation, although the analogy of the English language 
 has been observed in the verse), is twelve miles from 
 Padua, and about three miles on the right of the high 
 road to Rovigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. 
 After a walk of twenty minutes, across a flat well- wooded 
 meadow, you come t; a little blue lake, clear but fathom- 
 less, and to the foot of a succession of acclivities and 
 hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir 
 and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit-shrub. 
 From the banks of the lake, the road winds into the hills, 
 and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft 
 where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly 
 inclose the village. The houses are scattered at intervals 
 on the steep sides of these summits ; and that of the 
 poet is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two de- 
 icents, 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 mulberry and 
 willow thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, 
 tall single cypresses, and the spires of towns are seen 
 in the distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po 
 and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these 
 volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week 
 sooner than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, 
 for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of 
 red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, 
 and preserved from an association with meaner tombs. 
 It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- 
 shadowed by four lately-planted laurels. Petrarch's 
 fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and 
 expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below 
 the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, 
 with that soft water which was the ancient wealth of 
 the Euganean hills. It would be more attractive, wer* 
 it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. 
 No other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of 
 Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of centu- 
 ries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the 
 only violence which has been offered to the ashes of 
 Petiarch, was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. 
 An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its 
 treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Floren- 
 tine, through a rent which is still visible. The injury is 
 not forgotten, but has served to identify the poet with 
 the country where he was bom, but where he would 
 iiot live. A peasant boy of Arqui being asked who 
 Petrarch was, replied, "that the people of the par- 
 sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
 he was a Florentine." 
 
 Mr. Forsyth ' was not quite correct in saying, that 
 Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once 
 quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
 Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his 
 return in tfye year 1350, and remained there long enough 
 to form some acquaintance with its most distinguished 
 inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the 
 aversion of the poet for his native country, was eager to 
 point out this trivial error in our accomplished traveller, 
 *noru he knew and respected for an extraordinary 
 
 1 Remarks, etc. on Italy, p, 9.'<, rote, 3d edit. 
 20 
 
 capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, joined 
 to that engaging simplicity of manners which has beeo 
 so frequently recognised as the surest, though it is rer 
 tainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 
 
 Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxious)) 
 traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged it 
 shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in orda 
 to decide the ancient controversy between their city ana 
 the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried 
 when seven months old, and remained until his seventl 
 year, have designated, by a long inscription, the spol 
 where their great fellow-citizen was bom. A tablet has 
 been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha, 
 at the cathedral, J because he was archdeacon of that 
 society, and was only snatched from his intended sepul- 
 ture in their church by a. foreign death. Another tablet 
 with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on ac- 
 count of his having passed the autumn of 1368 in thai 
 city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political con- 
 dition which has for ages precluded the Italians from 
 the criticism of the living, has concentrated their 
 attention to the illustration of the dead. 
 
 Note 17. Stanza xxxiv. 
 
 Or, it may be, with demons. * 
 
 The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demon? 
 as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
 ness for the temptation of our S-iviour. And our un- 
 sullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child t 
 complete solitude. 
 
 Note 18. Stanza xxrvni. 
 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
 And Boileau, whose rash envy, etc. 
 
 Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciate* 
 Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to jus- 
 tify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. 
 
 A Malherbe, a Raran, preferer Theophile, 
 t le clinquant du Tasse a tout 1'or de Virgile. 
 
 Sat. ix. verse 176. 
 
 The biographer Serassi, 2 out of tenderness to the repu- 
 tation either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager 
 to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away 
 this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the 
 Jerusalem to be a " genius sublime, vast, and happily 
 bom for the higher flights of poetry." To this we wilJ 
 add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, when 
 
 I D. O. M. 
 
 Francisco Petrarcha 
 
 Parmensi Archidiacono. 
 
 Parentibus prseclaris genere peranliquo 
 
 Elhices Chiistianic scriptori eximio 
 
 Romans lingua* restituturi 
 
 Etruscce principi 
 
 Africae ob carmen bac in urbe peractum regibus accho 
 S. P. Q. R. laurea donate. 
 
 Tanti Viri 
 Juvenilium juvenig senilium genex 
 
 StudiosUsimus 
 
 Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicogntrm 
 Marmorea proxima ara excilata. 
 
 Ibique cundilo 
 
 Diva; Januariae crucnto corpore 
 H. M. P. 
 Suffectum 
 
 Bed infra meritum Francisci sepulchre 
 Sumrna hac in cede efferri mandautii 
 
 Si Parma? occumberet 
 Extcra rnorte heu nbbis erepti. 
 
 2 La vita dehTasgo, lib. iii. p. 284. torn, u edit tsejsam 
 1790.
 
 fvl 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 we examine the whole anecdote as reported by Olivet. ' 
 The sentence pronounced against him by Bohours 2 is 
 ecorded only to the confusion of the critic, whose pa- 
 knodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, and 
 would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition which 
 tho Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan academy, 
 who degraded Tasso from all competition with Ariosto, 
 oelow Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such opposition 
 must also, in some measure, be laid to the charge of 
 Alphonso, and the court of Ferrara. For Leonard Sal- 
 viati, the principal and nearly the sole origin of this 
 attack, was, there can be no doubt, 3 influenced by a 
 hope to acquire the favour of the House of Este : an 
 object which he thought attainable by exalting the repu- 
 tation of a native/ poet at the expense of a rival, then a 
 prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Salviati 
 must serve to show the cotemporary opinion as to the 
 nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and will fill up the 
 measure of our indignation at the tyrant jailor. 4 In 
 fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not disappointed in the 
 reception given to his criticism ; he was called to the 
 court of Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to heighten 
 his claims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his 
 sovereign, 5 he was in his turn abandoned, and expired 
 in neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans 
 was brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
 ment of the controversy ; and if the academy owed its 
 first renown to having almost opened with such a para- 
 dox, 6 it is probable that, on the other hand, the care 
 of his reputation alleviated rather than aggravated the 
 imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his 
 father and of himself, for both were involved in the 
 censure of Salviati, found employment for many of his 
 solitary hours, and the captive could have been but little 
 embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, amongst 
 other delinquencies, he was charged with invidiously 
 omitting, in his comparison between France and ItaJy, 
 to mane any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del 
 Fiore at Florence.' The late biographer of Ariosto 
 seems as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting 
 the interpretation of Tasso's self-estimation, 8 related 
 
 1 Histoire de 1'Aciulemie Franeaise, depuis 1652 jusqu'k 
 1700, par 1'abbe d'Olivct, p. 181. edit. Amsterdam, 1730. 
 "Mais, ensuite, vcnant k 1'usage qu'Ll a fait de ses talcns, 
 j'aurais montr6 quc le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui do- 
 mine chez lui," p. 183. Boileau said he had not changed his 
 opinion : " J'enuisi peu change, dit-il," etc. p. 181. 
 
 2 La maniere de bien penser dans Ics ouvrages de I'esprit, 
 lec. dial. p. 89. edit. 1692. Philanthpa is for Tasso, and says, 
 in the outset, "de tous les beaux esprits que 1'Italie a pones, 
 le Tassc cst pcut-etre cclui qui pcnse le plus noblement." 
 But Bohours seems to speak in Ecdoxus, who closes with 
 the absurd comparison, "Faites valoire le Tasse tant qu'il 
 vous plaira, jc m'en ticns pourmoi i Virpile,"etc. ib. p. 102. 
 
 3 La Vita, etc. lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader 
 may see an account of me opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, 
 in Dr. Black, Life, etc. cap. xvii. vol. ii 
 
 4 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso 
 >vas neither more nor less than a prisoner of stntr. the reader 
 is referred to " Historical Illustrations of the IVth Canto of 
 Childe Harold," p. 5, and following. 
 
 5 Orazioni funetiri. . . . Delle lodi di Don'Luigi Cardinal 
 d'Esto . . . Deile lodi di Donno Alfonzo d'Este. See La 
 Vita, lib. iii. pag. 117. 
 
 6 It was founded in 1582. and the Cruscan answer to Pel- 
 egrmol's Ca.ra.ffa or epica poesia, was published in 1584. 
 
 7 "Cotanto pole sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima 
 olonta. r.ontro alia nazion Fiorentana." La Vita, lib. iii. pp. 
 Sf. 8. torn, il 
 
 8 La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate Giro lamo 
 Uaruffaldi giuniore, etc., Ferrara, 1807. lib. iii. page 262. 
 4ee Historical Illustrations, etc n 9(5. 
 
 in Scrassi's life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had beforu 
 laid that rivalry at rest, 1 by showing, that between 
 Ariostc and Tasso it is not a question of comparison, 
 but of preference. 
 
 Note 19. Stanza xli. 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 Thp iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves. 
 Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
 Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, 
 which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, 
 and a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event 
 has been recorded by a writer of the last century. 2 The 
 transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, 
 was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- 
 lived Italian Republic, and to consecrate the memory of 
 the ceremony, the once farm us fallen Intrepidi were 
 revived and re-formed in the Ailostean academy. The 
 large public place through which the procession paraded 
 was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. Th 
 author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the Ho- 
 mer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. 3 The mother of Ari- 
 osto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was 
 born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with these- 
 words : " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8 di 
 Settembre deW anno 1474." But the Ferrarese make 
 light of the accident by which their poet was born 
 abroad, and claim him exclusively for their o\vn. They 
 possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and his 
 ink-stand, and his autographs. 
 
 " hie illius arma. 
 
 Hie currus fuit " 
 
 The house where he lived, the room where he died, sre 
 designated by his own replaced memorial, 4 and by a 
 recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of 
 their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from 
 a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not 
 unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and 
 climate to a Kffiotian incapacity for all spiritual produc- 
 tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the 
 detraction, and this supplement to Baretti's Memoirs 
 of the illustrious Ferrarese, has been considered a tri- 
 umphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Statistico dell' 
 Alta Italia." 
 
 Note 20. Stanza xli. 
 
 For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 
 Is of tho tre\! no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
 The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel, 5 and the white 
 vine, 6 were, amongst the most approved preservatives 
 against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Cae- 
 sar the second, 7 and Tiberius never failed to wear a 
 wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder- 
 storm. 8 These superstitions may be received without a 
 
 1 Storia della Lett., etc. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1230 
 sect. 4. 
 
 2 "Mi raccontarono quo" monaci, ch' essendo caduto un 
 fulmine nella loro chiesa schianto esso dalle tcmpie la corona 
 di lauro a auelP immortale poeta." Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii. 
 p. 17fi. ed. Milano, 1802 ; lettera al Signor Guido Savini Ar- 
 cifisiocritico, suit' indole di un fulmine caduto in Dresila 
 anno 1759. 
 
 3 "Appassionato ammiratore cd invitto apqjogista <!ell' 
 Omero Ferrarrse." The title was first given l"y Tasso, ind 
 is quoted *> the confusion of the Tassisti, lio. iii. pp 162 
 265. La Vila di M. L. Ariosto. etc. 
 
 4 " Parva, sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed n>n 
 Sordida, parta mpo sed tamcn sere dcmus." 
 
 5 Aquila, vituhis marinus, et laurug. fulmino o>n fci un'ur 
 Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii. cap. Iv. 
 
 6 Columella, iib. x. 
 
 7 Sucton. in Vit. August, cnp.'xc 
 
 8 Id. in Vit. Tiberii. cap. Ixiz.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 115 
 
 sneer in a country where the magical properties of the 
 hazei-twig have not lost all their credit ; and perhaps the 
 reader may not be much surprised to find that a com- 
 mentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely 
 lo disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- 
 rius, by mentioning that, a few years before he wrote, 
 a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome. 
 
 Note 21. Stanza xli. 
 Know that the lightning sanctifies below. 
 
 The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
 Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
 sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
 by a puleat, or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, 
 witli a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be' 
 made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons 
 struck dead were thought to be incorruptible ; J and a 
 stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
 man so distinguished by Heaven. 3 
 
 Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white 
 garment, aud buried where they fell. The superstition 
 was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the 
 Lombards believed in the omens furnished by lightning, 
 and a Christian priest confesses that by a diabolical skill 
 in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke 
 of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave him a 
 queej and a crown.* There was, however, somethin 
 equivocal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants ol 
 Rome did not always consider propitious ; and as the 
 fears are likely to last longer than the consolations oi 
 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 ol 
 a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on thunder and 
 cghtning to prove the omen favourable ; beginning with 
 the flash which struck the walls of Velitrae, and includ- 
 ing that which played upon a gate at Florence, anc 
 foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens. 5 
 
 Note 22. Stanza Ixii. 
 
 Italia, oh Italia, etc. 
 The two stanzas, XLII. and XLIII., are, with the ex- 
 ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous 
 sonnet of Filicaja : 
 
 " Italia, Italia, O tu cui fco la sorte." 
 
 Note 23. Stanza xfiv. 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 
 
 The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on 
 
 the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, anc 
 
 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 frorr 
 /Egina towards Megara, I began to contemplate th 
 prospect of the countries around me : ^Egina was behind 
 Megara before me ; Piraeus on the right, Corinth on th 
 left ; all which towns, once famous and flourishing, now 
 fie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon thi 
 tight, I could not but think presently within mysell 
 
 Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourse.ves it 
 any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whoss 
 ife is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many ns>->*6 
 ities lie here exposed before me in one view." ' 
 Note 24. Stanza xlvi. 
 
 Note 2. pap. 409. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 
 Vid. J. C. liullcnger, de Terrse motu et Fulminibus, lib 
 i, cap. xi. 
 
 3 OtxJtif xcpavviaOas ari/io$ tari, SOtv ai if 
 riii'lra'. Pint. Sympos., vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 
 
 4 Pauli Diaconi, dp gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. fo 
 tv. edit. Taurin. 1527. 
 
 5 1. P. Valerian!, ile fulminum significationihus declamatio 
 p. Gripv. Antiq. Rom. turn. v. p. 593. The declamation is 
 addressed to Julian of Media'*. 
 
 -and we pass 
 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form. 
 
 It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hi 
 upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation 
 ' Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, insta/ 
 pgantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi." 2 
 
 Note 25. Stanza xlix. 
 There, too, the goddess loves in stone. 
 
 The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
 he lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the ob- 
 ect with the description proves, not only the correct- 
 ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of though^ 
 and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination ol 
 the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be de- 
 duced from another hint in the same episode of Musi- 
 dora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of favoured 
 ove must have been either very primitive, or rather 
 deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful nymph 
 nform her discreet Damon that in some happier mo- 
 ment he might perhaps be the companion 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 
 Eallery without a word on the JVhelter. It seems strange 
 that the character of that disputed statue should not be 
 entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one who 
 has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Basilica 
 of St. Paul without the walls, at Rome, where the whole 
 
 roup of the fable of Marsyas is seen in tolerable pre- 
 servation ; 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 difficulty than to suppose 
 the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an in- 
 strument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi 
 supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Ju- 
 lius Ccesar. Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of 
 the same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agos- 
 tini, and his authority might have been thought con- 
 clusive, even if the resemblance did not strike the mo?t 
 careless observer. 3 
 
 Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection 
 is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- 
 mented upon by Mr. Gibbon. 4 Our historian found 
 some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- 
 tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has 
 been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- 
 cognised to be a forgery. 
 
 Note 26. Stanza !i. 
 
 his eyes to thee upturn. 
 
 Feeding on thy'swect cheek. 
 
 6<i0aA/<oti5- iartjfi'. 
 ' . . .Atque oculos pascal uterque sues." Ovid. Jimor. lib. u 
 
 1 Dr. Middlcton History of the Life of M Tullius Cicero, 
 sect. vii. pag. 371, vol. ii. 
 
 2 Do fortune varietute urbis Roma; et do ruinis ejusdem 
 descriptio, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. loin. i. pag. 501. 
 
 3 See Monim. Ant. ined. par. i. cap. xvii. n. xMi. pag. 50 
 and etoria delle arti, etc. lib. xi. cap. i, torn. ii. p. 314. not B 
 
 4 Nomina eentesque Antique Italic, p. 204, edit, uct
 
 ne> 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Note 27. Stanza liv. 
 IP Santa Grace's holy precincts lie. 
 This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
 *ho?e tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
 centre of pi'grimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her 
 whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, 
 and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
 CORISNA is no more ; and with her should expire the 
 fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too daz 
 zling or too dark a cloud round the march of genius, 
 and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. 
 We have her picture embellished or distorted, as friend- 
 ship or detraction has held the pencil: the impartial 
 portrait was hardly to be expected from a contempo- 
 rary. The immediate voice of her survivors will, it is 
 probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her 
 ingular capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, 
 Bid the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
 edge of censure, must cease to exist. The dead have 
 no sex ; they can surprise by no new miracles ; they 
 can confer no privilege: Corinna has ceased to be a 
 woman she is only an author : and it may be foreseen 
 that many will repay themselves for former complai- 
 sance, by a severity to which the extravagance of pre- 
 vious praises may perhaps give the colour of truth. 
 The latest posterity, for to the latest posterity they will 
 assuredly descend, will have to pronounce upon her 
 various productions ; and the longer the vista through 
 which they are seen, the more accurately minute will 
 be the object, the more certain the justice of the deci- 
 sion. She will enter into that existence in which the 
 great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, 
 associated in a world of their own, and from that su- 
 perior sphere shed their eternal influence for the con- 
 trol and consolation of mankind. But the individual 
 will gradually disappear as the author is more dis- 
 tinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those whom 
 the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, 
 attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should 
 rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although 
 they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more fre- 
 quently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
 private life. Some one should be found to portray 
 the unaffected graces with which she adorned those 
 dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties 
 is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than 
 seen in the outward management, of family inter- 
 course ; and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of 
 genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indiffer- 
 ent spectator. Some one should be found, not to 
 celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
 open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and 
 always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the 
 ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only 
 to give fresh animation to those around her. The mo- 
 ther tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved, the 
 friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the 
 charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten 
 by those whom she cherished, protected, and fed. Her 
 loss will be mourned the most where she was known 
 the best ; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and 
 "ioie dependants, may be offered the disinterested re- 
 giet of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of 
 the Leman lake, icceived his chief satisfaction from 
 contemplating th engaging qualities of the incompa- 
 r*o.e Corinna. 
 
 Note 28. Stanza liv. 
 
 -here repose 
 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones. 
 
 Alfieri is the great name of this ag. The Italian's, 
 without waiting for the hundred years, consider him aa 
 " 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 ob- 
 served by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions 
 and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at. the 
 theatre. 1 In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated improv- 
 visatorc exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of ]Vi- 
 laa. The reading of the theses handed in for the sub- 
 jects of his poetry was received by a very numerous ai 1 
 dience, for the most part in silence, or with laughter ; 
 but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, ex- 
 claimed, " The apotheosis of Victor jllfieri," the whole 
 theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was con- 
 tinued for some moments. The lot did not fall on Al- 
 fieri ; and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his ex- 
 temporary commonplaces on the bombardment of Al- 
 giers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite 
 so much as might be thought from a first view of the 
 ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look 
 at the papers beforehand, but, in case of any prudential 
 after- thought, steps in to correct the blindness of 
 chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri was received 
 with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because it was 
 conjectured there would be no opportunity of carrying 
 it into effect. 
 
 Note 29. Stanza liv. 
 Hero Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose 
 
 The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- 
 tions which so often leaves us uncertain whether the 
 structure before us is an actual depository, or a ceno- 
 taph, or a simple memorial not of death but life, has 
 given to the tomb of Machiavelli no information as to 
 the place or time of the birth or death, the age or pa- 
 rentage, of the historian. 
 
 TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
 NICCOLAV3 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 epithel 
 proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at Florence. His 
 memory was persecuted as his life had been for an at- 
 tachment to liberty, incompatible with the new system 
 of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free gov- 
 ernments of Italy. He was put to the torture for be- 
 ing a " lihertine," that is, for wishing to restore the re- 
 public of Florencfi ; and such are the undying efforts 
 
 1 The free expression of their honest sentiments survived 
 their liberties. Titus, the friend of Antony, presented them 
 with games in the theatre of Pompey. They did not suffer tho 
 brilliancy of the spectacle to efface from their memory that the 
 man who furnished them with the entertainment had mui- 
 dered the son of Pompey. They drove him from the tlientro 
 with curses. The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously 
 expressed, is never wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumviri 
 joined in the execration of the citizens, by shouting -fiund the 
 chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, who had proscribed l-heii 
 brothers, De ffermanis nan de Gallis duo triumvhant i Jn 
 sulet; a saying worth a record, were it nothing but 8 |cxi4 
 pun. C. Veil. Paterculi Hist. lib. ii. cap. Uxix, pag. 71 eort 
 Elzevir. 1639. Ibid. lib. ii. cap. luvii
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 o<" 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 infatuation in all. It 
 seems \i have been a strange mistake to accuse the au- 
 Jior of tn* Prince, as being a pander to tyranny ; and 
 to think that the inquisition would condemn his work 
 for such a delinquency. The fact is, that Machiavelli, 
 as is usual with those against whom no crime can be 
 proved, was suspected of and charged with atheism ; 
 and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince 
 were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inqui- 
 sition " benche fosse tardo, y ' to prohibit the treatise, 
 and the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine 
 republic as no better than a fool. The father Possevin 
 was proved never to have read the book, and the father 
 Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- 
 ever, that such critics must have objected not to the 
 slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency 
 of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
 of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
 Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the last chapter 
 of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
 tion, from those who are employed once more in 
 moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to 
 receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
 bears for title, " Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Bar- 
 bari," and concludes with a lilertine excitement to the 
 future redemption of Italy. " Nan si deve adunque 
 lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocchb la Italia 
 te<?ga dopo tanto tempo apparire un 'suo redentore. 
 Nl posso esprimere con qua! amore ei fusse ricevuto in 
 tutte quelle provincie, che hanno patito per queste il- 
 tuvioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, con che os- 
 tinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li serre- 
 rebeno 1 Quali populi li negherebbeno la obbedienza 1 
 Quote Italiano li negherebbe P ossequio 1 AD OGNURO 
 
 PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIO." ' 
 
 Note 30. Stanza Ivii. 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. 
 Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 
 fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, 
 and once prior of the republic. When the party of 
 Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 
 absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII. and was 
 condemned >o two years' banishment, and to a fine of 
 eight thousand lire ; on the non-payment of which he 
 was further punished by the sequestration of all his 
 property. The republic, however, was not content with 
 this satisfaction, for in 1772 was discovered in the 
 archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the 
 eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be 
 ournt alive ; Talis perveniens igne combwatur sic quod 
 moriatur. The pretext for this judgment was a proof 
 if unfair barter, extortions, and illicit gains: Baracte- 
 riarum iniquarum, extorsionum, et illiritorum lucro- 
 um, 2 and with such an accusation it is not strange that 
 Jante should have always protested his innocence, and 
 
 1 II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, etc., con la prefazione 
 t le note istoriche e politiche di M. Amelot de la Hnnssaye, e 
 
 'egamee confbtazione dell" opera.... Cosmopoli, ITti'J. 
 
 2 Storia della Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. 2. pag. 448. 
 Tiralionchi is incorrect : the dates of the three decrees against 
 liante are A. O. 1302, 1314, and 1316 
 
 
 
 the injustice of his fellow-iitizL'hs. His appeal to Flo- 
 rence was accompanied l:y another to the Empe'oi 
 Henry, and the death of that sovereign, in 1313, \v a 
 the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. II > 
 had before lingered near Tuscany, with hopes of recal 
 then travelled into the north of Italy, where Verona 
 had to boast of his longest residence, and he finalU 
 settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not 
 constant abode until his death. The refusal of the Vo- 
 netians to grant him a public audience, on the part of 
 Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to have 
 been the principal cause of this event, which happened 
 in 1321. He was buried (" in sacra minorum aede,") 
 at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected 
 by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, pretor 
 for that republic which had refused to hear him, again 
 restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a 
 more magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the 
 expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The 
 offence or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a 
 defeated party, and, as his least favourable biographers 
 allege against him, too great a freedom of speech and 
 haughtiness of manner. But the next age paid honours 
 almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in 
 vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
 crowned his image in a church,' and his picture is stil. 
 one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, 
 they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, no\ 
 being able to dispute about his own birth, contendeo 
 for that of his great poem, and the Florentines though* 
 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 
 professional chair for the expounding of his verses, anci 
 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 the images of his mystic 
 muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to 
 have been distinguished above those of ordinary men : 
 the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, 
 relates that his mother was warned in a dream of the 
 importance of her pregnancy; and it was found, by 
 others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his 
 precocious passion for that wisdom or theology which, 
 under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
 substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 
 been recognised as a mere mortal production, and at 
 the distance of two centuries, when criticism and com- 
 petition had sobered the judgment of Italians, Dante 
 was seriously declared superior to Homer, 1 and though 
 the preference appeared to some casuists " a heretical 
 blasphemy worthy of the flames," the contest was vig- 
 orously maintained for nearly fifty years. In later 
 times, it was made a question which of the lords of 
 Verona could boast of having patronized him, 3 and the 
 jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow Ra 
 venna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even 
 the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that the 
 
 1 So relates Ficino, hut some think hig coronation only an 
 allegory. See Storia, etc., ut sup. p. 453. 
 
 2 By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy continue* 
 from 1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc., torn. vii. lib. v\ par iii 
 
 3 Gio. Jacopo Dionisi canonico di Verona. Serie di AIM* 
 doti, n. 2. See Storia, etc,, torn. v. lib. i. par. p. 24.
 
 118 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 poet h id foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
 G Jileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his 
 popularity has not always maintained the same level. 
 The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a 
 model and a study ; and Bettinelli one day rebuked his 
 pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete 
 extravagancies of the Commedia. The present genera- 
 tion, having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of 
 Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, and the 
 Danteggaire of the northern Italians is thought even 
 indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 
 
 There is still much curious information relative to 
 the life and writings of this great poet, which has not 
 as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the cele- 
 brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect ; 
 and it is not to be regretted that this national work 
 has been reserved for one so devoted to his countrv 
 and the cause of truth. 
 
 Note 31. Stanza Ivii. 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
 Proscribed, etc. 
 
 The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb, if he was not 
 buried, at Liternum, whither he had retired to volun- 
 tary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, 
 and the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrala Patria, 
 having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 
 sn agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 
 bved there. 1 
 
 In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 
 
 Era 'I grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella 
 
 Perche prima col terro al vivo apprilla. " 
 
 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 
 net er. Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, 
 a short story may show the difference between even 
 an aristocracy and the multitude. 
 
 Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto- 
 longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
 action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
 Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
 Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
 tribunal was content with the sentence of imprison- 
 ment. Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmerited dis- 
 grace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital, 3 was, by 
 the assistance of the Signer of Padua, delivered into 
 the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that 
 disaster, the great bell of St. Mark's tower tolled to 
 arms, and the people and the soldiery of the galleys 
 were summoned to the repulse of the approaching 
 enemy ; but they protested they would not move a 
 step, unless Pisani were liberated, and placed at their 
 head. The great council was instantly assembled : the 
 prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea 
 Contarini, informed him of the demands of the people 
 *nd the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
 satpty was reposed on his efforts, and who implored 
 hiir to forgive the indignities he had endured in her 
 
 1 Vilam Liferni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist, 
 lib. xxxviii. Livy reports tha*. some said he was buried at 
 l.iternum, others at Rome. 1U cap. Iv. 
 
 2 Trionfo Jclla Castiu. 
 
 i Bee note to stanza XIII. 
 
 service. " I have submitted," replied the magnanimous 
 republican, "I have submitted to your deliberations 
 
 ithout complaint ; I have supported patiently the pains 
 of imprisonment, for they were inflicted at your com- 
 mand : this is no time to inquire whether I deserved 
 them the good of the republic may have seemed to 
 require it, and that which the republic resolves is always 
 resolved wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my lil'a 
 for the preservation of my country." Pisani was ap- 
 pointed generalissimo, and, by his exertions, in conjunc- 
 tion with those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon re- 
 covered the ascendancy over their maritime rivals. 
 
 The Italian communities were no less unjust to they 
 citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
 the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
 not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boa 
 ed equality before the laws, which an ancient Green 
 writer ' considered the great distinctive mark between 
 his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights 
 of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
 scope of the old democracies. The world may have not 
 yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, 
 in which the distinction between the liberty of former 
 states, and the signification attached to that word by the 
 happier constitution of England, is ingeniously devel- 
 oped. The Italians, however, when they had ceased to 
 be free, still looked back with a sigh upon those times of 
 turbulence, when every citizen might rise to a share of 
 sovereign power, and have never been taught fully to 
 appreciate the repose of a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, 
 when Francis Maria II. Duke of Rovero proposed the 
 question, " which was preferable, the republic or the 
 principality tKe perfect and not durable, or the less 
 perfect and not so liable to change," replied, " that our 
 happiness is to be measured by its quality, not by its 
 duration ; and that he preferred to live for one day like 
 a man, than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, 
 or a stone." This was thought, and called, a mag 
 nificent answer, down to the last days of Italian ser 
 vitude. 2 
 
 Note 32. Stanza Ivii. 
 
 -and the crown 
 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 
 
 The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe 
 trarch's short visit to their city, in 1350, to revoke the 
 decree which confiscated the property of his father, 
 who had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. 
 His crown did not dazzle them ; but when, in the next 
 year, they were in want of his assistance in the formation 
 of their university, they repented of their injustice, and 
 Boccaccio was sent to Padua to entreat the laureat tc 
 conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native 
 country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
 enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all 
 classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the op- 
 tion of the book, and the science he might condescend 
 to expound: they called him the glory of his countrv. 
 who was dear, and would be dearer to them ; and they 
 added, that if there was any thing unpleasing in thcu- 
 letter, he ought to return amongst them, were it only to 
 
 1 The Greek boasted that he was to-ovo/ios See thn law 
 chapter of the first book of Dionysuis of Halicarrmssus. 
 
 2 " E intorno alia magnif.cn. risposta," etc. Sc r assi V't* 
 del Tasso, lib. iii. pag. 149. torn. ii. edit. 2, Bergamo.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 .13 
 
 correct their slyie. 1 Petrarch seemed at first to listen to 
 the flattery and to the entreaties of his friend, but he did 
 not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
 the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 
 Note 33. Stanza Iviii. 
 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
 
 His dust. 
 
 Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael and 
 St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, 
 which was by some supposed the place of his birth. 
 There he passed the latter part of his life in a course of 
 laborious study, which shortened his existence ; and 
 there might his ashes have been secure, if not of honour, 
 at least of repose. But the "hyaena bigots" of Certaldo 
 tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, and ejected it from 
 the holy precints of St. Michael and St. James. The 
 occasion, and, it may be hoped, the excuse of this eject- 
 ment, was the making of a new floor for the church : 
 but the fact is, that the 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 devotion of the Italians 
 for their great names, could it not be accompanied by a 
 trait more honourably conformable to the general char- 
 acter of the nation. The principal perjon of the district, 
 the last branch of the house of Medicis, afforded that 
 protection to the memory of the insulted dead which 
 her best ancestors had dispensed upon all cotemporary 
 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 
 mansion. She has done more : the house in which the 
 poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, and 
 is falling to ruin over Ae head of one indifferent to the 
 name of its former tenant. It consists of two or three 
 little chambers, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II. 
 affixed an inscription. This house she has taken meas- 
 ures to purchase, and proposes to devote to it that care 
 and consideration which are attached to the cradle and 
 to the roof of genius. 
 
 This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boc- 
 caccio ; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony 
 in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the 
 first, if not the first, to allure the science and the poetry 
 of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; who not only invented 
 a new style, but founded, or certainly fixed, a new lan- 
 guage ; who, besides the esteem of every polite court of 
 Europe, was thought worthy of employment by the pre- 
 dominant republic of his own country, and, what is 
 more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived- the life 
 of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died in the 
 pursuit of knowledge, such a man might have found 
 more consideration than he has met with from the 
 priest of Certaldo, and from a late English traveller, who 
 strikes off his portrait as an odious, contemptible, li- 
 centious writer, whose impure remains should be suf- 
 fered to rot without a record. 1 That English traveller, 
 
 1 " Aceingiti innoltre. se cie 'ecito ancor I'esorlarti, a com- 
 pire 1' immortal tu-i Africa.... ?e ti nyviene d'incontrare ncl 
 nostro stile cosa che ti disoiaecia, cib debb' essere un nliro 
 motive ad esau:lire i desiderj della tin patria." Storia della 
 l.ctt. Tia!. torn, v, par. i. lib. i. pae. 70. 
 
 2 Classical Tour. cap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355. Hit. 3d. " Of 
 Roccarri >. the modern Petronius, we say nothing: the abuse 
 of genius is more odions :>nd more contemptible than its ab- 
 sence ; and it imports little where the impure remnins of a li- 
 ivntini s author are consigned to their kindred ilu^t. For tbe 
 arne reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the 
 naiiziiiuit Aretino." 
 
 unfortunately for those who have to deplore the loss of 
 a very amiable person, is beyond all criticism ; but the 
 mortality which did not protect Boccaccjo from Mr. 
 Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace from the impar- 
 tial judgment of his successors. Death may canonize 
 his virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly pro- 
 nounced that he transgressed, not only as an author, 
 but as a man, when he evoked the shade of Boccaccio 
 in company with that of Aretino, amidst the sepulchres 
 of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. As 
 far as respects 
 
 " II flasello de' Principi. 
 II divin Pietro Aretino," 
 
 'it is of little import what censure is passed upon a coi- 
 comb who owes his present existence to the above bur- 
 lesque character given to him by the poet whose amber 
 has preserved many other grubs and worms : but to 
 classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to excom- 
 municate his very ashes, must of itself make us doubt 
 of the qualification of the classical tourist for writing 
 upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other literature ; for 
 ignorance on one point may incapacitate an author 
 merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a pro- 
 fessional prejudice must render him an unsafe directoj 
 on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be 
 made what is vulgarly called " a case of conscience," 
 and this poor excuse is all that can be offered for the 
 priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. 
 It would have answered the purpose to confine the cen- 
 sure to the novels of Boccaccio, and gratitude to that 
 source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last 
 and most harmonious numbers, might perhaps have re- 
 stricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of 
 the hundred tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boc- 
 caccio might have arrested his exhumation, and it should 
 have been recollected and told, that in his old age he 
 wrote a letter entreating his friend to discourage the 
 reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and 
 for the sake of the author, who would not have an apolo- 
 gist always at hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it 
 when young, and at the command of his superiors. 1 It 
 is neither the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil 
 propensities of the reader, which have given to the De- 
 cameron alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpet- 
 ual popularity. The establishment of a new and delight- 
 ful dialect conferred an immortality on the works in 
 which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, 
 for the same reason, fated to survive his sclf-admirea 
 Africa, the "favourite of Mngx." The invariable traits 
 of nature and feeling, with which the novels, as well as 
 the verses, abound, have, doubtless, been the chief source 
 of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but Boccaccio, 
 as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than 
 Petrarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the 
 
 This dubious phrase is hardly enoueh to save the tourist 
 from the suspicion of another blunder respecting the huriai- 
 place of Aretino. whose tomb was in the church of St. Luke 
 at Venice, and eave rise to the famous controversy of wh'ch 
 some notice is taken innarte. Now the words of Mr. En- 
 tace would lead us to think the tomb was at Florence, or at 
 least was to be somewhere recoenised. Whether the nscrip- 
 lion so much disputed was ever written on the tomr cannot 
 now he decided, for all .nemorial of this author has disap- 
 peared from tbe church of St. Luke, which is now changed 
 into a lamp warehouse. 
 
 1 "\on enim ubique ert, qtii in excusationem meam COP 
 siirgens dicat, juvenis scripsit. el majoris coactus imoerio. 
 The letter was addressed to Maphmard rf Cavalcanti. mr 
 shal of the kinHorn of Sicily. See Tin.boschi Storia 
 torn. v. par. ii. lib. iii. oag. 525. ed. Ven. 17!I5.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 (over 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 cau- 
 tious to pronounce a sentence irreconcileable with the 
 unerring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevoca- 
 ble value has never been stamped upon any work solely 
 recommended by impurity. 
 
 The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, which 
 began at a very early period, was the choice of his scan- 
 dalous personages in the cloisters as well as the courts ; 
 out the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures 
 so unjustly charged upon Queen Theodclinda, whilst the 
 priesthood cried shame upon the debauches drawn from 
 the convent and the hermitage ; and, most probably, for 
 the opposite reason, namely, that the picture was faithful 
 to the life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts 
 usefully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of 
 rogues and laymen. Ser Ciapdelletto and Marcellinus 
 are cited with applause even by the decent Muratori. ' 
 The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that 
 a new edition of the novels was proposed, of which the 
 expurgation consisted in omitting the words "monk" 
 and "nun," and tacking the immoralities to other 
 names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no 
 such edition ; but it was not long before the whole of 
 Europe had but one opinion of the Decameron ; and the 
 absolution of the author seems to have been a point set- 
 tled at least a hundred years ago : " On se ferait siffler 
 si I'on pretendait convaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas etc 
 onnte homme, puisqu'il a fait le Decameron." So said 
 one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, that 
 ever lived the very martyr to impartiality. 2 But as this 
 infoimation, that in the beginning of the last century 
 oie would have been hooted at for pretending that Boc- 
 caccio was not a good man, may seem to come from 
 one of those enemies who are to be suspected, even 
 when they make us a present of trull', a more accept- 
 able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, 
 and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
 trom the righteous, the patriotic contemporary, wno 
 thought one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a 
 Latin version from his own pen. " / have remarked 
 elsewhere" says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, " that 
 the book itself has been worried by certain dogs, but 
 ttoutly defended by your staff" and voice. Nor was I 
 astonished, for I have had proof of the vigour of your 
 mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccom- 
 modating incapable race of mortals tvho, whatever they 
 either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to 
 reprehend in others, and on those occasions only put on a 
 show of learning and eloquence, but otlierwise are entirely 
 dumb. 3 
 
 It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not 
 resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who 
 did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
 (he opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 
 
 1 Dissertazioni supra le antichi& Italiano. Diss. Iviii. p. 233. 
 lorn. iii. edit. Milan, 1751. 
 
 2 F.clairctssemcnt, etc. etc. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the 
 Supplement to Bayle's Dictionary. 
 
 3 ' Animadvert! alicubi librum ipsum canum dentibus la- 
 tessitum tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaque voce defensum. 
 Nee miratus sum: nam et vires ingenii tui novi, et scio exper- 
 .*us esses hnminum genus insolens et ignavum, qui, quicqnid 
 ipai vel nolunt, vel nesciunt, yel non ppssunt, in aliis repre- 
 nendunt; ad hoc unum docti et arguti, Bed elineues ad relt- 
 nua " Epist Joan Boccatio. opp. torn. i. o. 340 ediu Basil 
 
 Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the 16th 
 century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the 
 laureat, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio t 
 the equal honours of Dante and Petrarch. 
 
 Note 34. Stanza Ix. 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
 Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo, and 
 expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only tt 
 the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the 
 virtuous republicans of the family, that we visit the 
 church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, 
 unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mau- 
 soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns 
 and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of con- 
 tempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst 
 the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his 
 Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici. 1 It was 
 very natural for Corinna 2 to suppose that the statue 
 raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de depositi, 
 was intended for his great namesake ; but the magnifi- 
 cent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidden 
 in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates 
 from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral 
 peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reign- 
 ing families in It&ly, our own Sidney has given us a 
 glowing, but a faithful picture. "Notwithstanding all 
 the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, 
 the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and 
 Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued populous, 
 strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than 
 a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign of the 
 Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in ten 
 of the people of that province. . Amongst other things 
 it is remarkable, that when Philip the Second of Spain 
 gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador 
 then at Rome sent him word, that he had given away 
 more than 650,000 subjects ; and it is not believed there 
 are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and terri- 
 tory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, 
 that were then good and populous, are in the like pro- 
 portion diminished, and Florence more than any. 
 When that city had been long troubled with seditions, 
 tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperou?, they 
 still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII. 
 of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole 
 army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of 
 Naples, thought to master them, the people taking arms 
 struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to 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, couid, 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 base- 
 ness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of their 
 own prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were 
 assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed 
 or destroyed, and the best families sent to seek habita- 
 tions in Venice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This 
 is not the effect of war or pestilence ; they enjoy a perfect 
 peace, and suffer no other plague than *he governmenl 
 
 1 Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patria. 
 
 2 Corinne, T/iv. xviii. cap. iii. vol. iii. page 246
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 12/ 
 
 Ihcy are under. 1 From the usurper Cosmo down to the 
 imbecile Gaston, we look in vain for any of those unmixed 
 qualities which should raise a patriot to the command of 
 his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and particularly 
 the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a change in the 
 Tuscan character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse 
 'or some imperfections in the philanthropic system cf 
 ..jeopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign was the 
 i nly liberal man in his dominions. Yet that excellent 
 
 ince himself had no other notion of a national as- 
 sembly, than of a body to represent the wants and 
 wishes, not the will of the people. 
 
 Note 35. Stanza Ixiii. 
 An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 
 
 "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 of Italy, 
 which turned the course of rapid streams, poured back 
 the. sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very moun- 
 tains, was not felt by one of the combatants." 2 Such 
 is the description of Livy. It may 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 
 Jasa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has, 
 for the first two or three miles, around him, but more 
 particularly to the right, that flat land which Hannibal laid 
 waste in order to induce the Consul Flaminius to move 
 from Arezzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge 
 of hills, bending down towards the lake of Thrasimene, 
 called by Livy "monies Cortonenses," and now named 
 the Gualandra. These hills he approaches at Ossaja, a 
 village which the itineraries pretend to have been so de- 
 nominated 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 
 lo rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of the 
 mountains until the sixty-seventh mile-stone from Flo- 
 rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and 
 continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen 
 below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower close 
 upon the water ; and the undulating hills partially covered 
 with wood amongst which the 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, 3 in the jaws of or rather above 
 13 pass, which was between ihe lake and the present 
 oad, and most probably close to Borghetto, just und^r 
 the lowest of the " tumuli."* On a summit to the left, 
 above the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants 
 call " the Tower of Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived 
 at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
 view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he 
 descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale 
 inclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the 
 Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 
 
 a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake, 
 which obliques to the right, and forms the chord of tlus 
 mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at fron 
 the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so complete.y 
 inclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. I 
 then, indeed, appears " a place made as it were on pur- 
 pose for a snare," "locus insidiis natus." Borghetto is 
 then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass close to 
 the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet at 
 the opposite turn of the mountains than through the little 
 town of Pasignano, which is pushed into the water by the 
 foot of a high rocky acclivity. ' There is a woody emi- 
 nen\.e branching down from the mountains into the up- 
 per end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and 
 on this stands a white village called Torre. Poly bius 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. 2 From this spot he 
 
 
 
 
 1 On Government, chap. ii. sect. xxvi. paeeSOS. edit. 1751. 
 Sidney is, together with Locke and Hoadlcy, one of Mr. 
 Hume's "despicable" writers. 
 
 2 "Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, adeo intentus pugnfe 
 animus, utcuin terrae tnotum qui multarum urbium llaliae 
 magnas paries prostravit, avertitque cursu rapido amnes, mare 
 flum'milms invexit, monies lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pug- 
 oantium sanserif...." Tit. Liv. lib. XXH. cap. xn. 
 
 3 " Eiinites ad ipsas fauces saltus, tumulia apte tegentibus, 
 local." Tit- Liv. lib. xxii. cap. iv. 
 
 4 " Ubi raaxime monies Cortonenses Thrasimenus subit.' 
 Ibid. 
 
 o2 21 
 
 through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive 
 unseen, and form an ambush amongst the broken accli- 
 vities which the road now jasses, 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, w' thout sending any spies 
 before him, marched through the pass the next morning 
 before the day had quite broken, so that he perceived 
 nothing of the horse and light troops above and about 
 turn, and saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in 
 front on the hill of Torre. 3 The consul began to draw 
 )ut his army in the flat, and in the mean time the horse 
 n ambush occupied the pass behn.d him at Borghetto. 
 Thus the Romans were completely inclosed, having the 
 lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre in 
 front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed on 
 their left flank, and being prevented from receding by 
 the cavalry, who, the farther they advanced, stopped up 
 all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the lake 
 now spread itself over the army of the consul, but the 
 high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different 
 corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the 
 order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved 
 down from his post on the height. At the same moment 
 all his troops on the eminences behind and in the flank 
 of Flaminius, rushed forward as it were with one 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 the first of 
 these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
 this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The 
 second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called 
 " the bloody rivulet," and the peasants point out an 
 open spot to the left between the " Sanguinctto" anil 
 
 1 " Inde colles assurgunt." Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap iv. 
 
 2 Toy fifv Kara 7r/50<7u>7ro- tnf rofeias \6fov airtt 
 icareAa'fitfo, *ai rot> Ai'Stiuj KOI roij ]()iipas cxwv <V 
 airoC (car <rr paroviotvat. Hist. lib. iii. cap. K. The ac- 
 count in Polybius is not eo easily reconcileaUe with preeoii. 
 appearances as that in Livy; he talks of hills to the r.ght 
 and left of the pass and valluy : but when Hamimus entered 
 he had the lake at the right of both. 
 
 3 "A tergoetiuper captftdecepereiniidi*. Jr. LAI w
 
 122 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 the hills, whi-.h, they say, was the principal scene of 
 slaughter. The other part of the plain is covered with 
 thick-set olive trees in corn-grounds, and is nowhere 
 quite level excipt near the edge of the lake. It is, 
 indeed, most probable that the battle was fought near 
 llus end of the valley, for the six thousand Romans 
 who, at the beginning of the action, broke through the 
 enemy, escaped to the summit of an eminence which 
 mug', have been in this quarter, otherwise they would 
 have had to traverse the whole plain, and to pierce 
 thro.igh the main army of Hannibal. 
 
 The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but 
 the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general 
 dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon 
 the fugitives, 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 confirmed the pretensions and the name of the 
 "stream of blood." 
 
 Every district of Italy has Us hero. In the north some 
 painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign 
 Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with her native 
 Virgil. 1 To the south we hear of Roman names. Near 
 Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to the fame of an 
 enemy, and Hannibal the C arthaginian is the only ancient 
 name remembered on the banks of the Perugian lake. 
 Flaminius is unknown; hit 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 
 batile of Thasimeiie, the historian himself has, besides 
 the generals and Maharbal, preserved indeed only a 
 single name. You overtake the Carthaginian again on 
 the same read to Rome. The antiquary, that is, the 
 hostJer of the post-house at Spoleto, tells you that his 
 town repulsed the victorious enemy, and shows you the 
 gate still called Porta di Annibale. It is hardly worth 
 while to remark that a French travel-writer, well known 
 by the name of the President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene 
 in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on his 
 way from Sieiuia to Rome. 
 
 Note 36. Stanza l.xvi. 
 But thou, Clitumnus! 
 
 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
 temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto ; 
 and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a 
 description. For an account of the dilapidation of 
 this temple, the reader is referred to Historical Illustra- 
 tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
 
 Note 37. Stanza Ixxi. 
 
 Charming the eye with dread, a matchless cataract. 
 I saw the " Cascata del marmore " of Terni twice, at 
 different periods ; once from the summit of the preci- 
 pice, and again from the valley below. The lower 
 tiew is far to be preferred, if the traveller has time 
 for one only : but in any point of view, either from 
 above or below, it is worth all the cascades and tor- 
 renta of Switzerland put together ; the Stauhach, Rei- 
 chenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, etc., are rills 
 
 1 About the middle of fne Xlltli century, the coins of 
 Mantua bore on one side the image and tiguro of Virgil, 
 '/.fi-ca d' Italin, pi. xvii. i. 6. . . Voyago dans le Milanuis, 
 vc., ttar A Z. Millin, torn n. p. 291. Paris, 1817. 
 
 in comparative appearance. Of the fall of Schafl 
 hausen I cannot speak, not yet having seen i. 
 
 Note 38. Stanza Ixxii. 
 An Iris sils, amidst the infernal surge. 
 Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of Ins 
 the reader may have seen a short account in a note to 
 Manfred. The fall looks so much like " the hell of 
 waters" that Addison thought the descent alluded to 
 to be the gulf in which Alecto plunged into ihe in- 
 fernal regions. It is singular enough that two of the 
 finest cascades in Europe should be artificial this of 
 the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. The traveller is 
 strongly recommended to trace the Velino, at least as 
 high as the little lake called Pie' di Lup. The Reatine 
 territory was the Italian Tempe, 1 and the ancient na- 
 turalist, amongst other beautiful varieties, remarked 
 the daily rainbows of the lake Velinus. 2 A scholar 
 of great name has devoted a treatise to this district 
 alone. 1 
 
 Note 39. Stanza Ixxiii. 
 
 The thundering lauwine. 
 
 In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are 
 known by the name of lauwine. 
 
 Note 40. Stanza Ixxv. 
 
 -1 abhorr'd 
 
 Too much, to conquer for tho post's sake, 
 
 The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word. 
 
 These stanzas may probably remind the reader of 
 Ensign NoTthertmi's remarks : " D n Homo," etc., but 
 the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. 
 I wish to express that we become tired of the task 
 before we can comprehend the beauty that we learn 
 by rote before we can get by heart ; that the freshness 
 is worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage 
 deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, 
 at an age when we can neither feel nor understand 
 the power of compositions which it requires an ac- 
 quaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to 
 relish or to reason upon. . For the same reason we 
 never can be aware of the fulness of some of the finest 
 passages of Shakspeare (" To be or not to be," for 
 instance), from the habit of having them hammered 
 into us at eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind 
 but of memory : so that when we are old enough to 
 enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. 
 In some parts of the continent, young persons are 
 taught from more common authors, and do not read 
 the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do not 
 speak on this point from any pique or aversion to- 
 wards the place of my education. I was not a slow, 
 though an idle boy ; and I believe no one could, or 
 can be more attached to Harrow than I have always 
 been, and with reason ; a part of the time passed 
 there was the happiest of my life : and :ny preceptor 
 (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and worthiest 
 friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have rempni- 
 bered but too well, though too late when I have 
 erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when 
 I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 
 
 1 " Rentini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt." Cicer. Kpist. ad 
 Attic, xv. lib. iv. 
 
 2 " In eodem lacu nnllp non die apparere arcus." Plin, 
 Hist. Nat. lib. ii. cap. Ixii. 
 
 3 Aid. Maiiiit. de Hen'ini urbt IK oquo ap. P^'lengr* 
 Thesuur. torn. i. p. 773
 
 CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 123 
 
 record of my feelings towards him should reach his 
 
 eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks o 
 
 .'lim but with gratitude and veneration of one who 
 
 would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, 
 
 by more closely following his injunctions, he coulc 
 
 reflect any honour upon his instructor. 
 
 Note 41. Stanza Ixxix. 
 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now. 
 
 For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, 
 
 the reader may consult Historical Illustrations of the 
 
 Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
 
 Note 42. Stanza Ixxxii. 
 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! 
 
 Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the 
 
 number of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius : 
 
 and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers. 
 
 Note 43. Stanza Ixxxiii. 
 
 Oh thoti, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, etc. 
 Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life 
 of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard 
 him as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
 The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire 
 may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have 
 satisfied the Romans, who if they had not respected 
 must have destroyed him. There could be no mean, no 
 division of opinion ; they must have all thought, like 
 Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 
 of glory, and what had been mistaken for pride was a 
 real grandeur of soul. 1 
 
 Note 44. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
 On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- 
 tory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained "his 
 crowning mercy" of Worcester ; and a few years after, 
 on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
 fortunate for him, died. 
 
 Note 45. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
 And thou, dread statue ! still existent in 
 The austerest form of naked majesty. 
 
 The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
 already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
 and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it 
 in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca, 2 and it may be 
 added to his mention of it that Pope Julius III. gave 
 the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
 statue ; and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, 
 who had prevented the judgment of Solomon from 
 being executed upon the image. In a more civilized 
 age this statue was exposed to an actual operation : for 
 the French, who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the 
 Coliseum, resolved that their Caesar should fall at the 
 base of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
 sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The 
 nine foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 
 he amphitheatre, and to facilitate its transport, suf- 
 (fcred the temporary amputation of its right arm. The 
 republican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
 restoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 
 Jitegrity of the statue would have protected it. The 
 
 love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
 true Caesafean ichor in a stain near the right kne- 
 but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood 
 but the portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather 
 to the first of the emperors than to the last ol tho 
 republican masters of Rome. Winkelmann ' is loth 
 to allow a heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but tht 
 Grimani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic ; and 
 naked Roman figures were only very rare, not abso- 
 lutely forbidden. The face accords much better with 
 the " hominem integrum et castum et gravem," 2 than 
 with any of the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for 
 him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods 
 of his life. The pretended likeness to Alexander the 
 Great cannot be discerned, but the traits resemble the 
 medal of Pompey. 3 The objectionable globe may not 
 have been an ill-applied flattery to him who found 
 Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the 
 Roman empire. It seems that Winkelmann has made 
 a mistake in thinking that no proof of the identity of 
 this statue, with that which received the bloody sacri- 
 fice, can be derived from the spot where it was discov- 
 ered. 4 Flaminius Vacca says sotto una cantina, and 
 this cantina is known to have been in the Vicolo de 
 Leutari near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding 
 exactly to that of the Janus before the basilica of 
 Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred the 
 statue after the curia was either burnt or taken down.* 
 Part of the Pompeian shade, 6 the portico, existed in 
 the beginning of the XVth century, and the atrium 
 was still called Satrum. So says Blondus.' At all 
 events, so imposing is the stern majesty of the statue, 
 and so memorable is the story, that the play of the 
 imagination leaves no room for the exercise of the 
 judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates 
 on the spectator with an effect not less powerful than 
 truth. 
 
 Note 46. Stanza Lxxxviii. 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 
 Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded mos 
 probably with images of the foster-mother of ha 
 founder; but there were two she-wolves of whom 
 iiistory makes particular mention. One of these, of 
 brass in ancient work, was seen by Dionysius 8 at the 
 emple of Romulus under the Palatine, and is uni- 
 versally believed to be that mentioned by the Latin 
 listorian, as having been made from the money col- 
 ected by a fine on usurers, and as standing under the 
 Eluminal fig-tree. 9 The other was that which Cicero '" 
 ms celebrated both in prose and verse, and which tho 
 
 t "Seigneur, vous cliangez, toutes mes idees de la facon 
 4ont je vous vois ngir. Je crnyais que vous aviez de 1'ambi- 
 lion, mais aucun amour pour la gloire: je voynis bien que 
 otre ame etait haute; mais je ne sonpconnais pas qu'elle 
 fit grande." Dtnlaffue lie $i '.in et <C Eucrale. 
 
 2 Mcmoiia oum. Ivii. pag D. ap. Monlfaucon, Uiarium 
 ruuicuir 
 
 1 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. ix. cap. i. p. 321, 322. torn, ii 
 
 2 Cicer. Epist. ad Atticum, xi. 6. 
 
 3 Published by Causeus in his Museum Romanum. 
 
 4 Storia delle arti, etc., ibid. 
 
 5 Sueton. in vit. August cap. 31. and in vit. C. J. Caed/tf 
 cap. 88. Appian says it was burnt down. Sec a noto of Pit 
 scus to Suetonius, pag. 224. 
 
 6 " Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra." 
 
 Ovid Ar. Jlman. 
 
 7 Roma instaurata, lib. ii. fol. 31. 
 
 8 Xd\Kta TToirJuaTa ira\aias ipyaataf. Antiq. Rom. Kb , 
 
 9 "Ad ficum Ruminalem simulacra infantium conditoriMi 
 urbis sub uberibus IUPEE posuerunt." Liv. Hist, lib x <;ati. 
 l.xix. This was in the year U. C. 455, or 457. 
 
 10 " Turn statua Natta:, turn simulacra Deorum, Romuliu 
 que et Remu cum altrice bellua vi fulminis icti conriderunt." 
 De Divinat. ii. 20. "Tactusest illo etiam qui hanc urbem 
 comlidit Romulu*. quern inauratum in Capitol> pa/vure
 
 124 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 listor'-Ai Dion ilso reco.ds as having suffered the same 
 aocide it as is iJluded to by the orator. 1 The question 
 agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now 
 in the conservator's palace is that of Livy and Dio- 
 nysius, or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither 
 one nor the other. The earlier writers differ as much 
 as the moderns : Lucius Faunus 2 says, that it is the one 
 alluded to by both, which is impossible, and also by 
 Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus 3 calls it the 
 wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus * talks of it as the 
 one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius trem- 
 blingly assents. 4 Nardini is inclined to suppose it may 
 be one of the many wolves preserved in ancient Rome ; 
 but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue. 6 
 Montfaucon T mentions it as a point without doubt. 
 Of the later writers the decisive Winkelmann 8 pro- 
 claims it as having been found at the church of Saint 
 Theodore, where, or near where, was the temple of 
 Romulus, and consequently makes it the wolf of 
 Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, who, how- 
 ever, only says that it was placed not found, at the 
 Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, by which he does 
 not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. 
 Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and 
 Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 
 
 Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 
 
 tqne lactantem, iiberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse meminis- 
 lis." In C'atilin. iii. 8. 
 
 " Hie sylvestris erat Roman! nominis altrix 
 Murtia. quie paryos Mavortis semine natos 
 Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigabat, 
 ft u SB turn cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
 Concidit, atque avulsa peduin vestieia liquit." 
 
 De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 
 1 'Ev yap rip KairijruAi'cj; av&pidvres TI TroXAoi IK& 
 Ktpavvuv mivtxwvevQiitrav, xai nyaA//ara aXXa TC, 
 leal AiJf l~i xiovos tfipv/itvov, tlx&v re TI; \VKalvris 
 svvirt r<3 Pw/xijD Kai avv r-5 Pw//i5A<|j 't&pv/jtevri er:carj. 
 Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. pag. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 1548. He 
 goes on to mention that the letters of the columns on which 
 the laws were written were liquefied and become Auvip'f. 
 All that the Romans did was to erect a large statue to Jupiter, 
 looking towards the east: no mention is afterwards made of 
 the wolf. This happened in A. U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, 
 in noticing this passage of Dion, (Storia delle arti, etc., torn, 
 i. p. 202. note x.) says, .\"nn ostante, aggiunee Diane, eke 
 fosse ben-fermata (the wolf), by which it is clear the Abate 
 translated the Xylandro-Leuclavian version, which puts 
 quamvis stabilita for the original l&pvfierri, a word that does 
 not mean ben-fermata. but only raised, as may be. distinctly 
 seen from another passage of the same Dion: i\Sov\^9rj 
 iifv oliv b kyplTriraf KO.L rbv Avyovarov ivravBa i&pvaai. 
 Hist. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa " wished to raise a 
 statue of Augustus in the Pantheon." 
 
 2 " In eadem porticu a?nea lupa, cujus uberibus Romulus ac 
 Remus lactantes inhiant, conspiciuir: de hac Cicero et 
 Virgilius semper intelloxere. Livius hoc signum ab .'Kdilibus 
 ex pecuniis puihus mulctati cssent freneratores. positum in- 
 puit. Antea in Comitiisad Ficum Ruminalem. quo loco pueri 
 luermit expositi locaturn pro certo est." Luc. Fauni, de 
 Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. vii. pp. Sallengre, torn. i. p. 
 BIT. In his XVlIth chapter he repeats that the statues were 
 there, but not that they were found there. 
 
 3 Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 
 
 1 Marliani, Urb. Rom. topograph. lib. ii. cap. ix. He men- 
 tions another wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxi. 
 
 5 " Non desur.t qui hanc ipsam esse putent, quam adpinxi- 
 mus, nuae e comitio in Basilicam Lateranam, cum nonnutlis 
 uliis antiquitatum reliquiis, atque hinc in Cnpitolium postea 
 relata sit. quamvis Marlianus antiquam Capitolinam esse 
 maluit a Tullio descriptam. cui ut in re nimis dubia, trepide 
 nsspntimur." Just. Rycquii de Capit. Roraun. Comm. cap. 
 xiv. pag. 250. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 
 
 6 Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 
 
 7 " Lupa ho,lieque in capitolinis prostat edibus, cum vcs- 
 IIKIO fulminis quo ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn. 
 i. D. 174. 
 
 - Storm delle arti, do., lib. iii. cap. iii. $ ii. note 10. Win- 
 telmann has made a strange blunder in the note, by saying 
 tti Uicuronian wolf waa not in tha Capitol, ?nd that Dion 
 *u wrong in saying go. 
 
 he had heard the wo?f with the twins was found ' near 
 the arch of Seplimius Severus. The commentator on 
 Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that learned 
 person, and is incensed at Nardini for not having re- 
 marked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck 
 with lightning in the Capitol, 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 per- 
 haps 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, may be 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 ths 
 present twins are modern; and it is equally clear that 
 there are marks of gilding on the wolf, which might 
 therefore be supposed to make part of the ancient 
 group. It is known that the sacred images of the Capi- 
 tol were not destroyed when injured by time or accident, 
 but were put into certain underground depositories 
 called favissce. 3 It may be thought possible that tho 
 wolf had been so deposited, and had been replaced in 
 some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was re- 
 built by Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his 
 authority, tells that it was transferred from the Comi- 
 tium 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 3 says was thrown 
 down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the 
 city. That it is of very high antiquity the workman- 
 ship 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. Lactan- 
 tius 4 asserts that, in his time, the Romans worshipped a 
 wolf; and it is known that the Lupercalia held out to 
 
 J " Intesi dire, che 1'Ercole di bronzo. che oggi si trova nella 
 sala del Campidoglio, fu trovato nel foro Romano a.ipr'sso 
 Parco di Settimio : e vi fu trovata anche la lupa di bronzo che 
 allatta Romolo e Remo. esta nella Loggia de' conservatori." 
 Flam. Vacca. Memorie, num. iii. pag. i. ap. Montfaucon, 
 Diar. Ital. torn. i. 
 
 2 Luc. Faun. ibid. 
 
 3 See note to stanza LXXX. in Historical Illustrations. 
 
 4 " Rnmuli nutrix Lupa honoribus cst affecta divinis, el 
 ferrcm si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figurant gerit." Lac- 
 tant. de falsa religione. Lib. i. cap. 20. pag. 101. edit, vario* 
 1660 j that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf than a 
 prostitute. His commentator has observed, that the opiniop 
 of Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in this volf wai 
 not universal. Strabo thought so. Rycquius is wror.g in say- 
 ing that Lactantius mention! the wolf was in the CaritoL
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 12J 
 
 a very .ate period ' after every other observance of the 
 ancient superstition had totally expired. This may ac- 
 count 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 was a Roman symbol, but that the worship ol 
 that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lac- 
 tamms. The early Christian writers are not to be 
 trusted in the charges which they make against the 
 pagans. Eusebius accused the Romans to their faces 
 of worshipping Simon Magus, and raising a statue to 
 him in the island of the Tyber. The Romans had prob- 
 ably never heard of such a person before, who came, 
 lowever, to play a considerable, though scandalous part 
 in the church nistory, and has left several tokens of his 
 aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding 
 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 orFidius. 2 
 
 Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had 
 been abandoned, 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. Theo- 
 dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of 
 Romulus. 3 The practice is continued to this day ; and 
 Jie site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
 tified 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 present statue being that 
 seen by Dionysitis.* But Faunus, in saying that it 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 different 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 
 ctually dug up, 5 and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 
 
 1 To A. D. 496. "Quis credere possit," says Baronius, 
 (Ann. Eccles. torn. viii. pug. 602. in an. 496.) " viguisse adhuc 
 Romae ad Gelasii tempora. quae fuere ante exordia urbis al- 
 lata in Italiam Lupercalia?" Gelasius wrote a letter which 
 occupies four folio pages to Andromachus, the senator, and 
 others, to show that the rites should he given up. 
 
 2 Eusebius has these words-. Kai avSptavrt nap' vp'iv (Lf 
 5ed{ TtrifiriTai, iv r!f TiStpi //ora//<p fttra^v riav Svo }'$- 
 vpuiv, c^aiv itnypaQriv VaiftdiKfiv TUVTTIV, Zljuavi bit? 
 'ZdyKTtp. Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr 
 'lad told the story before ; but Baronius himself was obliged 
 o detect this fable. See Nardini Roma Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 
 
 3 " In essa gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' 
 eiuochi Lupercali istituiti in onore rii Romolo, introdussero I' 
 am di portarvi Bambini oppress! da irilermita. occulte, accio 
 i libenno per 1'intercessipne di qu^sto Santo, come di con- 
 
 linuo si sperimenta." Rione xii. Ripa, aecurata e^succinta 
 
 tescrizione, etc., di Roma Moderna dell' 
 
 766. 
 
 II' Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 
 
 4 Nardini, lib. v. cap. ii. convicts Pomponius Lietus eriffi 
 trrnris, in putting the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint 
 "roodure : but as Livy says the wolf was at the Ficus Rumi- 
 talis, and Dionysius at the temple of Romulus, he is obliged 
 cap. iv.) to own that the two were close together, as well as 
 tfie Lupercal cave, shaded, as it were, by the fig-tree. 
 
 6 " Ad Comitium ficus olim Ruminalis germinabat, sub qua 
 tuple rumam, hoc est, maminam, docenle Varrone, suxerant 
 
 <hm Romulus et Remus; nun procul a tempio hodie D. 
 larirn Liberatricig appellato, ubi forsatt inventa nobilis ilia 
 tinea siatua lupa; geminos puerulus luctantis, quam hodie in 
 
 of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argu- 
 ment in favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf tha 
 any that can be adduced for the contrary opinion. Ai 
 any rate, it is reasonably selected in the text of tha 
 poem as one of the^most interesting relics of the ancient 
 city, 1 ana is certainly the figure, if not the very anima. 
 to wmch Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses : 
 
 " Geminos huic ubcra circum 
 Ludere pendentes pueros et lambere mat rein 
 Impavidos : illam tereti cervice rcflexam 
 Mulcere alternos, ct fingere corpora lingua."* 
 
 Note 47. Stanza xc. 
 
 -for the Roman's mind 
 
 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 
 
 It is possible to be a very great man, and to b<s stiK 
 very inferior to Julius Cassar, the most complete chai 
 acter, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature 
 seems incapable of such extraordinary combinations as 
 composed his versatile capacity, which was the wonder 
 even of the Romans themselves. The first general 
 the only triumphant politician inferior to none in 
 eloquence comparable 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 speci- 
 men of military annals in his travelling-carriage at 
 one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing 
 
 treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good say- 
 ings fighting 3 and making love at the same moment, 
 and willing to abandon both his empire and his mis- 
 tress for a sight of the fountains of the Nile. Such 
 did Julius Cresar appear to his contemporaries, and to 
 those of the subsequent ages, who were the most in 
 clined to deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 
 
 But we must not be so much dazzled with his sur- 
 passing glory or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
 qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial 
 countrymen : 
 
 HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.* 
 
 Capitolio videmus." Olai Bqrrichii antiqua Urbis Romans 
 facies, cap. x. See also cap. xii. Borrichius wrote after Nar- 
 dini in 1687. Ap. Grsev. Antiq. Rum. torn. iv. p. 1.V22. 
 
 1 Ponatus, lib. xi. cap. 18, gives a medal representing on 
 one side the wolf in the same position as that in the Capitol; 
 and in the reverse the wolf with the head not reverted. It it 
 of the time of Antoninus Pius. 
 
 jtfneid, viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from 
 Rome, who inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without ex 
 amining the subject. 
 
 3 In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with tht 
 blood of Pharsalia in the arms of Cleopatra: 
 
 " Sanguine Thessalice cladis perfusus adulter 
 Admisit Venerem curia, et miscuit armis." 
 After feasting with his mistress, he sits up nil night to con- 
 verse with the Egyptian sages, and tells Achoreus 
 
 "Spes sit mihi certa videndi 
 Niliacos forites, bellum civile relinquam :" 
 "Sic velut in tuta seeuri pace trahcbant 
 Noctis iter medium." 
 
 Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again and defending 
 every position : 
 
 " Sed adest defensor nbique 
 Caesar, el hos aditus gladiis, hos ignibus arcet. 
 
 Caeca nocte carinis 
 
 Insiluit Caesar semper feliciter usus 
 Praecipiti cursu bellorum et tempore rapto." 
 
 4 "Jure ca?sus existimetur,'' says Suetonius, after n fair 
 stimation of his character, and making use of a phrase which 
 
 was a formula in Livy's time. " Melium jure cmsum pronim^ 
 tiavit, etiam si resni crimine insons fuerit." (lib. iv. cap. 48.' 
 and which was continued in the leenl judgments pronounced 
 n justifiable homicides, such as killing housebreaker*. " 
 Sueton.invit.C.J. Ctrsaris, with the comment*!* ^f Pi'ioctu 
 p. 184
 
 126 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 N< I e 48. Stanza xciii. 
 Whatfon this barren being do we reap t 
 Our semes narrow, and our reason frail 
 " . . . . Omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, 
 ivhil percipi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos sensus ; 
 irabecilles animos, hrevia curricula vitae ; in profundo 
 voritatem dcmersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
 tenari; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tcnebris 
 circumfusa esse dixerunt." ' The eighteen hundred 
 years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have 
 not removed any of the imperfections of humanity : 
 and the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, 
 without injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a 
 poem written yesterday. 
 
 Note 49. Stanza xcix. 
 There is a stern round tower of other days. 
 Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 
 di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical Illustra- 
 tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 
 Note 50. Stanza cii. 
 
 -prophetic of the doom 
 
 Heaven gives its favourites early death. 
 Ov of $cil <f>t\ovatv, a-xoOvfjaKct vto$. 
 T yap Savclv oiix aicr^p&v, dXX' ata^pla; S-avctv. 
 
 Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poeta: Gnomici, p. 
 231. edit. 1784. 
 
 Note 51. Stanza cvii. 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! 
 
 The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
 side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
 formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been 
 told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but 
 a Roman antiquary. See Historical Illustrations, page 
 *06. 
 
 Note 52. Stanza cviii. 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past. 
 First fieedom, and then glory, etc. 
 
 The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
 opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
 cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
 sage : " From their railleries of this kind, on the bar- 
 barity and misery of our island, one cannot help re- 
 flecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of king- 
 doms, how Rome, once the mistress of the world, the 
 seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, 
 ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as 
 well as to the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition, 
 and religious imposture : while this remote country, 
 anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, 
 is become the happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; 
 flourishing in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; 
 yet running perhaps the same course which Rome it- 
 self had run before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; 
 Irom wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience 
 of discipline, and corruption of morals : till, by a total 
 degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for 
 destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy oppress- 
 or, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing that 
 U valuable, sinks gradually again into its original bar- 
 bansn.."* 
 
 4 Academ. I. 13 
 
 8 The History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vi. 
 
 oL ii. pag. i02. The contrast has been reversed in a late 
 
 trcaoidi'iarf instance. A gentleman was thrown into prison 
 
 Note 53. Stanza ex. 
 
 7and apostolic statues climb 
 
 To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. 
 The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter 
 that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See Historical Illustration! 
 of the IVth Canto, etc. 
 
 Note 54. Stanza cxi. 
 Still we Trajan's name adore. 
 
 Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
 princes : ' and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
 uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one 
 possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this 
 emperor. " When he mounted the throne," says the 
 historian Dion, 2 " he was strong in body, he was vigor- 
 ous in mind ; age had impaired none of his faculties ; 
 he was altogether free from envy and from detraction ; 
 he honoured all the good and he advanced them ; and 
 on this account they could not be the objects of his fear 
 or of his hate ; he never listened to informers ; he gave 
 not way to his anger ; he abstained equally from unfair 
 exactions and unjust punishments ; he had rather be 
 loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he was 
 affable with his people, respectful to the senate, and 
 universally beloved by both ; he inspired none with 
 dread but the enemies of his country." 
 
 Note 55. Stanza cxiv. 
 Rienzi, last of Romans ! 
 
 The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
 the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited man- 
 uscripts, relative to this unhappy hero, will be seen in 
 the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. 
 
 Note 50. Stanza cxv. 
 Eeeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast. 
 
 The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
 incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto. 3 
 He assures us that he saw an inscription on the pave- 
 ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeriadedi 
 
 at Paris , efforts were made for his release. The French min- 
 ister continued to detain him, under the pretext that he was 
 not nn Englishman, but only a Roman. See " Interesting facts 
 relating to Joachim Murat," pag. 139. 
 
 1 " Hujus tantum memories delatum est, ut, usque ad nos- 
 tram tetatem non aliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, 
 nisi, FEUCIOR. AVGVSTO. MELIOR. TRAJANO." 
 Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. v. 
 
 2 Tiji Tt yap aupari sfiptaro Kai TJJ if v^r; ?Kfiac>>, 
 
 uij jnfiff 1 in:3 ynpus ajj6\\>vs.<:Qai icai ovr' \ip66vti, 
 
 ovrt KaQfipti TIVO, aXXa /cat rra'vu rai/raf rot's ayaOoii( 
 criua Kai l/icyuAvW Kai iid TOVTO OVTC t^oStlrd riva 
 
 avriav, OVT ifiiaet Sta8o\a!s rt Jjxiora tnartlit, 
 
 Kai Apyrj riKiara ldov\ovTO. T&V Tt xpiHidriav r&v aXXa 
 
 rpltiiv too. KOI <j>6vij)V riav OO/JCIDV airti%iTo 0iXot!/j- 
 
 v6; TC oi'V ir' airoif jmXXoi/ '; ri/ioi/icvos ^ai/)' Kai r$ 
 T tirjiiu jitr 1 iirit'iKtias trvvcyivcTO, Kai Trj ynpovcia atp- 
 vorptTrws &p(\ti' aya:r)Td; fiev Traaf (/loScpof <51 firiScvl, 
 i:\rjv ffoX^u'oit S>v. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixviii. cap. ii. vii. torn, 
 ii. p. 1123, 1124. eiiit. Hamb. 1750. 
 
 3 " Poco lontano dal dctto luogo si gcende ad un casaletto, 
 del quale ne sono Padroni Ii Cafarelli, che con questo nome 
 e chiamato il luogo; vi 6 una fontana sotto una gran vnlte 
 antica, che al presente si gode. e Ii Roinani vi vamm 1'estata 
 a ricrearsi ; nel pavimento<Ji essa fonte si leggc in nn epitafflo 
 essere quella la fonte di Egeria, dcdicata alle nint'o, e questa 
 dice 1'epitaffio, essere la medesima fonte in cui fu cc nvertil t.' 
 Memorie, etc. ap. Nardini, pag. 13- He does not five Llw 
 description.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 fatwl to the nymphs. The inscription is not there at 
 ihis day; but Mo ntfaucon quotes two lines' of Ovid 
 fiom a stone in the Villa Giustiniani, which he seems 
 to think had been brought from the same grotto. 
 
 '1 !iis grotto and valley were formerly frequented in 
 summer, and particularly ', he first Sunday in May, by 
 the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality 
 to the fountain which tackles from an orifice at the 
 bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the little pools, 
 creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. 
 The brook is the Ovidian Almo, whose name and quali- 
 ties are lost in the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
 itself is called Valle di CafTarelli, from the dukes of 
 that name, who made over their fountain to the Palla- 
 vicini, with sixty rubbia of adjoining land. 
 
 There can be little doubt, that this long dell is the 
 Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
 Umbricius, notwithstanding the generality of his com- 
 mentators have supposed the descent of the satirist and 
 his friend to have been into the Arician grove, where 
 the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more 
 peculiarly worshipped. 
 
 The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
 fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless 
 we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vosstus, 
 who makes that gate travel from its present station, 
 where he pretends it was during the reign of the Kings, 
 as far as the Arican grove, and then makes it recede 
 to its old site with the shrinking city. 2 The tufo, or 
 pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- 
 stance composing the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 
 
 The modern topographers 3 find in the grotto the 
 statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and 
 a late traveller * has discovered that the cave is restored 
 to that simplicity which I he poet regretted had been 
 exchanged for injudicious ornament. But the headless 
 statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
 none of the attributes ascribed " it at present visible. 
 The nine Muses could hardly ha\ x>d in six niches ; 
 and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual 
 cave. s Nothing can be collected from the satirist but 
 that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
 which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations 
 with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
 sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the 
 Muses ; and that from this spot there was a descent into 
 
 1 "In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus 
 in quo sculpta litec ciuo Ovidii carmina sunt 
 
 .<Egeria est qua? pra^bnt aquas dea grata Camoenis. 
 
 Ilia Nums conjux consiliumquc fuit. 
 
 Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Eaeriae fonte, aut ejus vioinia 
 krthuc comportatus." Diarium ItaPc. p. 153. 
 
 2 lie magnit. Vet. Rom. up. Graev. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. p. 
 1507. 
 
 3 Echinard. Descrizione di Roma c dell' agro Romano cor- 
 retto dall' Abate Venuti in Roma, 1750. They bslieve in the 
 frotto and nymph. " Simulacra di questo fonte, essendovi 
 iculpito le acque a pie di esso." 
 
 4 Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217. vol. ii. 
 
 5 " Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamquc Capenam, 
 
 Hie ubi nocturne Numa con-;titiieba t arnica), 
 Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
 Judaeis quorum cophinum fcenumque supellex. 
 Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
 Arbor, et ejectis mendieat silva Camccnis. 
 In vallem Egeria; descendimus. et speluncas 
 Dwsimiles vcris ; quanto prtrstantius esset 
 Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undag 
 Her&i noc ingenuum violarent marmora tophum." 
 
 Sat. UI 
 
 the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial ca-.-fs. 
 It is clear that the statues of the Muses made no pan 
 of the decoration which the satirist thought misplace! 
 in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other fan*, 
 (delubra) to these divinities above the valley, and mrre 
 over tells us, that they had been ejected to make roon 
 for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called tha 
 of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to th 
 Muses, and Nardini ' places them in a poplar grove, 
 which was in his time above V>e valley. 
 
 It is probable, from the inscription and position, that 
 the cave now shown may be one of the " artificial cav- 
 erns," of which, indeed, there is another a little way 
 higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
 a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, 
 grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to 
 these nymphea in general, and which might send us 
 to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of tho 
 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 grots ; oh, how unlike the true !" 
 
 The valley abounds with springs, 2 and over these 
 springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- 
 bouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said 
 to supply them with water ; and she was the nymph of 
 the grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
 flow. 
 
 The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
 Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
 been changed at will. Venuti 3 owns he can see no 
 traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, 
 and Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The 
 mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour 
 and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the 
 temple of the god of Rediculus, are the antiquaries' 
 despair. 
 
 The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that 
 emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse 
 shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to repre- 
 sent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of 
 that place of exercise. The soil hxs been but little 
 raised, if we may judge from the small cellular structure 
 at the end of the Spina, which was p'obably the chaptJ 
 of the god Consus. This cell is hall bereith the soil, 
 as it must have been in th circus itse'ij f">r Dionysius 4 
 could not be persuaded t Dclieve that th'"3 divinity was 
 the Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
 ground. 
 
 Note 57. Stanza cxxvii. 
 Yet let us ponder boldly. 
 
 " At all events," says the author of the Academic*, 
 Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of tnjr 
 own speculations, that philosophy will regain that *iU- 
 mation which it ought to possess. The free and phi- 
 losophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of ad- 
 miration to the world. This was the proud distinction 
 of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all their 
 glory. Shall we then forget the manly snd dignified 
 
 1 Lib. iii. cap. iii. 
 
 2 " Undique e iolo aquse scaturiunt." Vadiui, lib iii. eP 
 i. 
 
 3 Echinard, etc. Cie. cit. pp. 297, 2*V* 
 
 4 -\utiq. Horn lib. ii. cap. zud
 
 128 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language of 
 the mother or the nurse about our good old prejudices ? 
 This is not the way to defend the cause of truth. It 
 was not thus that our fathers maintained it in the bril- 
 liant periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted 
 to guard the outworks for a short space of time, while 
 reason slumbers in the citadel : but if the latter sink 
 into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard 
 for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, support 
 each other ; he who will not reason, is a bigot ; he who 
 cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a slave." 
 Preface, p. xiv. xv. vol. i. 1805. 
 
 Note 58. Stanza cxxxii. 
 
 f real Nemesis ! 
 
 Here, where the ancient paid ilice homage long. 
 
 We read, in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warn- 
 ing received in a dream, ' counterfeited once a-year the 
 oeggar, sitting before the gate of his palace, with his 
 hand hollowed, and stretched out for charity. A statue 
 formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be 
 now at Paris, represents the emperor in that posture of 
 supplication. The object of this self-degradation was 
 the appeasement of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant 
 on good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
 were also reminded by certain symbols attached to their 
 cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and the 
 crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of the 
 Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above 
 statue pass for that of Belisarius ; and until the criti- 
 cism of Winkelmann - had rectified the mistake, one 
 fiction was called in to support another. It was the same 
 fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that made 
 Amasis, king of Egypt, warn his friend Polycrates of 
 Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were 
 chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was 
 supposed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent : that 
 is, for those whose caution rendered them accessible 
 only to mere accidents ; and her first altar was raised 
 on the banks of the Phrygian ^Esepus by Adrastus, 
 probably the prince of that name, who killed the son of 
 Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called 
 Adrastea. 3 
 
 The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august ; there 
 was a temple to her in the Palatine, under the name of 
 Rhamnusia : * so great indeed was the propensity of the 
 ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to be- 
 lieve in the divinity of fortune, that in the same Pala- 
 tine there was a temple to the fortune of the day. 6 
 This is the last superstition which retains its hold over 
 the human heart ; and from concentrating in one ob- 
 ject the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared 
 strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 
 
 1 Sucton. in vit. August!, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, 
 refers to Plutarch's Lives of Camillas and ^Emilius Paulus, 
 and also to his apophthegms, for the character of this deily. 
 The hollowed hand wns reckoned the last degree of degra- 
 dation: and when the dead body of the prefect Rufinus was 
 ome about in triumph by the people, the indignity was in- 
 creased by putting his hand in that position. 
 
 2 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p. 422. 
 Viaconti calls the statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in 
 trip Museo Pio Clemeot, torn. i. par. 40. The Abate Fea 
 Spiegaziode dei Kami. Storia, etc., torn. iii. p. 513.) calls it 
 Chnsippus 
 
 2 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 
 4 It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. 
 i " Fortune liujusce diei." Cicero mentions her, de legib. 
 b ii. 
 
 beliefl The antiquaries have supposed tnis goddess to 
 be synonymous with fortune and with fate : ' but it was 
 in her vindictive quality that she was worshipped under 
 the name of Nemesis. 
 
 Note 59. Stanza cxl. 
 I see before me the gladiutor lie. 
 
 Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
 image, be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite ol 
 Winkelmann's criticism, has been stoutly maintained, * 
 or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary 
 positively asserted, 3 or whether it is to be thought a 
 Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the 
 opinion of his Italian editor, 4 it must assuredly seem a 
 copy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus, which repre- 
 sented "a wounded man dying, who perfectly expressed 
 what there remained of life in him." 5 Montfaucon 6 
 and Maffei * thought it the identical statue ; but that 
 statue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in the 
 villa Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The 
 right arm is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo. 
 Note 60. Stanza cxli. 
 
 -he. their sire. 
 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday. 
 Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- 
 tary ; and were supplied from several conditions ; from 
 slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from bar- 
 barian captives, either taken in war, and, after being 
 led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized 
 and condemned as rebels ; also from free citizens, some 
 fighting for hire (auctorati), others from a depraved 
 ambition : at last even knights and senators were ex 
 hibited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally 
 the first inventos. 9 In the end, dwarfs, and even wo- 
 men, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
 these the most to be pitied, undoubtedly, were the bar- 
 barian captives ; and to this species a Christian writer 10 
 justly applies the epithet " innocent," to distinguish them 
 
 1 DEAE NEMESI 
 
 S1VE FORTVNAE 
 
 PISTORIVS 
 
 RVGIANVS 
 
 V. C. LEGAT. 
 
 LEG. XIII. G. 
 
 GORD. 
 
 See Questiones Romanae, etc., Ap. Graev. Antiq. Roman 
 torn. v. p. 942. See also Muratori. Nov. Thesaur. Inscript 
 Vet. torn. i. pp. 88, 89. where there are three Latin and one 
 Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 
 
 2 By the Abate Bracci, dissertazione sopra un clipeo-votivo, 
 etc. Preface, pag. 7, who accounts for the cord round the 
 neck, but not for the horn, which it does not appear the gla- 
 diators themselves ever used. Note (A.) Storia delle arti, 
 torn. ii. p. 205. 
 
 3 Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by CEclipus ; or 
 Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when 
 he endeavoured to drag the Heraclidct from the altar of 
 mercy, and in whose honour they instil ited annual gamri, 
 continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocritus, the 
 Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never recov- 
 ered the impiety. See Storia delle arti, etc., torn. ii. pp. 20H 
 204, 205, 206, 207. lib. ix. cap. ii. 
 
 4 Storia, etc., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 
 
 5 " Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligl 
 quantum restat animae." Plin. Nat. Hist, xxxiv. cap. 8. 
 
 6 Antiq. torn. iii. par. 2. tab. 155. 
 
 7 Race. stat. tab. 64. 
 
 8 Mus. Capitol, torn. iii. p. 154. edit. 1755. 
 
 9 Julius Caesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, 
 brought Furius Leptinus ant" A. Calenus upon tHo srena. 
 
 10 Tertullian ; "certe quirtem et innocentcs g'Hiliiit/ies ife 
 ludum veniunt, ut voluptatu publicae liostiae tail' " Uit 
 Nips. Saturn. Sermon, lib. L *ap. iii.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 129 
 
 >om 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 reoetlion. 1 No war, says Lipsius, 2 was ever so de- 
 structive to the human race as these sports. In spite 
 of the laws of Constantino and Constans, gladiatorial 
 shows survived the old established religion more than 
 seventy years ; but they owed their final extinction to 
 the courage of a Christian. In the year 404, on the ka- 
 icnds of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the 
 Flavian amphitheatre before the usual immense con- 
 course of people. Almachius or Telemachus, an eastern 
 monk, who had travelled to Rome intent on his holy 
 purpose, rushed into the midst of the area, and endea- 
 voured to separate the combatants. The praetor Alypius, 
 a person incredibly attached to these games, 3 gave instant 
 orders to the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachus 
 gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, 
 which surely has never, either before or since, been 
 awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius immedi- 
 ately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards 
 revived. The story is told by Theodoret * and Cassiodo- 
 rus, s and seems worthy of credit, notwithstanding its 
 place in the Roman martyrology. 6 Besides the torrents 
 of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the amphi- 
 theatres, the circus, the forums, and other public places, 
 gladiators were introduced at feasts, and tore each other 
 to pieces amidst the supper tables, to the great delight 
 and applause oi the guests. Yet Lipsius permits him- 
 self to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident de- 
 generacy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the 
 abolition of these bloody spectacles. 7 
 
 Note 61. Stanza cxlii. 
 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 
 
 When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted 
 " he has it," " hoc habet," or " habet." The wounded 
 combatant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the 
 edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had 
 fought well, the people saved him ; if otherwise, or as 
 they happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
 thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so 
 savage, that they were impatient if a combat lasted 
 longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
 emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : and 
 t is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that 
 *ie sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spec- 
 tacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other words, 
 handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is 
 observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The Magistrate pre- 
 
 1 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel.; anJ, in vit. Claud, ibid. 
 
 2 "Credo, imo scio, nullum bellum tantam cladem vastiti- 
 emque goneri humane intulissc. quam has ad voluptatcm 
 "udos." Just. Lips. ibid. lib. i. cap. xii. 
 
 3 Augustanus, (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) " Aiypium suum 
 ladiatnrii ipeclaculi inhiatu incredibiliter abreptum," scnbit. 
 bid. lib. i. cap. xii. 
 
 4 Hist Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 
 
 5 Cossiod. Tripartita. 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 
 
 6 Baronius ad ann. et in notia nd Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan. 
 ^ec Maranponi delle momorie sacree profane dell' Amfiteatro 
 f'lavio. p. 25. edit. 1746. 
 
 7 " Guod 1 non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes 
 \d virtutcm 1 Maenum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videa- 
 Oius. Oppidum ecce unum alterumve captum. direptum est; 
 
 umultus circa nos, non in nobis : et taincn concidimus et tur- 
 tmmur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapienlix stu- 
 dia? ubi ille animus qui possit dicere. .i fractua illabarur 
 erbisl" etc. ibid., lib. ii. cap. xxy. The prototype of Mr. 
 Windham's panegyric on bull-baiting. 
 
 P 22 
 
 sides ; and, after the horsemen and piccadores have 
 fought the bull, the matadore steps forward and bow 
 to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has 
 done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, 
 which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, tha 
 ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
 The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied 
 with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures oi 
 delight, especially from the female portion of the audi- 
 ence, 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 certainly in other days borne the sight of a 
 pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in the 
 governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Ma- 
 ria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses 
 completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman pre- 
 sent, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed 
 that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to somo 
 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 it was known he belonged to a priest. 
 
 An Englishman, who can, be much pleased with see- 
 ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to 
 look at a horse galloping round an arena with his 
 bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spec 
 tacle and spectators with horror and disgust. 
 
 Note 62. Stanza cxliv. 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head. 
 
 Suetonius informs us that Julius Cffisar was particu 
 larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which en- 
 abled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
 He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror 
 of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger 
 at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
 should we without the help of the historian. 
 
 Note 63. Stanza cxlv. 
 "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand," etc. 
 
 This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 
 Empire : and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in 
 the Historical Illustrations to the IV th Canto of Childe 
 Harold. 
 
 Note 64. Stanza cxlvi. 
 spared and blest by time. 
 
 " Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
 which was necessary to preserve the aperture above, 
 though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes 
 flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no 
 monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as 
 this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the 
 Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient were 
 its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, 
 ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their de- 
 sign as a model of the Catholic church." 
 
 Forsyth's Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. 137. se.:. edit. 
 Note 65. Stanza cxlvii. 
 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honour'd forirs, whose buiU around them cioso 
 
 The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for tho 
 busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. 
 The flood of light which once fell through the large orn 
 above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines <w
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 a numerous ass-jublagc of mortals, some one or two o 
 whom have been almost deified by the veneration o 
 their countryman. 
 
 Note 66. Stanza cxlviii. 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. 
 This and the three next stanzas allude to the story o! 
 the Roman Daughter, which is recalled to the traveller, 
 by the site or pretended site of that adventure now 
 *hown at the church of St. Nicholas in carcere. The dif- 
 ficulties attending the full belief of the tale, are statec 
 n Historical Illustrations, etc. 
 
 Note 67. Stanza clii. 
 
 Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear'd on high. 
 The castle of St. Angelo. See Historical Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 Note 68. Stanza cliii. 
 
 But lo ! the dome the vast and wondrous dome. 
 This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
 cnurch of St. Peter. For a measurement of the com- 
 parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
 churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, 
 and the Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. page 125, 
 et seq. chap. iv. 
 
 Note C9. Stanza clxxi. 
 
 -the strange fate 
 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 
 Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
 heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in 
 means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; and, " the 
 greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these 
 sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
 of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 
 
 Note 70. Stanza clxxiii. 
 
 Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills. 
 
 The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
 
 Egeria, and, from the shades which embosomed the 
 
 temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive 
 
 appellation of The Grove, Nemi is but an evening's 
 
 ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. 
 
 Note 71. Stanza cbcxiv. 
 
 -and afar 
 
 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 The Latian coast, etc. etc. 
 
 The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
 beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, 
 which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, 
 the prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the 
 cited stanza : the Mediterranean ; the whole scene of 
 the latter half of the ^Eneid ; and the coast from beyond 
 the mouth of the Tiber to the neadland of Circaeum 
 and the Cape of Terracina. 
 
 The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
 the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lucien 
 Buonaparte. 
 
 The former was thought some years ago the actual 
 site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. 
 At present it has lost something of its credit, except for 
 one Domenichinos. Nine monks, of the Greek order, 
 Jive there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's sum- 
 mer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the 
 kummit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re- 
 mains of Tusculum have been found there, besides 
 eventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, 
 tod seven busk.. 
 
 From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
 embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustics. 
 There are several circumstances which tend to osuihlisf 
 the identity of this valley with the " Ustica" of Horace . 
 and k seems possible that the mosaic pavement which 
 the peasants uncover by throwing up the earth of a vine- 
 yard, may belong to his villa. Rustica is pronounced 
 short, not according to our stress upon " Ustica 
 cuoonto's." 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 prefixed is nothing : yet it is necessary to 
 be aware that Rustica may b.3 a modern name which 
 the peasants may have caught from the antiquaries. 
 
 The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
 covered with chesnut trees. A stream runs down tho 
 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 i'^e head of the vallev which is s 
 denominated, and which may have taken its name from 
 the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a 
 peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing SCO. 
 On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up 
 into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the 
 villa, is a town called Vico-varo, another favourable 
 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 fool 
 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 metaphorical or direct sense : 
 
 " Me (motions roficit gelidus Digentia rivus. 
 Quern Mandela bibit rugosus frigorepagus. 
 
 The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
 reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like 
 a sulphur rivulet. 
 
 Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
 hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is 
 shown, does seem to be the site of the fane of Vacuna, 
 and an inscription found there tells that this temple of 
 the Sabine victory was repaired by Vespasian. ' With 
 these helps, and a position corresponding exactly t> 
 every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, 
 we may feel tolerably secure of our site. 
 
 The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Cam- 
 panile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended 
 Bandusia, you come to the roots of 'he higher mountain 
 Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed 
 and in the whole valley is on the knoll where this 
 Bandusia rises, 
 
 " Tu frigus amabile 
 
 Fessis voiiiriB tauris 
 
 Prtcbes, et pecori vago." 
 
 The peasants show another spring nea* the mosaic pave- 
 ment, which they call " Oradina," and which flows down 
 the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence trickles 
 over into the Digentia. But we must not hope 
 
 " To trace the Musos upwards to their spring," 
 exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
 search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that 
 
 1 IMP. CAESAR VF.SPASTANVS 
 PONTIFEX MAXIM VS. TRIB. 
 
 POTEST. CENSOR. /EDEM 
 
 VICTORIA. VETVSTATE ILLAPSYM 
 
 SVA. 1MPENSA, BEariTVJT.
 
 CHILDE HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 anyone 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 pos- 
 session 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 
 oe found. 1 We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
 in finding the occasional pine still pendant on the poetic 
 villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but there 
 are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook, 
 for the tree in the ode. a 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 accliv- 
 ities 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 
 
 exhortations of the moralist, may haw> niade this wort 
 something more and better than a oook of 'ravels bui 
 they have not made it a book of travels ; and this OD- 
 serration applies more especially to that enticing meth *. 
 of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introductioh 
 of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the 
 rising generation, and terrify it into decency by >hr 
 display of all the excesses of the revolution. An am 
 mosity against atheists and regicides in general, an 
 Frenchmen specifically, may be honourable, and maj 
 be useful, as a record ; but that antidote should eithei 
 be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, a. 
 least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed witX 
 the whole mass of information and reflection, as 10 give 
 a bitterness to every page : for who would choose to 
 have the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
 travelling companions ? 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 
 
 gardens at Naples, unless they have been since displaced, portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the 
 were assuredly only acacias and other common garden j moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if 
 shrubs. 3 The extreme disappointment experienced by* they obstruct, his actual survey. 
 
 choosing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy, must 
 be allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it 
 is asserted without fear of contradiction, will be con- 
 firmed by every one who has selected the same con- 
 ductor through the same country. This author is, in fact, 
 one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers that 
 have in our times attained a temporary reputation, and is 
 very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of ob- 
 jects which he must be presumed to have seen. His 
 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 described, or 
 nad trusted to the fidelity of former writers. Indeed the 
 Classical Tour has every characteristic of a mere com- 
 pilation of former notices, strung together upon a very 
 slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out 
 by fnose decorations which are so easily supplied by a 
 systematic adoption of all the commonplaces of praise, 
 applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 
 
 The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
 brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, 
 and such may experience some salutary excitement in 
 ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
 It must be said, however, that polish and weight are 
 apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the 
 pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge 
 round stone. 
 
 The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
 was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. 
 The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have dis- 
 tinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of 
 Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recom- 
 mendatory either in an author or his productions, is very 
 conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these 
 generous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, 
 and may be spread about it so prominently and pro- 
 r usely, as to embarrass those who wish to see and find 
 the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 
 
 1 See Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 
 
 2 See Classical Tour, etc. chap. vii. p. 250. vol. ii. 
 
 3 " Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the 
 rnyfii garden, laid out. in parterres, and walks shuded by rows 
 furane uees " Classical Tour, etc.. chap. xi. vul ii ocL 
 
 m 
 
 Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, 
 or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is 
 stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change ope- 
 rated, 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 
 considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. 
 Eustace's Antigallican philippics entirely out of date, 
 but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency 
 and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- 
 ample 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, Bologna 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 demonstra 
 tions in favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change 
 may, however, have been made since Mr. Eustaco 
 visited this country ; but the traveller whom he has 
 thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of the 
 copper from the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much 
 relieved to find that sacrilege out of the power of the 
 French, or any other plurjderers, the cupola being cov- 
 ered with If.ad. ' 
 
 If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had 
 not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, 
 it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, 
 that, however it may adorn his library, it wili DC 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. At 
 it is, those who stand in the relation of posterity to 
 Mr. Eustace, may be permitted to appeal from cotem- 
 porary praises, and are perhaps more likely to b<! ; ust 
 
 1 "What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather Ih* hor- 
 ror of my reader, when 1 inform him the Flench 
 
 Committee turned its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed 
 a company of Jews to estimate and purchase the gold.si'ver 
 and bronze, that adorn the inside of the edifice, us well a* 
 the copper that covers the vaults and dome on th! outside. 
 Chap. iv. p. 130. vol. ii. The siory about the Juws u uoo 
 lively denied at Home,
 
 132 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 tii proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
 .dither removed. This appeal had, in some measure, 
 oi-en 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 
 Uwie on their journey southwards, to reprint a cheap 
 eu uon of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring 
 
 advice of returning travellers, induced '.o aoandon his 
 design, although he had already arranged his types awl 
 paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sneeu. 
 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 lo extend the 
 same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 
 
 (Kiaour; 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 One fatal remembrance one sorrow that throws 
 Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes- 
 To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring. 
 For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS 
 RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP; 
 
 THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 
 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 be- 
 cause the Christians have better fortune, or less en- 
 terprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
 adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
 Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
 avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time 
 the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
 Venice, and soon aflerthe Arnaouts wore beaten back 
 from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some 
 time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The deser- 
 tion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of 
 Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, 
 and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the 
 cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even 
 in the annals of the faithful. 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 Tha, rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
 That tomb ' which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
 First greets the homeward-veering skifF, 
 High o cr tne land he saved in vain : 
 When shall such hero live again ? 
 ****** 
 
 Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
 Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
 And lend to loneliness delight. 
 There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
 Reflects the tints of many a peak 
 Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
 These Edens of the eastern wave ; 
 And if, at times, a transient breeze 
 Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
 Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
 How welcome is each gentle air 
 That wakes and wafts the odours there ' 
 For there the rose o'er crag or vale, 
 Sultana of the nightingale, 2 
 The maid for whom his melody, 
 His thousand songs are heard on high, 
 Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
 His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
 Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
 Far from the winters of the west, 
 By every breeze and season blest, 
 Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
 In softest incense back to heaven ; 
 And grateful yields that smiling sky 
 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
 And many a summer flower is there, 
 And many a shade that love might sha /a. 
 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 p:ow 
 Till the gay mariner's gu/tar " 
 1 1 heard, and seen the evening SMU ;
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 133 
 
 ITien stealing with the muffled oar, 
 
 Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
 
 Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
 
 And turn to groans liis foundelay. 
 
 Strange that where Nature loved to trace, 
 
 As if for gods, a dwelling-place, 
 
 And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
 
 Within the paradise she fix'd, 
 
 There man, enamour'd of distress, 
 
 Should mar it into wilderness, 
 
 And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 
 That tasks not one laborious hour; 
 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 
 To bloom along the fairy land, 
 
 But springs as to preclude his care, 
 
 And sweetly woos him but to spare ! 
 
 Strange that where all is peace beside 
 
 There passion riots in her pride, 
 
 And lust and rapine wildly reign 
 
 To darken o'er the fair domain. 
 
 It is as though the fiends prevail'd 
 
 Against the seraphs they assail'd, 
 
 And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
 
 The freed inheritors of hell ; 
 
 So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 
 
 So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
 Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 (Before decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
 The rapture of repose that's there, 
 The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 
 The languor of the placid cheek, 
 And but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy* 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Yes, but for these, and these alone, 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd ! * 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
 The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! 
 
 Clime of the unforgotten brave! 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 P2 
 
 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 sin o~ 
 
 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 pf Salamis ! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown. 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 The embers of their former fires ; 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 Will add to theirs a name of feai 
 That tyranny shall quake to heat, 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
 They too will rather die than shame : 
 For freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
 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 eyo 
 The graves of those that cannot die ! 
 'T were 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 ; 
 Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
 Mankind, where least above the brutes , 
 Without even savage virtue blest, 
 Without one free or valiant breast. 
 Still to the neighbouring ports they waA 
 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
 In this the subtle Greek is found, 
 For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
 In vain might liberty invoke 
 The spirit to its bondage broke, 
 Or raise the neck that courts the yokt 
 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 gnero.
 
 134 
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 Far, dark, along the blue-sea glancing, 
 The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
 Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
 Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
 And, fearful for his light caique, 
 He shuns the near, but doubtful creek : 
 Though worn and weary with his toil, 
 And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the o:.r, 
 Till Port Leone's safer shore 
 Receives him by the lovely light 
 That best becomes an eastern night. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
 With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed? 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound, 
 The cavern'd echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
 The foam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide ; 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
 There 's none within his rider's breast ; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! * 
 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 Olhman'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 pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air impress'd 
 A troubled memory on my breast, 
 And long upon my startled ear 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
 He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
 That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
 He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
 The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
 For well I ween unwelcome he 
 Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
 And not a star but shines too bright 
 On him who takes such timeless flight. 
 He wound along ; but, ere he pass'd, 
 One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
 A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 A moment on his stirrup stood 
 Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 
 The crescent glimmers on the lull, 
 The mosque's high lamps are quivering still : 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 In echoi s of the far tophaike, * 
 Tl e flashes of each joyous >eal 
 Are seen to prove the Mos.ein's zeal. 
 To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; 
 10 ight the Bairatn feast 's begun ; 
 To- night bul wno and what art thou, 
 O' foreign garb and fearful brow 7 
 
 And what are these to thine or tiiec, 
 
 That th'.u shouldst either pause or flee? 
 
 He stood some dread was on h'.s face, 
 
 Soon hatred settled in its pluc-j: 
 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 
 Of transient anger's darkening blush, 
 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
 
 Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
 
 His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 
 
 He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
 
 And sternly shook his hand on high, 
 
 As doubting to return or fly : 
 
 Impatient of his flight delay'd, 
 
 Here loud his raven charger neigh'd 
 
 Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blart 
 
 That sound had burst his waking dream, 
 
 As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
 
 The spur hath lanced his courser's sicks t 
 
 Away, away, for life he rides ; 
 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed, ' 
 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no mor ; 
 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
 
 'T was but an instant he restrain'd 
 
 That fiery barb so sternly rem'd : 
 
 'T was but a moment that he stood, 
 
 Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 
 Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 
 
 And gather in that Jrop of time 
 
 A life of pain, an age of crime. 
 
 O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
 
 Such moment pours the grief of years : 
 
 What felt he then, at once opprest 
 
 By all that most distracts the breast ? 
 
 That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
 
 Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
 
 Though in time's record nearly nought, 
 
 It was eternity to thought ! 
 
 For infinite as boundless space 
 
 The thought that conscience must embrace, 
 
 Which in itself can comprehend " 
 
 Woe without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
 And did he fly or fall alone? 
 Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
 The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 
 To turn a palace to a tomb : 
 He came, he went, like the simoom, 10 
 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 floJ, 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 
 
 The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
 No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
 The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
 Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
 The ba. builds in his haram bower ; 
 And in the fortress of his power 
 The owl usurps the bcacon-towei ; 
 The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's ^ir'-m 
 With baffled thirst, and famine prim:
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
 
 Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread, 
 
 'T was sweet of yore to see it play 
 
 And chase the sultriness of day, 
 
 As, springing high, the silver dew 
 
 In whirls fantastically flew, 
 
 And flung luxurious coolness round 
 
 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
 
 *T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 
 
 To view the wave of watery light, 
 
 And hear its melody by night, 
 
 And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 
 
 Around the verge of that cascade ; 
 
 And oft upon his mother's breast 
 
 That sound had harmonized his rest ; 
 
 And oft had Hassan's youth along 
 
 Its bank been soothed by beauty's song ; 
 
 And softer seem'd each melting tone 
 
 Of music mingled with its own. 
 
 But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 
 
 Along the brink at twilight's close : 
 
 The stream that fill'd that font is fled 
 
 The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 
 
 And here no more shall human voice 
 
 Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; 
 
 The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
 
 That quenched in silence, all is still, 
 
 But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 
 
 Though raves the gust, and floods the ram, 
 
 No hand shall close its clasp again. 
 
 On desert sands 't were joy to scan 
 
 The rudest steps of fellow man 
 
 So here the very voice of grief 
 
 Might wake an echo like relief; 
 
 At least 't would say, " all are not gone ; 
 
 " There lingers life, though but in one " 
 
 For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
 
 Which solitude might well forbear ; 
 
 Within that dome as yet decay 
 
 Hath slowly work'd her cankering way 
 
 But gloom is 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, that refuge unto men, 
 
 Is desolation's hungry den. 
 
 The guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labour, 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! la 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet, 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
 More near each turban I can scan, 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan ; l3 
 The foremost of the band is seen, 
 An emir by his garb of green. : '* 
 "Ho! who art thou? this low salad-* 
 Replies of Moslem faith I am. 
 
 The burthen ye so gently bear, 
 Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
 And, doubtless, nolds some precious freight, 
 My humble bark would gladly wait." 
 
 "Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor. 
 And waft us from the silent shore ; 
 Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
 The nearest oar that 's scattcr'd by ; 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channeled waters dark and deep, 
 Rest from your task so bravely done, 
 Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
 Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
 That one of " 
 
 Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
 I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 Bestirr'd it more, 't was but the beam 
 That cliequer'd o'er the living stream : 
 I gazsd, till vanishing from view, 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sigh 1 
 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 16 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 hign. 
 With panting heart and tearful eye : 
 So beauty lures the full-grown chad, 
 With hue as bright, and wing as wild , 
 A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
 Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
 If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
 Woe waits the insect and the maid , 
 A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
 From infant's play, and man's caprice 
 The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
 Hath lost its charm by being caught. 
 For every touch that wooed its stay 
 Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
 Till, charm, and hue, and beauiy gone, 
 'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
 With wounded wing, or bleeding breast. 
 Ah! where shall either victim rest? 
 C?n this with faded pinion soar 
 Froin rose to ttili|> -\s before 1 
 Or beauty, blighted in an houi, 
 Find joy within her broken bower ! 
 No : gayer insects fluttering by 
 Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that d.e. 
 And lovelier things have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own,
 
 136 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 And everv woe a tear can claim 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 
 
 Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
 In circle narrowing as it glows, 
 The flames around their captive close, 
 Till, inly search'd by thousand throes, 
 
 And maddening in her ire, 
 One sad and sole relief she knows, 
 The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
 Whose venom never yet was vain, 
 Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
 And darts into her desperate brain : 
 So do the dark in soul expire, 
 Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; |f 
 So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
 Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
 Darkness above, despair beneath, 
 Around it flame, within it death ! 
 
 Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
 Nor hends on woman's form his eyes ; 
 The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
 Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
 Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
 When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
 Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
 That tale can only Hassan tefl : 
 Strange rumours in our city say 
 Upon that eve she fled away, 
 When Rhamazan's " last sun WES set, 
 And, flashing from each minaret, 
 Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
 Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
 <T was then she went as to the bath, 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage, 
 In likeness of a Georgian page, 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
 Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
 But others sav, that on that night, 
 By pale Phingari's 19 trembling light, 
 The Giaour upon his jet-black steeJ 
 Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
 With bloody spur along the shore, 
 Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
 
 Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to teO, 
 But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
 (t will ass\s> thv fancy well ; 
 As .arge, as languishingly dark, 
 tut mtu\ beam'd forth in every spark 
 That Parted from beneath the lid, 
 Bright as '.he jewel of G'amschid. 90 
 
 Yea, soul, and should our prophet sav 
 
 That form was nought but breathing clay. 
 
 By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
 
 Though on Al-Sirat's 21 arch I stood, 
 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
 
 With paradise within my view, 
 
 And all his houris beckoning through. 
 
 Oh! who young Leila's glance could lead, 
 
 And keep that portion of his creed a * 
 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? 
 
 On her might mufiis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 
 The young pomegranate's 23 blossoms strew 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthine 34 flow, 
 
 When left to roll its folds below, 
 
 As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 
 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 
 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 
 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! " 
 
 As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
 Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
 Her male stem Hassan, who was he' 
 Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
 
 *** 
 
 Stem Hassan hath a journey ta'en, 
 With twenty vassals in his train, 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
 When in the pass the rebels stood, 
 And few return'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befell in Fame's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Were those that once a pacha wore, 
 Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with goia. 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ' 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 'twere vain to seek
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 13? 
 
 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 /dust tiot 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-night, 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light , 
 Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
 And .eft 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 ? 
 
 Thev reach the grove of pine at last : 
 " Bismillah ! ss now the peril 's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain, 
 And there we '11 prick our steeds amah) :" 
 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 shelter'd by the steed ; 
 Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
 And there await the coming shock, 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
 TIB fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curl'd his verv beard * T 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 vnssals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Resign'd carbine nr aUghan, 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! ** 
 
 In fuller sight, more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
 And, issuing from the grove, advance 
 Some who on battle-charger prance. 
 Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
 Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
 "Ti he! 'tis he! I know him now; 
 I know him by his pallid brow ; 
 I know him by the evil eye * 
 That aids his envious treachery ; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb : 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
 Apostate from his own vile faith, 
 It shall not save him from the death : 
 'Tk he! well met in any hour ! 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!" 
 
 As rolls the river into ocean, 
 In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 
 
 As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
 In azure column proudly gleaming, 
 Beats back the current many a rood. 
 In curling foam and mingling flood, 
 While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
 Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
 Through sparkling spray, in thundering clam, 
 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 death-shot hissing from afar, 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war 
 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
 Though few the numbers theirs the strife 
 That neither spares nor speaks for fife ! 
 Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
 To seize and share the dear caress ; 
 But love itself could never pant 
 For all that beauty sighs to grant 
 With half the fervour hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes, 
 When grappling in the fight they fold 
 Those arms that ne'er shall loose their btki 
 Friends meet to pan ; love laughs at faith. 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
 
 With sabre shiverM to the hilt, 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spil ; 
 Yet strain'd within the severed hand 
 Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
 His turban far behind him rolPd, 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
 His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
 And crimson as those clouds of morn 
 That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
 The day shall have a stormy end ; 
 A stain on every bush that bore 
 A fragment of his Dalampore,'"
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 His- breast with wounds unnurnber'd riven, 
 His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
 Fallen Hassan lies his unclosed eye 
 Yet lowering on his enemy, 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 Surviving left hid 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 sleel 
 Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
 He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
 Was vain against the vengeful Giaour 
 He call'd on Alia but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
 Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
 I watch'd my lime, I leagued with these, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
 My wrath is wreak'd, the deed Is done, 
 And now I go but go alone." 
 
 The browzing camels' bells are tinkling : 
 His mother look'd from her lattice high 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
 ' 'T is twilight sure his train is nigh." 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through the grate of his steepest towet 
 ' Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
 Nor shrinx they from the summer heat; 
 Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
 Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
 Has gain'd 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 weary way." 
 The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
 But scarce upheld his fainting weight: 
 His swarthy visage spake distress, 
 But this might be from weariness ; 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
 But these might be from his courser's side ; 
 He drew the token from his vest 
 Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven crest ! 
 His calpac " rent his caftan red 
 " Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath ved : 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
 But this empurpled pledge to bea.. 
 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 d^a<l. 
 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 
 A victim in that lonely dell. 
 
 There sleeps as true an Osmanli 
 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 
 As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 
 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 
 In' orisons resumed anew 
 
 At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " " 
 
 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 Houri's eyes 
 
 On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
 They come their kerchiefs green they 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 But thou, false infidel ! shall writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's 3i scythe ; 
 And from its torment 'scape alone 
 To wander round lost Eblis' 36 throne ; 
 And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
 Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
 Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
 The tortures of that inward hell ! 
 But first, on earth as vampire 3 * 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, 
 Al midnight drain the stream of life ; 
 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy livid living corse : 
 Thy victims ere they yet expire 
 Shall know the demon for their sire, 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
 Thy flowers are wither'd on ihe stem. 
 But one that for thy crime musl fall, 
 The youngest, most beloved of all, 
 Shall bless thee with a father's name 
 That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
 Her check's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
 And the last gls.ssy glance must view 
 Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
 Then wilh unhallow'd hand shall 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 urip " 
 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
 Then, stalking to thy sullen grave, 
 Go and wilh Gouls and Afrils rave ; 
 Till these in horror shrink away 
 From spectre more accursed than tKev '
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 " How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 
 
 His features I have scann'd before 
 In mine own land : 't is many a year, 
 
 Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
 I saw him urge. as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
 I could not pass it by again ; 
 .t breathes the same dark spirit now, 
 As death were stamp'd upon his brow." 
 
 " 'T is 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 whelm'd 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 sever'd from its parent limb, 
 Invisible to all but him, 
 Which beckons onward to his grave, 
 And lures to leap into the wav\" 
 
 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 narneiess spell 
 
 Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 
 A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 
 
 That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 
 
 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-aftrighted friar 
 
 When met alone, would fain retire, 
 
 As if that eyu and bitter smile 
 
 Triinsferr'd to others fear and guile : 
 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he, 
 
 And when he doth 't is sad to so* 
 
 That he but mocks at misery. 
 
 How that pale lip will curl and quivei . 
 
 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 sadcler still it were to trace 
 
 What once were feelings in that face : 
 
 Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 
 
 But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 
 
 And there are hues not alwavs faded, 
 
 Which speak a mind not all degraded, 
 
 Even by the crimes through which it waded : 
 
 The common crowd but see the gloom 
 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
 
 The close observer can espy 
 
 A noble soul, and lineage high : 
 
 Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain, 
 
 Which grief could change, and guilt could stuift, 
 
 It was no vulgar tenement 
 
 To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
 
 And still with little less than dread 
 
 On such the sight is riveted. 
 
 The roofless cot, 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 stranger's eye 
 Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
 Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 
 " His floating robe around him folding, 
 
 Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle' 
 With dread, beheld, with gloom beholding 
 
 The rites that sanctify the pile. 
 But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
 And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
 By yonder lone and wavering torch 
 His aspect glares within the porch ; 
 There will he pause till all is done 
 And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
 See by the half-illumined wall 
 His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
 That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
 As if the Gorgon there had bound 
 The sablest of the serpent-braid 
 That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
 For he declines the convent oath, 
 And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth. 
 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 
 Peals louder praises to the sky. 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 Of mix'd defiance and despair! 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrintj 
 Else may we dread the wrath divine 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 The form of mortal, such he woit: 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven. 
 Such looks are not of earth nor heaven \ r
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To love the softest hearts arc pr >ne, 
 
 But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
 
 Too timid in his woes to share, 
 
 Too meek 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 temper'd to thy want, or will, 
 
 T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 
 
 A breastplate for thine hour of need, 
 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
 
 But if a dagger's form it bear, 
 
 Let those who shape its edge beware ! 
 
 Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
 
 Can turn and tame 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 bearj 
 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 level o'er their rotting sleep, 
 Without the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay ! 
 It is as if the desert-bird, 39 
 
 Whose beal inlocks her bosom's stream 
 
 To still her 'Amish'd nestlings' scream, 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
 Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
 And find them flown her empty nest. 
 The keenest pangs the wretched find 
 
 Are rapture to the dreary vtid, 
 The leafless desert of the mir d, 
 
 The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
 Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
 A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
 I, ess hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billorvs 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 pass'd 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 oeen thy lot from youth to age ; 
 
 And thou wi'. bless thee from the rage 
 
 Of passions fierce and uncontrtll'd, 
 
 Such as thy penitents unfold, 
 
 Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
 
 Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
 
 My days, though few, have pass'd brlow 
 
 In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
 
 Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
 
 I 've 'scaped the weariness ol life : 
 
 Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
 
 I loathed the languor of repose. 
 
 Now nothing left to love or hate, 
 
 No more with hope or pride elate, 
 
 I 'd rather be the thing that crawls 
 
 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 
 Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
 
 Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
 
 For rest but not to feel 't is rest. 
 
 Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 
 
 And I shall sleep without the dream 
 Of what 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. 
 My 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 fear'd to meet ; 
 And in the field it had been sweet. 
 Had danger woo'd me on to move 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 I 've braved it not for 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 need's! 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 j 
 Then let life go to him who gave : 
 I have not quail'd 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 din'.ed sword, 
 
 A stain ils steel can never lose: 
 'T was shed for her, who died for me, 
 
 It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
 Nay, start not no nor bend thy knee, 
 
 Nor midst my sins such act record : 
 Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
 For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 Was wormwood to his Pavn'in spleen.
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 14 
 
 Ungrateful fool ! since '.ut for brands 
 Well wielded in some hard}' hands, 
 \jid 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 wijtfiiid its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 
 l.nd if it dares enough, 't were hard 
 f passion met not some reward 
 No matter how, or where, or why, 
 I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
 Vet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
 I wish she had not loved again. 
 She died I dare not tell thee how ; 
 But look 't is written on my brow ! 
 There read of Cain the curse and crime 
 In characters unworn by time : 
 Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
 Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
 Yet did he but what I had done 
 Had she been false to more than one. 
 Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
 But true to me, I laid him low : 
 Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 
 Her treachery was truth to me ; 
 To me she gave her heart, that all 
 Which tyranny can ne'er enthral ; 
 And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
 Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
 'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 
 His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
 Has made me what thou well may'st hate. 
 
 His doom was seal'd he knew it well, 
 /\Tam'd by the voice of- stern Taheer, 
 Deep in whose darkly-boding ear 40 
 The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 
 
 As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
 He died too in the battle broil, 
 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
 One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
 One prayer to Alia all he made : 
 He knew and cross'd me in the fray 
 I gazed upon him where he lay, 
 And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
 Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 
 He felt not half that now I \'eel. 
 I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
 The workings of a wounded mind ; 
 Each feature of that sullen corse 
 Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
 Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
 Despair upon his dying face ! 
 The late repentance of that hour, 
 When penitence hath lost her power 
 To tear one terror from the grave, 
 And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
 
 **** 
 " The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 
 That boils in ^Etna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-lovo, and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
 
 Q 
 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
 And all that I have felt, and feel, 
 Betoken love that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'T is true I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die but first I have possess' d, 
 And, come what may, I have been blest. 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid 1 
 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 turn'd mine eye, 
 The morning-star of memory ! 
 
 " Yes, love indeed is light from heaven \ 
 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Alia given, 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above, 
 But heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
 To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
 A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
 A glory circling round the soul ! 
 I grant my love imperfect, all 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ' 
 She was my life's unerring light ; 
 T."iat quench'd, what beam shall break my nijjU \ 
 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 ! 
 'T is true, that, like that bird of prey, 
 With havoc have I mark'd my way . 
 But this was taught me by the dov. 
 To die and know no second love. 
 This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
 Taught by the thing he dares to smun.
 
 142 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Tim kid lhat sings within the brake, 
 The swan tiiat 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 ! 
 T is all too late thou wert, thou art 
 The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
 " And she was lost and yet I breathed, 
 
 But not the breath of human life : 
 A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
 
 And stung my every thought to strife. 
 Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 
 Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, 
 Where every hue that charm'd before 
 The blackness of my bosom wore. 
 The rest thou dost already know, 
 And all my sins, and half my woe. 
 But talk no more of penitence ; 
 Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence : 
 And if thy holy tale were true, 
 The deed that 's done can'st thou undo ? 
 Think me not thankless but this grief 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief.*' 
 My soul's estate in secret guess : 
 Hut 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 ! 
 
 " 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 absorb'd like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
 Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
 T is strange he prophesied my doom, 
 
 And I have smiled I then could smile 
 When prudence would his voice assume, 
 
 Ana warn I reck'd not what the while : 
 But now remembrance whispers o'er 
 Tho IKWODI* scarcely mark'd 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 scuri r 
 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 wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
 The wreck by passion left behind, 
 A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
 Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 
 
 " Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
 No, father, no, 't was not a dream ; 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
 I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep, 
 But could not, for my burning brow 
 Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
 I wisli'd but for a single tear, 
 As something welcome, new, and dear . 
 I wish'd it then, I wish it still 
 Despair is stronger th^n 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. 
 'T was then, I tell thee, father ! then 
 I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
 And shining in her white symar,* 1 
 As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
 Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
 Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
 Dimly I view its trembling spark : 
 To-morrow's night shall be more dark , 
 And I, before its rays appear, 
 That lifeless thing the living fear. 
 I wonder, father ! for my soul 
 Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
 I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
 Foigetful 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 cnJd 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wish'd to hold 
 Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
 They shrink upon my lonely brea ;
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 143 
 
 Vet still 't is ihcre ! in silence stands, 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright-black eye 
 I knew 't was false she could not ilie ! 
 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 7 
 They told me wild waves roll'd above 
 The fac I view, the form I love ; 
 They told me 't was a hideous tale ! 
 I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
 If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
 Thou com'st 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 thec bear my soul, 
 Than winds can waft, Waters roll ! 
 
 " Such is my name, and such my tale. 
 
 Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
 I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 
 
 And thank thee for the generous tear 
 This glazing eye could never shed. 
 Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
 And, save the cross above my head, 
 Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
 By prying stranger to be read, 
 Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 
 He pass'd nor of his name and race 
 Hath left a token or a trace, 
 Save what the father must not say 
 Who shrived him on his dying day : 
 This broken tale was all we knew 
 Of her he loved, or him he slew. 4J 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 132, line 3. 
 That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 
 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
 supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 
 Note 2. Page 132, line 22. 
 
 Sultana of the nightingale. 
 
 The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
 well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " Bul- 
 bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 
 
 Note 3. Page 132, line 40. 
 Till the gay mariner's guitar. 
 
 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
 sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a 
 calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 
 tv dancing. 
 
 Note 4. Page 133, line 40. 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy. 
 " \y, but to die and go we know not where, 
 To lie in cold obstruction." 
 
 Mcarxrcfor Measure, Act III. 130. Sc. 2. 
 
 Note 5. Page 133, line 48. 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd. 
 1 trust that few of my readers have ever had an op 
 portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in do-, 
 scription, but those who have, -will probably retain a 
 painful remembrance of that singular beauty whici 
 pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the deaa 
 a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the spirit 
 is not there." It is to be remarked, in cases of violent 
 death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always 
 that of languor, whatever the natural energy of tnti 
 sufferer's character ; but in death from a stab the coun 
 tcnance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and 
 the mind its bias to the last. 
 
 Note 6. Page 133, line 110. 
 Slaves nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
 Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave 
 of the seraglio, and guardian of the women), who ap- 
 points the Waywode. A pander and eunuch those 
 are not polite, yet true appellations now governs the 
 governor of Athens ! 
 
 Ti 
 
 Infidel. 
 
 Note 7. Page 134, line 23. 
 calmer than thy heart, young Giaour 
 
 Note 8. Page 134, line 58. 
 
 In echoes of the far tophaike. 
 
 "Tophaike," musket The Bairam is announce* 
 by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the Mosques, 
 and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 
 ball, proclaim it during the night. 
 
 Note 9. Page 134, line 84. 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high jcrrued. 
 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 Constanti- 
 nople I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smvrna was 
 the most skilful that came within my observation. 
 
 Note 10. Page 134, line 115. 
 He came, he went, like the simoom. 
 The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, 
 and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 
 
 Note 11. Page 135, line 47. 
 To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 
 To partake of food, to break bread and sail with 
 your host, insures the safety of the guest; even though 
 an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 
 
 Note 12. Page 135, line 55. 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
 I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
 are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and, to saj 
 truth, very generally practised by his disciples. Tli* 
 first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a 
 gyric on his bounty ; the next on his valour. 
 
 Note 13. Page 135, line J>9. 
 And silver-sheathed atagnau. 
 
 The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in um 
 belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; ami. 
 among the wealthier, gilt or of gold,
 
 144 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Note. 14. Page 135, line 61. 
 '\n emir by his garb of greon. 
 
 Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's nu- 
 merous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, 
 faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
 ihe necessity of good works : they are the worst of a 
 very indirferent brood. 
 
 Note 15. Page 135, line 62. 
 'Ho ! who art (hou? this low salam," etc. 
 Salam ateiKoum ! aleikoum salam ! peace be with you ; 
 oe with you peace the salutation reserved for the 
 faithful : to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; 
 or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, good even ; 
 and sometimes, " may your end be happy j" are the 
 usual salutes. 
 
 Note 16. Page 135, line 93. 
 The insect-queen of eastern spring. 
 The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
 rare and beautiful of the species. 
 
 Note 17. Page 136, line 15. 
 Or live like scorpion girt by fire. 
 
 Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
 placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
 maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
 towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement : 
 but others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo 
 de so." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
 decision of the question ; as, if once fairly established 
 as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live 
 as long as they think proper, without being martyred 
 for the sake of a hypothesis. 
 
 Note 18. Page 136, line 30. 
 When Rharr-azan's last sun was set 
 The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
 note 8. 
 
 Note 19. Page 136, line 49. 
 By pa/e Pliingari's trembling lighf 
 Phingari, the moon. 
 
 Note 20. Page 136, line 60. 
 B'ip'it as the jewel of Giamschid. 
 
 The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
 the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named 
 Sehebgerr.g, "the torch of night ;" also, "the cup of 
 the sun," etc. In the first editions, " Giamschid " was 
 written as a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelot 
 hae it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dis- 
 syllable, and writes "Jamshid." I have left in the 
 ext the orthography of the one with the pronunciation 
 3f the other. 
 
 Note 21. Page 136, line 64. 
 Though on Al-Sirat's nrch I stood. 
 Al-Sirat, the bridge, of breadth less than the thread 
 of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must 
 tkate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; 
 but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
 Itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful 
 and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a "facilis 
 iliscenjs Averni," not very pleasing in prospect to the 
 next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for 
 ne Jews and Christians. 
 
 Note 22. Page 136, line 69. 
 And keep that portion of his creed. 
 A iu!gar error' the Koran allots at least a ,lur<\ of 
 
 paradise to well-behaved women : but by far trie greater 
 number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own 
 way, and exlude 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 ba superseded hy the Houris. 
 
 Note 23. Page 136, line 75. 
 The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 
 An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
 stolen, be deemed "plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." 
 
 Note 24. Page 136, line 77. 
 Her hair in hyacinthino flow. 
 
 Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ;" r.s common a 
 thought in the eastern poets, as it wrvs among the 
 Greeks. 
 
 Note 25. Page 136, line 87. 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 
 "Franguestan," Circassia. 
 
 Note 26. Page 137, line 26. 
 " Bismillah ! now the peril 'g past," etc. 
 Bismillah " In the name of God ;" the commence- 
 ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
 prayer and thanksgiving. 
 
 Note 27. Page 137, line 51. 
 Then curl'd his very heard with ire. 
 A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
 man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a 
 diplomatic audience, were not less lively with indigna- 
 tion than a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the drago- 
 mans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood 
 erect of their own accord, and were expected every 
 moment to change their colour, but at last condescended 
 to subside, which probably saved more heads than they 
 contained hairs. 
 
 Note 28. Page 137, line 61. 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 
 " Amaun," quarter, pardon. 
 
 Note 29. Page 137, line 70. 
 
 I know him by the evil eye. 
 
 The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Le- 
 vant, and of which the imaginary effects ure yet very 
 singular, on those who conceive themselves affected 
 
 Note 30. Page 137, line 124. 
 
 A fragment of his palnmpore. 
 
 The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of 
 rank. 
 
 Note 31. Page 138, line 51. 
 His calpac rent his caftan red. 
 
 The " Calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of the 
 head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms 
 the turban. 
 
 Note 32. Page 138, line 57. 
 A turban carved in conrsc *t stone. 
 
 The turban, pihar, and inset iptive verse, decori!e 
 the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery 
 or the wilderness. In the mojntains you frequently 
 pass similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, you arc in- 
 formed, that they record some victim ot rebellion, 
 plunder, or revenge. 
 
 Note 33. Page 138, foie fA 
 At solemn sound of "All i Hu ' 
 'Ali Hu ." the concluding w jrds of ..-e M.mzzn'f
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 143 
 
 call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior 
 ot the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin 
 has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the ef- 
 fact is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in 
 Christendom. 
 
 Note 34. Page 138, line 77. 
 They come their kerchiefs green they wave. 
 The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : 
 " I see I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she 
 wares a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries 
 aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee," etc. 
 
 Note 35. Page 138, line 82. 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. 
 Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
 before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate 
 and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
 swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a 
 scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till prop- 
 erly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. 
 The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but 
 two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a 
 small proportion to the remainder, their hands are al- 
 ways full. 
 
 Note 36. Page 138, line 84. 
 To wander round lost Eblis' throne. 
 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 
 
 Note 37. Page 138, line 89. 
 But first, on earth, as vampire sent. 
 
 The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
 vaiu. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
 Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these 
 " Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is 
 "Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being terri- 
 fied 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 legitimate Hellenic appellation 
 at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to 
 the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil. 
 The moderns, however, use the word I mention. 
 
 Note 38. Page 138, line 115. 
 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 
 
 The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
 with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. 
 The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 
 feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly 
 attested. 
 
 Note 39. Page 140, line 36. 
 
 It ia as if the desert-bird. 
 
 1 he pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
 mputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 
 
 Note 40. Page 141, line 36. 
 Deep in whose darkly-boding ear. 
 
 This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met 
 
 with downright second-sight in the east) fell once under 
 
 *iy own ooservation On my third journey to Cape 
 
 Jolonna early in 1811, as we passed through the defile 
 
 hat. leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, 
 
 observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, 
 
 and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode 
 
 up and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. 
 
 " What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the 
 
 a 2 24 
 
 passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are 
 plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have no. 
 courage to be thieves." " True, Affendi ; but never 
 theless the shot is ringing in my ears." " The shot ! 
 not a tophaike has been fired this morning." "I hear it 
 notwithstanding Bom Bom as plainly as I hear yom 
 voice." "Psha." "As you please, Affendi; ,' it is 
 written, so will it be." I left this quick-eared predesti 
 narian, and rode up to Basili,his Christian compatriot 
 whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means 
 relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- 
 mained a few hours, and returned leisurely, saying a var 
 riety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled 
 the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer ; Romaic, 
 Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, 
 in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. 
 While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, 
 Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought he 
 was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he 
 had become a " Palaocastro " man. "No," said he, 
 " but these pillars will be useful in making a stand ;" 
 and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own 
 belief in his troublesome faculty oifure-heanng. On oar 
 return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a prisoner se* 
 ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the 
 Mainotcs, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking 
 place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I wa 
 at some pains to question the man, and he described the 
 dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party ss 
 accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
 doubt of his having been in " villanous company," and 
 ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
 soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
 musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
 ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- 
 tains. I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
 race. In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
 Arnaout came (I believe the 50th on the same errand) 
 to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
 "Well, Affendi," quoth he, "may you live! you 
 would have found me useful. I shall leave the town foi 
 the hills to-morrow ; in the winter I return, perhaps you 
 will then receive me." Dervish, who was present, 
 remarked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
 " in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (rob- 
 bers), which was true to the letter If not cut off", they 
 came down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in 
 some town, where they are often as well known as their 
 exploits. 
 
 Note 41. Page 142, line 36. 
 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
 
 The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
 
 so little effect upon the patient, that it could have nc 
 
 hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
 
 it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from 
 
 the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), ana 
 
 was deli vered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachem 
 
 Note 42. Page 142, line 102. 
 And shining in her white symar. 
 " Symar" shroud. 
 
 Note 43. Page 143, line 37 
 
 The circumstance to which the above story remits 
 was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago 
 the wife of Muchtar Pacha comulaineu to i.s father <*
 
 146 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 his son's v t )pose<-' infiinlity ; he asked with whom, and 
 she had vhe bartwity to give in a list of the twelve 
 handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fast- 
 ened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same 
 night ! One of the guards who was present informed 
 me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed 
 a symptom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all 
 we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the 
 fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
 and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of 
 a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- 
 gotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the 
 coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, 
 and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
 interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- 
 guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery ; 
 
 and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag' 
 ments of the original. 
 
 For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
 partly to D'Herbelot, and part y to that most eastern, 
 and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the 
 "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source 
 the author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
 materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
 " Bibliotheque Orientate ;" but for correctness of cos- 
 tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, 
 it far surpasses all European imitations ; ana bears s'ich 
 marks of originality, that those who have visited the East 
 will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than 
 a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must 
 bow before it ; his " Happy Valley " will not bear a 
 comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." 
 
 SBrUjre of 
 
 A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 Had we never loved go 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. 
 
 I. 
 
 Rtrow ys the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 N*w meh into sorrow, now madden to crime ! 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gull ' 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 a>e soft as the roses they twine, 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 T is the clime of the east ; 't is the land of the sun 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 2 
 Oh ! w:M as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the talrr which they 
 
 II. 
 
 Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
 
 Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
 
 Awaiting each his lord's behest, 
 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
 
 Old GiafHr sate in his Divan : 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
 
 And though the face of Mussulman 
 Not oft betrays to slanders by 
 
 The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
 
 All but unconquerable pride, 
 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 III. 
 "Let the chamber be clear'd." The train disappear'')) 
 
 "Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
 With Giaffir is none but his only son, 
 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's aware 
 
 " Haroun when all the crowd that wait 
 
 Are pass'd beyond the outer gate 
 
 (Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
 
 My child Zulcika's face unveil'd !) 
 
 Hence, lead my daughter from her tow> ; 
 
 Her fate is fix'd this very hour :
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 i'et 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, 
 Hut here young Selim silence brake, 
 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet: 
 And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 
 
 Sti 1 standing at the Pacha's feet : 
 For son of Moslem must expire, 
 Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 
 
 " Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
 My sister, or her sable guide, 
 Know for the fault, if fault there be, 
 Was mine ; then fall thy frowns on me 
 So lovelily the morning shone, 
 
 That let the old and weary sleep 
 I could not ; and to view alone 
 
 The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
 With none to listen and reply 
 To thoughts with which my heart beat high, 
 Were irksome for, whate'er my mood, 
 In sooth I love not solitude ; 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 
 Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke, 
 We to the cypress groves had flown, 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
 There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;* 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour * 
 Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
 To thee and to my duty true, 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
 But there Zuleika wanders yet 
 Nay, father, rage not nor forget 
 That none can pierce that secret bower 
 But those who watch the women's tower." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Son of a slave !" the Pacha said 
 
 "From unbelieving mother bred, 
 
 Vain were a father's hope to see 
 
 Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
 
 Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
 And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
 Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
 
 Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
 
 And watch unfolding roses blow. 
 
 Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
 
 Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
 
 Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; w 
 
 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 
 Against the curs of Nazareth! 
 
 Uo let thy less than woman's hand 
 
 Assume the distaff no', the brand. 
 
 But, Haroun ! to my daughter speed: 
 
 And hark of thine own head take heed 
 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing 
 
 Thou seeSt yon bow it hath a atnng!" 
 
 V. 
 
 No sound from Selim's lip was neard, 
 
 At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
 But every frown and every word 
 Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
 
 " Son of a slave ! reproach'd with fear ! 
 
 Those gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave ! and who my sire ?" 
 
 Thus held his thoughts their dark career 
 And glances even of more than ire 
 
 Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 
 And started ; for within his eye 
 He read how much his wrath had done ; 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 
 " Come hither, boy what, no reply ? 
 I mark thee and I know thee too ; 
 But there be deeds thou daresl not do : 
 But if thy beard had manlier length, 
 And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
 I 'd jov to see thee break a lance, 
 Albeit against my own perchance." 
 As sneeringly these accents fell, 
 On Selim's eyes he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for glance. 
 That proudly to his sire's was raised, 
 
 Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance 
 And why he felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
 Will one day work me more annoy; 
 I never loved him from his birth, 
 And but his arm is little worth, 
 And scarcely in the chase could cope 
 With timid fawn or antelope, 
 Far less would venture into strife 
 Where man contends for fame and life 
 I would not trust that look or tone : 
 No nor the blood so near my own. 
 That blood he hath not heard no more 
 I '11 watch him closer than before. 
 He is an Arab * 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 ; 
 
 Oh ! more than even her mother dear, 
 With all to hope, and nought to fear 
 My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
 Sweet, as the desert-fountain's wave 
 To lips just cool'd in time to save 
 
 Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
 Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
 More thanks for life, than I for thine, 
 
 Who blest thy birth, and bless thee no^f . 
 
 VI. 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling. 
 Whose image tiien was stamp'd upon her mind- 
 But once beguiled and ever more beguiling ; 
 Daz'ling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
 To S'HTOW'S phantom-peopled slumber given, 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian. 
 And paints the lost on earth reviveo in heaven . 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure, as the prayer which childhood waits U'
 
 .48 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Was ne the daughter of that rude old chief, 
 Who met the maid with tears but not of grief. 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
 To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray 7 
 Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 The might the majesty of loveliness ? 
 Such was Zuleika such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone : 
 The light of iove, 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, 
 To clasp the neck of him who blest 
 His child caressing and carest, 
 Zuleika came and Giaflir felt 
 His purpose half within him melt : 
 Not that against her fancied weal 
 His heart, though stern, could ever feel ; 
 Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
 
 How dear this very day must tell, 
 When I forget my own distress, 
 
 fci 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 
 Thai won and well can keep their lands. 
 EnoMgh 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 shall have a noble dower : 
 And his and my united power 
 Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan, 
 And teach the messenger 8 what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 And now thou know'st thy father's will: 
 
 All that thy sex hath need to know : 
 ' F was mine to teach obedience still 
 
 The way to love thy lord may show." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 i'i silence bow'j the virgin's head; 
 
 And if hei eye was fill'd with tears, 
 That stifled teeling dare not shed, 
 And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
 
 And red to pale, as through her cars 
 Those win?eu wonis .IKO arrows sped, 
 
 Whai could such be but maiden fears? 
 So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 
 Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
 
 So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 
 
 Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 
 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
 
 Or, if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd Ins steoi 
 Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke, 10 
 
 And mounting featly for the mead, 
 With Maugrabee ' ' and Mamaluke, 
 His way amid his Delis took, 12 
 
 To witness many an active deed 
 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 
 Watch'd well the Haram's massy doors. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His head was leant upon his hand, 
 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 
 That swiftly glides and gently swells 
 Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand 
 Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
 
 Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
 Careering cleave the folded felt l3 
 With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
 Nor mark'if the javelin-darting crowd, 
 Nor heard their Ollahs 14 wild and loua 
 
 He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
 
 X. 
 
 No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
 One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
 Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
 Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
 To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
 But little from his aspect learn'd : 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
 But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak, 
 Yet speak she must but when essay ? 
 " How strange he thus should turn awav ' 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
 Thrice paced she slowly through the room 
 
 And watch'd his eye it still was fix'd : 
 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
 The Persian Atar-gul's ' s perfume, 
 And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
 The pictured roof 16 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 y 
 
 If offer' d by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly breath' d 
 Before the rose was pluck'd and wreall ed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
 "This rose to calm rr.y brother's carei 
 A message from the Bulbul 1T bears , 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's ear his s wee'.est song ;
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 19 
 
 And though his note is somewhat sad, 
 He 11 try for once a strain more glad, 
 With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 
 
 XI. 
 " What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 
 
 Nay then I am indeed unblest: 
 On me can thus thy forehead lower? 
 
 And know'st thou not who loves the* best ? 
 Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
 Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 
 Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
 And I will kiss thee into rest, 
 Since words of mine, and songs must faX 
 Even from my fabled nightingale. 
 I knew our sire at times was stern, 
 But this from thce 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 ! 
 Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee, and learn to "halve my heart? 
 Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, 
 Where were thy friend and who my guide ? 
 Years have not seen, time shall not see, 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
 Even Azrael, 18 from his deadly quiver 
 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
 That parts all else, shall doom for ever 
 
 Our hearts to undivided dust!" 
 
 XII. 
 
 He lived he breathed he moved he felt ; 
 He raised the maid from where she knelt : 
 His trance was gone his keen eye shone 
 Wi'h thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
 With thoughts that burn in rays that melt. 
 As the stream late conceal'd 
 
 By the fringe of its willows ; 
 When it rushes reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 Flash'd the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
 A lion roused by heedless hound, 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 By graze of ill-directed knife, 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
 And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
 " Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
 Witn 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 vie : 
 But blench not thou thy simplest tress 
 Claims more 1'om me than tenderness ; 
 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 
 That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 
 Within the caves of Istakar." 
 
 This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 
 
 Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
 
 And Giaffir almost called me coward ! 
 
 Now I have motive to be brave ; 
 
 The son of his neglected slave 
 
 Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave- 
 
 May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
 
 His son, indeed ! yet thanks to thee, 
 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 
 But let our plighted secret vow 
 
 Be only known to us as now. 
 
 I know the wretch who dares demand 
 
 From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 
 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul, 
 
 Holds not a Musselim's 20 control : 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo? 21 
 
 A viler race let Israel show ! 
 
 But let that pass to none be told 
 
 Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold 
 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 
 I 've partisans for peril's day : 
 
 Think not I am what I appear ; 
 
 I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 
 
 My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
 This mom I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 
 My love thou surely knew'st before, 
 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 
 
 And hate the night I know not why, 
 Save that we meet not but by day ; 
 
 With thee to live, with thee to die. 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny : 
 Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
 Like this and this no more than this ; 
 For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
 My own have nearly caught the same, 
 
 At least I feei my cheek too blushing. 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste, thy wealth, 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
 And lighten half thy poverty ; 
 Do all but close thy dying eye, 
 For that I could not live to try ; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
 More can I do, or thou require ? 
 But, Selim, thou must answer why 
 We need so much of mystery ? 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
 But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 
 Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' frieon* 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 I meant that Giaffir should have heard 
 
 The very vow I plighted thee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word 
 
 But s-irely he would leave me fre. 
 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in one.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 To be what I have ever been 7 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earliest hour 7 
 
 What other can she seek to see 
 Th" thee, companion of her bower, 
 
 The partner of her infancy ? 
 These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, 
 
 S?.y, why must I no more avow 7 
 What change is wrought to make me shun 
 
 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 compell'd 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
 This wherefore should I not reveal 7 
 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, 19 
 My father leaves the mimic war ; 
 I tremble now to meet his eye- 
 Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why 7" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Zuleika ! to thy tower's retreat 
 Betake thee Giaffir I can greet ; 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
 There 's fearful news from Danube's banks ; 
 Our Vizier nobly thini. his ranks, 
 For which the Giaour may give him thanks! 
 Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
 Such costly triumph to repay. 
 But, mark me, when the twilight drum 
 
 Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
 Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
 
 Then softly from the Haram creep 
 
 Where we may wander by the deep : 
 
 Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
 Nor these will rash intruder climb 
 To list o-w words, or stint our time, 
 And . ue doth, I want not steel 
 Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
 Then shall thou learn of Selim more 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before j 
 Trust me, Zuleika fear not me ! 
 Thou know'st I hold a Haram key. * 
 ' Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
 
 Did word like this " 
 
 Delay not tbou ; 
 
 I ktop tne Key and Haroun's guard 
 Have same, and hope of more reward. 
 To-ni^h?, Zuleika, thou shall hear 
 My talf, my purpose, and my fear: 
 I <mi no*, love ! what I appear." 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE winds are high on Helle's wave, 
 
 As on that night of stormy water 
 When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave, 
 
 The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter 
 Oh ! when alone along the sky 
 Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
 Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
 And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
 And clouds aloft and tides below, 
 With signs and sounds, forbade to go ; 
 He could not see, he would not hear 
 Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
 His eye but saw that light of love, 
 The only star it hail'd above ; 
 His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long !" 
 That tale is old, but love anew 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 
 
 II. 
 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 
 Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
 And night's descending shadows hide 
 
 That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
 All save immortal dreams that could beguile 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! yet for there my steps have been ; 
 
 These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
 These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne 
 MinstreH 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" 21 still dashea, 
 Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 
 Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
 That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
 No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 
 
 But conscious shepherds bless it stilL 
 Their flocks are grazing on the mound 
 
 Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow . 
 That mighty heap of gatherd ground 
 Which Ammon's 2 * son ran proudly round, 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrow I 
 
 Within thy dwelling-place how nanon 
 Without can only strangers breatKo 
 The name of him that teas beneath 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone, 
 But thou thy very dust is gone !
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 fol 
 
 V. 
 
 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 ot struggling skiff; 
 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 
 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 
 The only lamp of tnis lone hour 
 
 Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 
 
 Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 
 
 And o'er her silken ottoman 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; " 
 Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget?) 
 Her mother's sainted amulet, 26 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
 Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
 And by her Comboloio s ' lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
 And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeem'd from time; 
 And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
 Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
 And round her lamp of fretted gold 
 Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
 The richest work of Iran's loom, 
 And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
 All that can eye or sense delight 
 
 Are gathcr'd in that gorgeous room : 
 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
 She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
 To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
 
 As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
 With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 The gust its hollow meanings 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 7 
 
 VII. 
 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 
 By Nature, but enlarged by art, 
 Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 
 
 And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
 And oft in youthful reverie 
 She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
 But Selim's mansion was secure, 
 Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
 ll\j lovver in other worlds of bliss, 
 Without her, mov beloved in this! 
 Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell? 
 Wliat Houri soothe him half so well? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Since last she visited the spot 
 
 Some change seem'd wrought witnm the grot 
 
 It might be only that the night 
 
 Disguised things seen by better light : 
 
 That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
 
 A ray of no celestial hue ; 
 
 But in a nook within the cell 
 
 Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
 
 There arms were piled, not such as wield 
 
 The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
 
 But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 
 
 And one was red perchance with guut ! 
 
 Ah ! how without can blood be spilt? 
 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 
 That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 
 What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 
 
 Her Selim " Oh ! can this be he ?" 
 
 IX. 
 
 His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
 
 His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 
 Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore 
 That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
 Were worthy of a diadem, 
 No longer glitter'd at his wais', 
 Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
 And from his belt a sabre swung, 
 And from his shoulder loosely hung 
 The cloak of white, the thin capote 
 That decks the wandering Candiote. 
 Beneath his golden-plated vest 
 Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
 The greaves below his knee that wound 
 With silvery scales were sheathed and bcuna 
 But were it not that high command 
 Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
 All that a careless eye could see 
 In him was some young Galiongee. 8 * 
 
 X. 
 
 " I said I was not what I seem'd ; 
 
 And now thou seest my words were true 
 I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
 
 If sooth its truth must others rue. 
 My story now 't were vain to hide ; 
 I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 How much of that young heart I shared, 
 I could not, must not, yet have shown 
 The darker secret of my own. 
 In this I speak not now of love ; 
 That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
 But first Oh ! never wed another 
 Zuleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Oh ! not my brother ! yet unsay- 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 
 To mourn I dare not curse the day 
 That saw my solitary birth ? 
 
 Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill; 
 
 But know me all I was br.fore, 
 Thy lister friend Zuleika still.
 
 152 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 
 . If thou hast cause for vengeance, see . 
 My breast is ofler'd take thy fill ! 
 Far better with the dead to be 
 Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
 Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
 Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
 And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
 For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
 If not thy sister vvouldst thou save 
 My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 
 
 XII. 
 
 "My slave, Zuleika ! nay, I'm thine-- 
 
 Rut, gentle love, this transport calm. 
 Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 
 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
 So may the Koran 29 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 tic is widen'd, not divided, 
 
 Although thy sire 's my deadliest foe. 
 My father was to Giaffir all 
 
 That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall, 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a like return may meet. 
 He rear'd me, not with tender help, 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain ; J0 
 lie watch'd me like a lion's whelp, 
 
 That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 
 
 My father's blood in every vein 
 Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take ; 
 
 Though here I must no more remain. 
 But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
 How Gaffir wrought this deed of fear. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " How first their strife to rancour grew, 
 
 If love or envy made them iocs, 
 It matters little if I knew ; 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
 In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
 And Paswan's 31 rebel hordes attest 
 How little love they bore such guest: 
 His death is all I need relate, 
 The stern effect of Giaffir's hate 
 ^nd how my birth disclosed to me, 
 What'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " When Pdswan, 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 ' 2 to the wind, 
 
 And, mustering in Sophia's plain, 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign "d ; 
 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
 What need of words '/ the deadly bowl, 
 
 By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
 With venom, sub'-le as his soul, 
 
 Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one draught, 33 nor needed more ! 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
 Call Haroun he can tell it out. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 
 In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 
 
 Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd : 
 
 Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man 
 
 Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
 
 By him a brother's murder stain'd ; 
 
 'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
 
 His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
 
 Would'st question whence? Survey the waste, 
 
 And ask the squalid peasant how 
 
 His gains repay his broiling brow ? 
 
 Why me the stern usurper spared, 
 
 Why thus with me his palace shared, 
 
 I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
 
 And little fear from infant's force ; 
 
 Besides, adoption as a son 
 
 By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
 
 Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
 
 Preserved me thus ; but not in peace : 
 
 He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
 
 Nor I forgive a father's blood. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Within thy father's house are foes 5 
 
 Not all who break his bread are true : 
 To these should I my birth disclose, 
 
 His days, his very hours were few. 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Haroun only knows, or knew 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
 
 And held that post in his Serai 
 
 Which holds he here he saw him die 
 But what could single slavery do ? 
 Avenge his lord ! alas ! too late ; 
 Or save his son from such a fate ? 
 He chose the last, and when elale 
 
 Wilh 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 mv birth secured 
 
 From all and each, but most from m , 
 Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 
 
 Removed he too from Roumebe
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 153 
 
 To this our Asiatic side, 
 
 Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 
 
 With none but Haroun, who retains 
 Such knowledge and the Nubian feels 
 
 A tyrant's secrets are but chains 
 From which the captive gladly steals, 
 And this and more to me reveals: 
 Such still to guilt just Alia sends 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices no friends! 
 
 XVII. 
 "All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 
 
 But harsher still my tale must be: 
 Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet is it one I oft have worn, 
 
 And long must wear: this Galionge'e, 
 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 check more pale: 
 Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, 
 The hands that wield are not remote; 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd once quaflPd, they ne'er repine: 
 Our Prophet might forgive the slaves; 
 
 They're only infidels in wine. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "What could I be? Proscribed at home, 
 And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
 And listless left for Giafflr's fear 
 Denied the courser and the spear 
 Though oft Oh, Mahomet! how oft! 
 In full Divan the despot scofTd, 
 As if my weak unwilling hand 
 Kefused 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 endearM, 
 Though it unmanned me, still had cheer'd 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 Awaited'st there the field's event. 
 Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 
 
 Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
 His captive, though with dread resigning, 
 
 My thraldom for a season broke, 
 On promise to return before 
 The day when Giafflr's charge was o'er, 
 'Tis vain my tongue cannot impart 
 My almost drunkenness of heart, 
 When first this liberated eye 
 Survey'd earth, ocean, sun, and sky, 
 As if my spirit pierced them through, 
 And all their inmost wonders knew I 
 One word alone can paint to thee 
 That more than feeling I was free! 
 E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 The world nay heaven itself was mine I 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "The shallop of a trusty Mocr 
 Convey'd me from this idle shore; 
 
 R 25 
 
 I longM to see the isles that gem 
 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 
 I sought by turns, and saw them nil ; ' 
 
 But when and where I join'd the crew, 
 With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall 
 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
 To tell thee when the tale's complete. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "'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 enterprise, 
 That never sees with terror's eyes; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
 And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than even my own intents. 
 And some and I have studied all 
 
 Distinguish 1 !.! 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 Kayabs * 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 11 ronm, 
 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 my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
 Across the desert, or before the gale, 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer, thou! 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; 
 The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! 
 Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call: 
 Soft as the melody of j'outhfnl days, 
 That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
 Dear as his native song to exile's ears, 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and band, 
 Wait wave defend destroy at thy command : 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride, 
 The haram's languid years of listless ease 
 Are well resign'd for cares for joys like these : 
 Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
 UnnumberM perils but one only love!
 
 BYRON'S \VORKS. 
 
 Vt t wt/.l in ; toils shall that fond breast repay, 
 
 Though fortune frown, or lalser friends betray. 
 
 flow ilear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
 
 Should all be changed, to And 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 ^very thought, do all but disunite ! 
 
 Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide : 
 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
 
 By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 
 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
 
 lie 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 sou! might err how oft the heart 
 
 Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
 
 And woman, more than man, when death or woe 
 
 Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 
 
 Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame 
 
 Away suspicion ! not Zuleika's name ! 
 
 But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
 
 No more remains to win, and much to fear : 
 
 Yes, fear ! the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
 
 By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. 
 
 That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
 
 Which love to-i:ht hath promised to mv sail : 
 
 No danger daunts Uie pair his smile hath blest. 
 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 
 
 Earth sea alike our world within our arms ! 
 
 Ay let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
 
 So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 
 
 The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 
 The wars of elements no fears impart 
 
 To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 
 
 There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
 
 Here moments menace there are years of wreck ! 
 
 But hence ye thoughts that rise in horror's shape ! 
 
 This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
 
 Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 
 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
 
 Yen foes to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 
 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " 1 [is head and faith from doubt and death 
 Return'd in time my guard to save ; 
 Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
 
 From isle to isle I roved the while : 
 
 And since, though parted from my band, 
 
 Too seldom now I leave the land, 
 
 No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 
 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 
 'T is fit I oflener share the toil. 
 
 But now too long I 've held thine ear ; 
 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
 
 <Ve leave behind bu> hate and fear 
 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives to-night must break thy chain: 
 And wouldst thou save that haughty Bev, 
 
 Perchance his life who gave thee thine, 
 With me this hour away away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
 Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
 Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head !" 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
 
 Stood like that statue of distress, 
 
 VN hrn, her last hope for ever gone, 
 
 The mother harden'd into stone ; 
 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 
 Was but a younger NioW. 
 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye. 
 
 Essay *d to speak, or look reply, 
 
 Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
 
 Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 
 
 Another and another and another 
 
 " Oh ! fly no more yet now my more than brcthar ' 
 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
 
 The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
 
 Nor these alone for each right hand 
 
 Is ready w-ith a sheathless brand. 
 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 
 With searching flambeau, shining steel; 
 
 And last of all, his sabre waving, 
 
 Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 
 
 And now almost they touch the cave 
 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Dauntless he stood " 'tis come soon past- 
 One kiss, Zuleika 't is my last : 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few the attempt were rash : 
 
 No matter yet one effort more." 
 Forth to the cavern mouth he slept ; 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high. 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept, 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! 
 " They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
 Then forth my father's scimitar, 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
 
 Farewell, Zuleika! Sweet! reljr*. 
 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. 
 
 Fear'st thou for him ? may I expire 
 
 If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
 No though by him that poison pour'd ; 
 No though again he call me coward ! 
 But tamely shall I meet their steel'.' 
 No as each crest save his may fet. ' 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the land : 
 Already at his feet hatk sunk
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
 Anotrier falls but round him close 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 From right to left his path he cleft, 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 His boat appears not five oars' length 
 His comrades strain with desperate strength 
 
 Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
 
 His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 His band are plunging in the bay, 
 Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
 Wet wild unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle now they touch the land ! 
 They come 't is but to add to slaughter 
 His heart's best blood is on the water ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
 
 Or scarcely grazed 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 doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
 How late win lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray; 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
 When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball 
 " So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 
 Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang 7 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 T is thine Abdallah's murderer ! 
 The father slowly rued thy hate, 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
 The whiteness of the sea- r oam troubling 
 If aught his lips essay'd jo groan, 
 The rushing billows choak'd the tone ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 Morn slowly rolls the 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 shiver'd brand : 
 Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 
 May there bo mark'd ; nor far remote 
 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach where shelving to the deep 
 
 Tnere lies a white capote ! 
 T is rent in twain one dark-red stain 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
 But where s he who wore ? 
 Ye ! who wonl-1 o'er his relics weep 
 Go, neek them where the surges sweep 
 Tlieir nurtnen round Sjg:r;um's steep, 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
 
 The sea-birds shriek above ihe prey, 
 O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
 As shaken on his restless pillow, 
 His head heaves with the heaving bilW , 
 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 shal. lie 
 
 Within a living grave? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate form 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die, 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone, * 
 That heart hath urst that eye was closed- 
 Yea closed before his own ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
 And woman's eye is wet man's cheek is pale : 
 Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race, 
 
 Thy destined lord is come too late ; 
 He sees not ne'er shall see thy face ! 
 
 Can he not hear 
 
 The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear? 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
 The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate, 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that wait 
 Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
 
 Tell him thy tale ! 
 Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
 
 That fearful moment when he left the cave 
 
 Thy heart grew chill : 
 
 He was thy hope thy joy thy love thine aft 
 And that last thought on him thou couldst not ?avo 
 
 Sufficed to kill ; 
 Burst forth in one wild cry and all was still. 
 
 Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
 Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
 That grief though deep though fatal was thy fir^l 
 Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
 Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
 And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies 
 The worm that will not sleep and never dies ; 
 Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
 That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
 That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 
 Ah ! wherefore not consume it and depart ! 
 Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
 Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
 Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread 
 By that same hand Abdallah Selim bled. 
 Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
 Thy pride of heart, thv 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 qnench'd its ray ? the blood that thou hast xht d ! 
 ETark ! to the hurried question of despair : 
 "Where is my child ?" an echo answers*' Wher '"" 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 That shine beneath, while dark abrr
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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 sky 
 
 May wring it from the stem in vain 
 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
 And waters with celestial tears ; 
 
 For well may maids of Helle deem 
 That this can be no earthly flower, 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
 Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sings 
 
 A bird unseen but not remote : 
 Invisible his airy wings, 
 But soft as harp that Houn strings 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
 T is sorrow so unmix' d with dread, 
 They scarce can bear the morn to break 
 
 That melancholv 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 inape and syllable its sound 
 
 Into Zuleika's name.* 3 
 T is from her cypress' summit heard, 
 That melts in air the liquid word : 
 T is from her lowly virgin earth 
 That white rose takes its tender birth. 
 There late wag laid a marble stone ; 
 Eve saw it placed the morrow gone ! 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
 For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
 Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; 
 Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
 Denied his bones a holier grave : 
 And there, by night, reclined, 't is said. 
 Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 
 Where first it lay that mourning flower 
 Hath tiourish'd ; flourjsheth this hour, 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
 \f weening beauty's clicek at sorrow's tale ! 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 146, line 8. 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom 
 "Gul," the rose. 
 
 Note 2. Page 146, line 17. 
 Can be smile on such deeds as his children have done 7 
 
 " Souls made of fire, and children of the sun. 
 With whom revenge is virtue." 
 
 Young'* Revengt. 
 
 Note 3. Page 147, bne 31. 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. 
 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of tn 
 East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 
 
 Note 4. Page 147, line 32. 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour. 
 Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
 noon, and twilight 
 
 Note 5. Page 147, line 108. 
 
 He a an Arab to my sight. 
 
 The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
 ment a hundred fold), even more than they hate the 
 Christians. 
 
 Note 6. Page 148, line 12. 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
 This expression has met with objections. I will not 
 refer to "him who hath not Music in his soul," but 
 merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds,, 
 the features of the woman whom he believes to be the 
 most beautiful ; and if he then does not comprehend 
 fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, 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 com- 
 parison excited by that analogy), between " painting 
 and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10. DE L'ALLEMAGKE. 
 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 ratber to be felt tnan described ; 
 still I think there are some who will understand it, at 
 least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- 
 tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea ; 
 for this passage is *iot drawn from imagination, but 
 memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the 
 earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- 
 holds the reflection multiplied ! 
 
 Note 7. Page 148, line 34. 
 
 But yet the line of Carasman. 
 
 Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is tne 
 principal landholder in Turkey : he governs Magnesia: 
 those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on 
 condition of service, are called Timariots : they serve 
 as Spah'is, according to the extent of territory, and 
 bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. 
 
 Note 8. Page 148, line 46. 
 And teach the messenger what fate. 
 When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
 single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the 
 order for his death, is strangled instead, und some- 
 times five or six, one after the other, on the same 
 errand, by command of the refractory patient ; if, on 
 the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kLs& the
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 157 
 
 Sultan's rerpectable signuiure, and is bowstrung with 
 groat complacency. In 1810, several of these presents 
 were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; 
 uno^a oihcis, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a 
 orave voung man, cut off by treachery, after a despe- 
 tate resistance. 
 
 Note 9. Page 148, line 65. 
 Thrice elapp'd his bands, and call'd bin Bleed. 
 Clapping of hands calls the servants. The Turks 
 nate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have 
 no bells. 
 
 Note 10. Page 148, line 66. 
 Resign'd his gem-adoro'd chibouque. 
 Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
 mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the 
 leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession 
 of the wealthier orders. 
 
 Note 11. Page 148, line 68. 
 With Maugrabee and Mamaluke. 
 Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 
 
 Note 12. Page 148, line 69. 
 His way amid his Delis took. 
 
 Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
 and always begin the action. 
 
 Note 13. Page 148, line 81. 
 
 Careering cleave the folded felt. 
 
 A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by 
 he Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through 
 tt at a single stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used 
 for the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt 
 javelins, animated and graceful. 
 
 Note 14. Page 148, line 84. 
 Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud 
 " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the Spanish 
 poets call them, the sound is OUah ; a cry of which the 
 Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, par- 
 ticularly during the jerreed, 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 
 amusing contrast. 
 
 Note 15. Page 148, line 103. 
 The Persian Atar-gul'i perfume. 
 "Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
 
 finest. 
 
 
 
 Note 16. Page 148, line 105. 
 The pictured roof and marble floor. 
 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
 Mussulman apartments arc generally painted, in great 
 houses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of 
 Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble 
 contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimitars, etc., 
 are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 
 
 Note 17. Page 148, line 121. 
 A message from the Bulbul bears. 
 It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
 "Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's 
 remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
 controversy is to the opinions of the ancients on the 
 "ibjecL I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
 though a little inclined to the " errare mallem," etc., 
 / Mr. Fox was mistaken. 
 B 2 
 
 Note 18. Page 149, line 34. 
 Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. 
 " Azrael" the angel of death. 
 
 Note 19. Page 149, line 67. 
 Within the caves of Ictakar. 
 
 The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. SeeD'Usa 
 BELOT, article Istakar. 
 
 Note 20. Page 149, line 83. 
 Holds not a Musselira's control. 
 
 Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; 
 a Waywode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 
 
 Note 21. Page 149, line 84. 
 Was he not bred in Egripo ? 
 
 Egripo the Negropont. According to the proverb, 
 the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and tho 
 Greeks of Athens, are the warst of their respective 
 races. 
 
 Note 22. Page 150, line 31. 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tcbocadar. 
 
 " Tchocadar" one of the attendants who precuks 
 a man of authority. 
 
 Note 23. Page 150, line 101. 
 Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashes 
 The wrangling about this epithet, "the broad Hel- 
 lespont " or the " boundless Hellespont," whether it 
 means one or the other, or what il means at all, has 
 been beyond all possibility of detail. I have even !._^.u 
 it disputed on the spot ; and, not foreseeing a speedy 
 conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with 
 swimming across it in the mean time, and probably 
 may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, tho 
 question as to the truth of " the tale of Troy divine " 
 still continues, much of it resting upon the talismanic 
 word "am/>of :" 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 attachment, simply 
 specifies three weeks. 
 
 Note 24. Page 150, line 112. 
 Which Ammon'e son ran proudly round. 
 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
 with laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
 calla in his race. It is believed that the last also 
 poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new 
 Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on 
 the tombs of -rEsietes and Antilochus j the first is in 
 the centre of the plain. 
 
 Note 25. Page 151, line 12. 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran. 
 
 When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
 which is slight, but not disagreeable. 
 
 Note 26. Page 151, line 15. 
 Her mother's sainted amulet 
 
 The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or incloeod 
 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 chap, 
 of the Koran describes the attributes of the mostHi-;h 
 and is engraved in this manner, and wom by me pioii*, 
 as the mo*t esteemed and sublime of all seii-'juv*.
 
 '58 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Page 151, line IS. 
 And I r her Comboloio lies. 
 
 u Combo 010" a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- 
 jcularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
 illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter igno- 
 rance ; but many of the Turkish girls are highly ac- 
 complished, though not actually qualified for a Chris- 
 tian coterie ; perhaps some of our own " blues" might 
 tot be the worse for bleaching. 
 
 Note 23. Page 151, line 96. 
 la him wa some young Galkxtgee. 
 Galiongee" or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- 
 ii* sailor ; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the 
 guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the 
 Captain Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of 
 ineug. Their legs, however, are generally naked. The 
 buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with 
 silver, are those of an Arnaout robber, who was my 
 host (he had quitted the profession), at his Pyrgo, near 
 Gastouni in the Morea ; they were plated in scales one 
 orer the other, like the back of an armadillo. 
 
 Note 29. Page 152, line 18. 
 So may the Koran verse displayed. 
 The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- 
 times the name of the place of their manufacture, but 
 more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. 
 Amongst those in my possession is 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 
 old it, what possible use such a figure could add : he 
 aid, in Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussul- 
 mans had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
 wound ; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." I 
 did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its 
 peculiarity. 
 
 Note ). Page 152, line 33. 
 But like the nephew f a Cain. 
 
 It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing 
 or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or 
 Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; 
 indeed the former profess to be much better acquainted 
 with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than 
 is warranted by our own Sacred writ, and not content 
 with Adam, they have a biography of Pre- Adamites. 
 Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a 
 prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet, Zuleika 
 M the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour 
 with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in tJieir 
 ansuage. It is therefore no violation of costume to put 
 .he names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 
 
 Note 31. Page 152, line 49. 
 And Pagwan's rebel hordes attest. 
 Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last 
 *ars of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at 
 nee. 
 
 Note 32. Page 152, fine 61. 
 They gave their horsetails to the wind. 
 H >rseiau, jic standard of a Pacha. 
 
 Note 33. Page 152, line 74. 
 He drank ooe draught, nor needed more ! 
 , Pacha of Argvro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 
 
 sure which, was actually taken off by the A!">anian 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 thfl 
 cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by 
 the bath-keeper, after dressing. 
 
 Note 34. Page 153, line 64. 
 I sought by turns, and saw them all. 
 The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
 to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 
 
 Note 35. Page 153, line 87. 
 The last of Lambro's patriots there. 
 Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts m 
 1789-90 for the independence of his country: aban- 
 doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
 Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said 
 to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Riga are the two 
 most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 
 
 Note 36. Page 153, line 91. 
 To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 
 " Rayahs," all who pay the capitation tax, called th 
 " Haratch." 
 
 Note 37. Page 153, line 95. 
 Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 
 This first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
 Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 
 
 Note 3S. Page 153, line 96. 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home. 
 The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Tuiko- 
 ninns, ill be found well detailed in anv hook of Eastern 
 travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself can- 
 not be denied. A young French renegado confessed to 
 Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, gal- 
 loping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to 
 rapture, which was indescribable. 
 
 Note 39. Page 153, line 116. 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
 " Jannat al Aden," the perpetual anode, the Mussrl- 
 man Paradise. 
 
 Note 40. Page 155, line 73. 
 And mouin'd above his turban-stone. 
 A turban is carved in stone above the giaves of men 
 only. 
 
 41. Page 155, line 87. 
 The loud \Vul wulleh warn his distant ear. 
 The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent 
 slaves " are the men whose notions of decorum forbid 
 complaint in public. 
 
 Note 4-2. Page 155, line 123. 
 
 " Where is my child ? " an echo answers " Where ? 
 " I came to the place of my birth and cried, ' t)i 
 friends of my youth, where are they ? ' and an Eclo 
 answered, ' where are they ? ' " 
 
 From on Arabic MS. 
 
 The above quotation (from which the idea in the text 
 is taken) must be already familiar to even- reader it is 
 given in the first annotation, page 67, of "the Pleasures 
 of Memory;" a poem so well kniwnasto rendei a 
 reference almost superfluous; but to whose ragei iF 
 will be delighted to recur.
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Note 43. Pige 15, line 47. 
 
 into ZrkakA'i name. 
 
 * Aid airy toncuM tXu *yb*Xe meo'i name*." 
 MJLTON. 
 
 For a belief that the sou's of L 1 ^ ,4<d inhabit the form 
 rftxnfci, we ceed not travel to the turt. Lord Lyttleton's 
 ghr^tsuty; the belief of the Ducht*. of Kendal, that 
 we< rfe L flew into her window in the &ipe of a raven 
 
 (see (Word's R 
 
 ), and many other iucuui 
 
 ces, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singu- 
 lar was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, betievint 
 her daughter to exist in the shape jf a singing-bird, fir 
 erally furnished her pew in the Cathedral with cages-fii 
 of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress iii 
 beautifying the church, no objection wa* maue to hth 
 harmless folly. For this anecdote, see (Word's Letteta, 
 
 Cfie Corsair; 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 I mat pensieri in hn dormir i 
 
 TASSO, Canto du.au, Genialemme Literal*. 
 
 THOIVIAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 
 own that I feel anxious to avaif and barren rock on which they are kindled. 
 
 MY DEAR MOORE, 
 
 I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I 
 hall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
 for come years; and I 
 myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning 
 my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public 
 principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. 
 While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
 triots : while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
 estimation, and Britain repeats and ratines the decree, 
 permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint- 
 ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
 to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to 
 the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
 to you, that I hare neither forgotten the gratification 
 derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
 of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
 you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
 is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
 engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will 
 be laid in the East : none can do those scenes so much 
 justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
 cent and fiery spirit of 
 her daughters, may there be foun*; and Collins, when 
 he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not 
 aware how true, at least, was a part ofhis parallel. Your 
 imagination will create a wanner sun, and less clouded 
 sky ; but wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part 
 of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
 have already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
 the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 
 
 Mayl add a few words on a subject on which all men 
 are supposed to be fluent, and qpne agreeable? SeML 
 I have written much, and published more than enough 
 10 demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but for 
 some years to come it is my intention to tempt no 
 Ln her the award of " gods, men, nor columns." In 
 the present composition I have attempted not the most 
 difficult, but, perhaps, the best-adapted measure to our 
 anguage, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet, 
 The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified 
 for narrative ; thougn I confess, A is the measure mo* 
 
 after my own heart: Scott alone, of the pi 
 
 ration, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fata) 
 facihty of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least 
 victory ofhis 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 
 
 The heroic 
 
 couplet is not the most popular measure certainly ; but 
 as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
 what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
 further apology, and take my chance once more with 
 that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
 nothing but compositions whose former circulation isi 
 part of my present and will be of my futuK- regret. 
 
 With regard to my story, and stories m 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 fes 
 responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
 been personal. Be it so if I have deviated arto 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 
 
 but I cannot help a little suprue, and perhaps 
 ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the presenr 
 instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, 
 I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
 from aD participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
 nevertheless, might be found with little more morality 
 than "The Giaour," and perhaps but no 4 most admit 
 Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as 
 to his identity, those who like it must give him wbuevnr 
 alias" they please. 
 
 If, however, it were worth white to remove the mv 
 presskm, it might be of some service to me, that the mast 
 who is alike the delight of his readers and his friend*, 
 the poet of all circles, and the idol ofhis own, pernito 
 me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself 
 
 most truly, and affectionately, 
 iis obedient servant, 
 
 BYKO.N 
 January 2, 1814.
 
 160 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 - nessun maggior doloro, 
 Che r jordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 I. 
 
 ' O'ER the glad waters of the dark-blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire and behold our home ! 
 
 These are our realms, no limits to their sway 
 
 Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 
 Durs 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 whose heart hath tried, 
 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
 
 The exulting sense the pulse's maddening play, 
 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
 
 And where the feebler faint can only feel 
 
 Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
 
 Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
 
 No dread of death if with us die our foes 
 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
 
 Come when it will we snatch the life of life ; 
 
 When lost what recks it by disease or strife ? 
 
 Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, 
 
 Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
 
 Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
 
 Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
 
 While gasp by gasp he 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 are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
 
 When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 
 For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
 
 In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
 
 When those who win at length divide the prey, 
 
 And cry remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
 
 How had the brave who fell exulted now .'" 
 
 II. 
 
 Su^h were the notes that from the pirate's isle, 
 
 Around the kindling watch-fire rang ijie while ; 
 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'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 tue boat, replace the helm or oar, 
 
 While otheis straggling muse along the shore ; 
 
 ti'or tue wild bird the busy springes set, 
 
 I ir Hpread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
 
 Gaze where some distant ?--i ! a peck 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 spcil : 
 
 No matter where their chief's allotment this, 
 
 Theirs tc believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
 
 But who that CHIEF? His name on every shor* 
 
 Is famed and fear'd they ask and know no more. 
 
 With these he mingles not but to command : 
 
 Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
 
 Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 
 
 But they forgive his silence for success. 
 
 Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
 
 That goblet passes him untasted still 
 
 And for his fare the rudest of his crew 
 
 Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 
 
 Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roo' 
 
 And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 
 With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 
 His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
 
 " Steer to that shore!" they sail. "Do this! " 't is d"wr 
 
 "Now form and follow me !" the spoil is won. 
 
 Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
 
 And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
 
 To such brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 III. 
 
 "A sail! a sail !" a promised prize to hope 
 
 Her nation flag how speaks the telescope ? 
 
 No prize, alas ! but yet a welcome sail : 
 
 The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
 
 Yes she is ours a home-returning bark 
 
 Blow fair, thou breeze ! she anchors ere the dark. 
 
 Already doubled is the cape our bay 
 
 Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
 
 How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
 
 Her white wings flying never from her foes 
 
 She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
 
 And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
 
 Who would not brave the battle- fire the wreck 
 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
 
 The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swing*: 
 
 And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stem. 
 
 'T is mann'd the oars keep concert to the strand, 
 
 Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
 
 Hail to the welcome shout ! the friendly speech ! 
 
 When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
 
 The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
 
 And the heart's promise of festivity ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd : 
 The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
 And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard 
 Friends' husbands' lovers' names in each deal v*a 
 " Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success 
 But shall we see them 9 will their accents bless? 
 From where the batUe roars the billows chafe- 
 They doubtless boldly died but w.' o are tale 't
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Ifi 
 
 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
 And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Where is our chief? for him we bear re[>ort 
 
 Acd doubt that joy which hails our coming short ; 
 
 Yet thus sincere 't is cheering, though so brief; 
 
 But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
 
 Out greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 
 
 And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
 
 Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
 
 To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 
 
 By bushy brake, and wild-flowers blossoming, 
 
 And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
 
 Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
 
 Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
 
 From crag to cliff they mount Near yonder cave, 
 
 What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
 
 In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
 
 Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand. 
 
 "'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 know'st his mood, 
 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Him Juan sought, and told of their intent 
 He spake not but a sign express'd assent. 
 These Juan calls they come to their salute 
 He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
 "These letters, Chief, are from the Greek the spy, 
 Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
 Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, 
 M irh that" "Peace, peace !" He cuts their pratin; 
 
 short. 
 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
 Conjectur^ whispers in his muttering speech : 
 They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
 To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
 But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
 Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
 He read the scroll "My tablets, Juan, hark 
 Where is Gonsalvo 7" 
 
 "In the anchor'd bark." 
 " There let him stay to him this order bear. 
 Back to your duty for my course prepare : 
 Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
 "To-night, Lord Conrad?" 
 
 "Ay! at set of sun: 
 
 The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
 My corslet cloak one hour and we are gone. 
 Sling on thy bugle see that, free from rust, 
 My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
 Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
 And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
 This let the armourer with speed dispose ; 
 Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
 Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired 
 To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 
 
 vm. 
 
 They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
 Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
 Vet they repine not so that Conrad guides ; 
 A"d w to dare question aught that he decides ? 
 26 
 
 That man of loneliness and mystery, 
 Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sioh 
 Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
 And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue 
 Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
 That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
 What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
 Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? 
 What should it be, that thus their faith can bind * 
 The power of Thought the magic of the Mind ! 
 Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
 That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
 Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown 
 Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his owti. 
 Such hath it been shall be beneath the sun 
 The many still must labour for the one ! 
 'T is Nature's doom but let the wretch who toils 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
 Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
 How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
 
 Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 
 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire 
 
 Robust, but not Herculean to the sight 
 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
 
 They gaze and marvel how and still confess 
 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 
 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 limes attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 
 As if within that murkiness of mind, 
 
 Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined 
 
 Such might it be that none could truly tell 
 
 Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 
 The full encounter of his searching eye ; 
 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought than drag that chiePs to-day. 
 
 There was a laughing devil in his sneer, 
 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear , 
 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 
 3ope withering fled and Mercy sigh'd farewell ' 
 
 X. 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
 iVithin within 't was there the spirit wrought 
 Love shows all changes Hate, ambition, guile 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
 Along the govern'd aspect, sf>eak alone 
 3f deeper passions ; and to judge their mien. 
 ie, who would see, must b<. liinis.nl onsee.
 
 16? 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Tliei Vith the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
 The clcrcli-.il hand, the pause of agony, 
 Thai listens., starting, lest the step too near 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
 Then with each feature working from the heart, 
 With feelinjjs loosed to strengthen not depart: 
 That rise convulse contend that freeze, or glow, 
 Mush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
 Then stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
 Behold his soul the rest that soothes his lot ! 
 Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
 The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
 Behold but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
 Man as himself the secret spirit free ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by nature sent 
 
 To lead the guilty guilt's worst instrument ; 
 
 His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
 
 Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
 
 Jn words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
 
 Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
 
 And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
 
 Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
 
 Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
 
 Fear'd shunn'd belied ere youth had lost her force, 
 
 He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
 
 And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
 
 To pay the injuries of some on all. 
 
 He knew himself a villain but he deem'd 
 
 The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; 
 
 And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
 
 Tho^e deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 
 He knew himself detested, but he knew 
 
 The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded too. 
 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
 
 From all affection and from all contempt : 
 
 His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
 
 But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
 
 Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
 
 The first may turn but not avenge the blow ; 
 
 The last expires but leaves no living foe ; 
 
 Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
 
 And he may crush not conquer still it stings ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 None are all evil quickening round his heart, 
 
 One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
 
 Ofl could hi 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 soueht. but coldly pass'd them by ; 
 
 Thougn n.anv a beauty croop'd in prison'd bower 
 
 None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
 
 Yes it was love if thoughts of tenderness, 
 
 IViod in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
 
 Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
 
 And yet Oh more than all ! untired by time ; 
 
 Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile 
 
 Could render sullen were she near to sirule. 
 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 
 On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
 
 Which still would meet with joy, with calmness pait, 
 
 Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
 
 Which nought removed, nor menaced to remoi ; 
 
 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 on i 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He paused a moment I ill his hastening men 
 
 Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
 
 " Strange tidings ! many a peril have I past, 
 
 Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
 
 Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
 
 Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
 
 'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 
 Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
 
 And, if my plan but hold, and fortune smile, 
 
 We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral-p'le. 
 
 Ay let them slumber peaceful be the'r dreams ! 
 
 Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beam:* 
 
 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 auuh' they seek to save. 
 
 This common courage which with brutes we sht c, 
 
 That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
 
 Small merit claims but 't was my nobler hop* 
 
 To teach my fe with numbers still to cope ; 
 
 Long have I led them not to vainly bleed ; 
 
 ^o medium now we perish or succeed ! 
 
 So let it be it irks not me to die ; 
 
 But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
 
 My lot hath long had little of my care, 
 
 But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare ; 
 
 Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
 
 Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
 
 3h, fate ! accuse thy folly, not thy fate 
 
 She may redeem thee still nor yet too late." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 Be reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hil 
 There at the portal paused for wild and soft 
 He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
 Through the high lattice far yet sweet they runji 
 And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 
 
 Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
 Lonely and lost to light for evermore. 
 Save when to thine my heart responsive swells 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 2. 
 " 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 ' had sever oeen.
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 * Remembei i.,e Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
 Without ono the. 'ght whose relics there recline : 
 
 The only pang m\ bosom dare not brave 
 Must be to find c orgotfulness in thine. 
 
 4. 
 
 " My fondest faintest latest accents hear : 
 Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ; 
 
 Then give me all I ever asked a tear, 
 
 Thj first last sole reward of so much love!" 
 
 He pass'd the portal cross'd the corridore, 
 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 u glad? 
 Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
 Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
 My heart unhush'd although my lips were mute ! 
 Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
 My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
 And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 
 Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
 That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon-fire, 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
 And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
 And morning came and still thou wert afar. 
 Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
 And still I gazed and gazed and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears my truth my vow ! 
 At length 't was noon I hail'd and blest the mast 
 That met my sight it near'd Alas ! it past ! 
 Another came Oh God ! 't was thine at last ! 
 Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
 Mv Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth ; and many a home 
 As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
 Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
 I only tremble when thou art not here : 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
 Which flies from love and languishes for strife 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
 Should war with nature and its better will!" 
 
 "Yes, strange indeed, that heart hath long been changed; 
 
 Worm-like 't was trampled adder-like avenged, 
 
 Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
 
 And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
 
 Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
 
 My very love to thee is hate to them, 
 
 So closely mingling here, that, disentwined, 
 
 I cease to love thee when I love mankind. 
 
 Yet dread not this the proof of all the past 
 
 Assures the future that my love will last ; 
 
 But Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 
 
 This hour again but not for long we part." 
 
 "This hour we part! my heart foreboded this: 
 Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
 This hour i'. cannot be this hour away ! 
 1 on earn nain hardly anchored in the bay : 
 
 Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
 Have need of rest before they toil anew ; 
 I My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst stw 
 ' My breast before the time when it must feel 
 But trifle now no more with my distress, 
 Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
 Be silent, Conrad ! dearest ! come and share 
 The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
 Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
 See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 
 And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleas'd, I guessK 
 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 trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
 Shall soothe or lull or, should it vex thine ear, 
 We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 1 
 Why thou wert worse than he who broke his vort 
 To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
 Or even that traitor chief I 've seen thee smile, 
 When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
 Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
 And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
 Lest time shpuld raise that doubt to more than dreaa 
 Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main 
 And he deceived me for he came again !" 
 
 " Again again and oft again my love ! 
 
 If there be life below, and hope above, 
 
 He will return but now, the moments bring 
 
 The time of parting with redoubled wing : 
 
 The why the where what boots it now to tell ? 
 
 Since all must end in that wild word farewell ! 
 
 Yet would I fain-i 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 dishevell'd charms ; 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image awelt 
 So full that feehng seem'd almost unfelt ' 
 Hark peals the thunder of the signal-gun : 
 It told 't was sunset and he cursed that sun. 
 Again again that form he madly press'd : 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd '
 
 164 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ana. 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? 
 
 XV. 
 
 "And is he gone?" on sudden solitude 
 
 How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
 
 " 'T was but an instant past and here he stood ! 
 
 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 howe'er 
 
 We promise hope believe there breathes despair, 
 
 O'er every feature of that still pale face, 
 
 Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase ; 
 
 The tender blue of that large loving eye 
 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
 
 Till Oh, how far ! it caught a glimpse of him, 
 
 And then it flow'd and phrensied seem'd to swim 
 
 Through these long, dark, and glistening lashes, dew'd 
 
 With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 
 "He 's gone !" against her heart that hand is driven, 
 
 Convulsed and quick then gently raised to heaven ; 
 
 She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
 
 The white sail set she dared not look again ; 
 
 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate 
 
 *' It is no dream and I am desolate !" 
 
 XVI. 
 
 From crag to crag descending swiftly sped 
 Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 
 But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
 Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
 His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
 That 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 sea-boy on the mast 
 The anchor's rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
 The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
 That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
 And, more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
 He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
 Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
 He feels of all his former self possest ; 
 He bounds he flics until his footsteps reach 
 The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
 Theio check his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
 The brertZ" leshness of the deep beneath, 
 Than there nis wonted statelier step renew ; 
 Noi rush, d-isturli'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
 
 'or well had Conrad learn'd to curb .he crowd, 
 Jy arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
 lis was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
 That seems to shun the sight and awes if seen 
 [fie solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
 That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
 
 All these he wielded to command assent : 
 Jut 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, 
 Vhen echoed to the heart as from his own 
 lis deep yet tender melody of tone : 
 But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
 cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 
 
 The evil passions of his youth had made 
 3im value less who loved than what obey'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Around him mustering ranged his ready guard ; 
 Before him Juan stands "Are all prepared?" 
 " They are nay more embark'd : the latest boat 
 
 Waits but my chief " 
 
 " My sworl and my capote." 
 So firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung. 
 
 Call Pedro here !" He comes and Conrad beiu! 
 With all 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 : 
 [n three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
 On our return till then all peace be thine !" 
 This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
 Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
 Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
 Around the waves, phosphoric 2 brightness broke ; 
 They gain the vessel on the deck he stands ; 
 Shrieks the shrill whistle ply the busy hands- 
 He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
 How gallant all her crew and deigns to praise. 
 His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn 
 Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
 Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
 She his Medora did she mark the prow ! 
 Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
 But much must yet be done ere dawn of day 
 Again he mans himself and turns away; 
 Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
 And there unfolds his plan his means and en*U ; 
 Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the cha_^. 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
 They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
 To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isUi, 
 To gain their port long long ere morning smilt 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow fiay 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 Count they each sail and mark how there <upm 
 The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shiim. 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow passM by 
 And anchor' d where his ambush mcatu to i.e ;
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 Then rose his band to duty not from sleep 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
 While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
 And calrruy talk'd and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Conosceste i dubiosi desiri ? 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
 Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
 For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
 A feast for promised 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'<l prows collect along the coast, 
 And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
 Already shared the captives and the prize, 
 Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
 'T is but to sail no doubt to-morrow's sun 
 Will see the Pirates bound their haven won ! 
 Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
 Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill ; 
 Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
 To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 
 How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave- 
 To bare the sabre's edge hefore 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. 
 
 n. 
 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
 Around the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff 
 Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff, 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice, 3 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslem's use ; 
 The long Chibouque's 4 dissolving cloud supply, 
 While dance the Almas s to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
 But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
 And revellers may more securely sleep 
 On silken couch, than o'er the nigged 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. 
 
 HI. 
 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gafo, 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
 Bows his bent head his hand salutes the floor, 
 Lre yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
 S 
 
 "A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped is here himself would tcl! the rest." 
 Be 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, 
 And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
 Vow'd to his God his sable locks he wore, 
 And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
 Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
 And wrapt a breast bcstow'd on heaven alone ; 
 Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
 He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
 And question of his coming fain would seek, 
 Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Whence com'st thou, Dervise ?" 
 
 " From the outlaw's den 
 A fugitive" 
 
 " Thy capture where and when ?" 
 " From 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. 
 [ had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight: 
 [ seized the hour, and find my safety here 
 With thee most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ?" 
 
 " How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
 Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard? 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ?" 
 
 "Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye 
 
 That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
 
 [ only heard the reckless waters roar, 
 
 Those waves that would not bear me from the shore j 
 
 I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
 
 Too bright too blue for my captivity ; 
 
 And felt that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
 
 Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
 
 This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
 
 They little deem of aught in peril'? shape ; 
 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chancfi 
 
 That leads me here if eyed with vigilance : 
 
 The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
 
 May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 
 
 Pacha! my limbs are faint and nature craves 
 
 Food for my hunger, rest from tossing w-^ves ; 
 
 Permit my absence peace be with thee ! Peacs 
 
 With all around! now grant repose release." 
 
 " Stay, Dervise ! I hav^ more to question stay, 
 I do command thee sit dost hear ? obey ! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring , 
 Thou shall not pine where all an; banqueting . 
 The supper done prepare thee to repiy, 
 Clearly and full I love not mystery." 
 
 'T were vain to guess what shook the pious inau. 
 Wholook'dnot lovingly on that Divan;
 
 .66 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest, 
 And less respect for every fe.low-guesL 
 'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
 Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
 He sate him down in silence, and his look 
 Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
 The feast was usher'd in but sumptuous fare 
 He shunn'd, as if some poison mingled there. 
 For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
 Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
 " What ails thee, Dervise ? eat dost thou suppose 
 This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes ? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties and my food is still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
 And my stern vow and order's c laws oppose 
 To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
 It may seem strange if there be aught to dread, 
 That peril rests upon my single head ; 
 But for thy sway nay more thy Sultan's throne, 
 I taste nor bread, nor banquet save alone ; 
 Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
 To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 
 
 " Well as thou wilt ascetic as thou art 
 
 One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
 
 How many ? Ha ! it cannot sure be day ! 
 
 What star what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
 
 It shines a lake of fire ! away away! 
 
 Ho! treachery! my guards ! my scimitar. 
 
 The galleys feed the flames and I afar ! 
 
 Accursed Dervise ! these thy tidings thou 
 
 Some villain spy seize cleave him slay him now !' 
 
 Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
 Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
 Up rose that Dervise not in saintly garb, 
 But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away 
 Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
 His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
 More, glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
 Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
 Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
 The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
 Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
 The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell 
 For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
 Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
 Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
 Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
 Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
 They seize that Dervise ! seize on Zatanai ! * 
 He saw their terror check'd the first despair 
 That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
 Smr<- far too early and too well obey'd, 
 The llame was kindled ere the signal made _ 
 He saw their terror from his baldric drew 
 His nugle brief the blast but snriliy blew; 
 T is ;inswer'd " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
 Whj <lid I douht their quickness of career? 
 Arid iitwi H0et^o bad left me single here?" 
 
 Sweeps his long arm -thr* sabre's whirling sw,-y 
 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
 
 Completes his fury, what their fear began, 
 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head: 
 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, surprm 
 
 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 thrcwr 
 
 The sword aside in vain the blood o'erflows ! 
 
 The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within 
 
 Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
 
 Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
 
 Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
 
 They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
 
 A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
 
 But short their greeting shorter his reply 
 
 " 'T is well but Seyd escapes and he must dio. 
 
 Much hath been done but more remains to Ho 
 
 Their galleys blaze why not their city too ?" 
 
 V. 
 
 Quick at the word they seize him each a torch, 
 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 
 A stem delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
 
 But sudden sunk for on his ear the cry 
 
 Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yeH. 
 
 " Oh ! burst the Haram wrong not on your live* 
 
 One female form remember we have wives. 
 
 On them such outrage vengeance will repay ; 
 
 Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : 
 
 But still we spared must spare the weaker prey 
 
 Oh ! I forgot but Heaven will not forgive 
 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live ; 
 
 Follow who will I go we yet have time 
 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 
 He climbs the crackling stair he bursts the door, 
 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
 
 His breath choak'd gasping with the volumed smoko 
 
 But still from room to room his way he broke. 
 
 They search they find they save : with lusty am. 
 
 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 Styd 1 
 
 VI 
 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,' 
 
 Few words to reassure the trembling f" a ' r i 
 
 For in that pause compassion snatch'd from wam 
 
 The foe, before retiring fast and far, 
 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursucd, 
 
 First slowlier fled then rallied then withstand.
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
 
 Comoared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
 
 And blusnes 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 olf cleft down and trampled o'er ; 
 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
 
 And sinks ^outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But first ere came the rallying host to blows, 
 And rank to rank and hand to hand oppose/ 
 Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
 Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
 By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
 And dried those tears for life and flame 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 smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
 T was strange that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
 The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 " The wish is wrong nay, worse for female, vain : 
 Yot much I long to view that chief again ; 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
 The life my loving lord remember'd not!" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
 
 But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
 
 Far from his band, and battling with a host 
 
 That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
 
 Fell'd bleeding baffled of the death he sought, 
 
 And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain ; 
 
 While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new 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 ! 
 
 'T is he indeed disarm'd but undeprest, 
 
 His sole regret the life he still possest ; 
 
 Kis wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
 
 Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 
 
 f)h ! were there none, of all the many given, 
 
 To send his soul he scarcely ask'd to heav'n ? 
 
 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 whee., 
 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
 
 Of lingering tortures to repay the debt 
 
 He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
 
 That led to perpetrate now serves to hide. 
 
 Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
 
 A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen : 
 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening \vouno, 
 
 But few that saw so calmly gazed around : 
 
 Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
 
 Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
 
 The better warriors who beheld him near, 
 
 Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
 
 And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
 
 In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The leech was sent but not in mercy there 
 
 To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
 
 He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
 
 And promise feeling for the wrench of pain: 
 
 To-morrow yea to-morrow's evening sun 
 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun. 
 
 And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne 
 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
 
 Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 
 While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
 
 " Oh ! water water !" smiling hate denies 
 
 The victim's prayer for if he drinks he dies. 
 
 This was his doom: the leech, the guard were gone, 
 
 And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 
 
 X. 
 
 'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew 
 It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
 There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
 When all its elements convulsed combined-- 
 Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
 And gnashing with impenitent remorse ; 
 That juggling fiend who never spake before- 
 But cries, " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o ei. 
 Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
 May writhe rebel the weak alone repent! 
 Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
 And, to itself, all all that self reveals, 
 No single passion, and no ruling thought 
 That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought , 
 But the wild prospect, when the soul reviews- 
 All rushing through their thousand avenues- 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
 Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
 The joy untasted, the contempt or hate ' 
 Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fats , 
 The hopeless past ; the hasting future driven 
 Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven 
 Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember d * 
 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
 
 168 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 
 Not cankering less because the more conceal'd 
 All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
 That opening sepulchre the naked heart 
 Bares with its huried woes, till pride awake, 
 To snatch the mirror from the soul and break. 
 Ay pride can veil, and courage brave it all, 
 All all before beyond the deadliest fall. 
 Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 
 The only hypocrite deserving praise; 
 Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies; 
 But he who looks on death and silent dies. 
 So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 
 He half-way meets him should he menace near. 
 
 XI. 
 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower, 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
 His palace perish'd in the flame this fort 
 Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but 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 
 Disguised, discovered, conquering, ta'en, condemn'd 
 A chief on land an outlaw on the deep 
 Destroying saving prison'd and asleep ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 He slept in calmest seeming for his breath 
 Was hush'd so deep Ah ! happy if in death ! 
 He slept Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 
 His foes are gone and here he hath no friends; 
 Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 
 No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face I 
 Its white arm raised a lamp yet gently hid, 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 And once unclosed but once may close again. 
 That form, with eye so" dark, and cheek so fair, 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; 
 With shape of fairy lightness naked foot, 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute 
 Through guards and dunnest night how came it there? 
 Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare, 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare? 
 She could not sleep and while the Pacha's rest 
 In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
 She left his side his signet-ring she bore, 
 Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before 
 
 And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
 Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
 Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
 Their eye? had envied Conrad his repose; 
 And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
 They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more ; 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
 Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep, 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep f 
 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 lair I" 
 
 "Pirate! thou know'st me not but I am one 
 Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done; 
 Look on me and rememher her, thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
 I come through darkness and I scarce know why 
 Yet not to hurt I would not see thee die." 
 
 " If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 
 That would not here in that gay hope delight: 
 Theirs is the chance and let them use their right. 
 But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine." 
 
 Strange though it seem yet with extremes! 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 nmiles; 
 And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
 Till even the scaffold te echoes with their jest! 
 Tet not the joy to which it seems akin 
 It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
 Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
 A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 
 And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
 As if the last he could to enjoy on earth ; 
 Yet 'gainst his nature for through that short life, 
 Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 '' Corsair! thy doom is named but I have power 
 
 To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
 
 Thee would I spare nay more would save thee now 
 
 But this time hope nor even thy strength allow; 
 
 But all I can, I will: at least, delay 
 
 The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
 
 More now were ruin even thyself were loth 
 
 The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 
 
 "Yes I loth indeed: my soul is nerved to all 
 Or fall'n too low to fear another fall ; 
 Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope, 
 Of flight from foes with whom I coold not cope;
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 16? 
 
 Unfit to vanquish shall I meanly fly, 
 
 The one of all my band that would not die 1 
 
 Vet there is one to whom my memory clings, 
 
 Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
 
 My sole resources in the path I trod 
 
 Were these my bark my sword my love my God! 
 
 The last I left in youth he leaves me now 
 
 And man but works his will to lay me low. 
 
 I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
 
 Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; 
 
 It is enough I breathe and 1 can bear. 
 
 My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
 
 That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
 
 My bark is sunk or captive but my love 
 
 For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
 
 Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind 
 
 And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
 
 And blight a form till thine appear'd, Gulnare ! 
 
 Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 
 
 " Thou lovest another then 1 but what to me 
 Is this 't is 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 methought thy love was his, for whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 
 
 " My love stern Seyd's ! Oh no no not my love 
 Vet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
 To meet his passion but it would not be. 
 J 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 i 
 Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
 Of ' Dost thou love T 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 chillM remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
 Yes had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
 The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
 But still he goes unmourn'd returns unsought 
 And oft when present absent from my thought. 
 Or when reflection comes and come it must 
 I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust ; 
 I am his slave but, in despite of pride, 
 T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
 Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
 Or seek another and give mine release, 
 But yesterday I could have said, to peace ! 
 Yes if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
 Remember captive ! 't is to break thy chain ; 
 Unpay 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 : 
 T will cost me dear but dread no dea'-h to day !" 
 a 2 27 
 
 XV. 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 
 
 And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 
 
 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
 
 And was she here 1 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 .' 
 
 What 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 1 
 
 The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
 
 Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 
 
 By this how many lose not earth but heaven ! 
 
 Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 
 
 And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'T is morn and o'er his alter'd features play 
 The beams without the hope of yesterday. 
 What shall he be ere night 1 perchance a thing 
 O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 
 By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
 While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
 Chill wet and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth reviving all but him ! 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Come vedi ancor non m' abbandona. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ^Egina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanst 
 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven , 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sieep. 
 
 On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
 That closed their murder'd sage's ' ' latest day 
 Not yet not yet Sol pauses on the hill 
 The precious hour, of parting lingers still ;
 
 170 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 But sad his light 10 agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: 
 Gloom o'er tre lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But, ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
 The cop 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. 14 
 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, 11 
 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 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. 1 * 
 
 II. 
 
 N"t now my theme why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
 
 Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
 
 So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
 
 Who that beheld that sun upon thee set, 
 
 Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
 
 Not be whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
 
 Spe'l- bound within the clustering Cyclades! 
 
 Nor seems this homage foreign' to his strain, 
 
 His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain 
 
 Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun hath sunk and, darker than the night, 
 Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
 Medora's heart the third day 's come and gone 
 With it he comes not sends not faithless one ! 
 The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none, 
 Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, 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 tfi:re she wan-Ier'd heedless of the spray 
 Thai dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
 She saw not felt not this nor dared depart, 
 Nor deem'd it cold her chill was at her heart ; 
 Till grew such certainty from that suspense 
 His NC--V sight had shock'd from life r 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 ki.e w. 
 In silence, darkling, each appeal 'd to wait 
 His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
 Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
 To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
 She saw at once, yet sunk not trembled not 
 Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 
 Within that meek fair form were feelings high, 
 That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
 While yet was Hope they soften' d flutter'd wept- 
 All lost that softness died not but it slept ; 
 And o'er its slumber rose that strength which said, 
 " With nothing left to love there 's nought to dread." 
 'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 
 Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 " Silent you stand nor would I hear you tell 
 
 What speak not breathe not for I know it well 
 
 Yet would I ask almost my lip denies 
 
 The quick your answer tell me where he lies." 
 
 " Lady ! we know not scarce with life we fled ; 
 
 But here is one denies that he is dead : 
 
 He saw him bound, and bleeding but alive." 
 
 She heard no further 't was in vain to strive 
 
 So throbb'd each vein each thought till then with 
 
 stood ; 
 
 Her own dark soul these words at once subdued : 
 She totters falls and senseless had the wave 
 Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
 But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
 They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
 Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
 Raise fan sustain till life returns anew ; 
 Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
 That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
 Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
 The tale too tedious when the triumph short. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
 With thoughts of ransom, 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 
 
 V. 
 
 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 r.ttmt 
 
 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 cre' 
 Sits triumph Conrad faken fiJl'n th- res*!
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 71 
 
 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 follow'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 Stamboul's diadem ; 
 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 
 Of wealth were here that gold should not redeem ! 
 
 It had not now redeem'd a single hour, 
 
 But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 
 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
 
 On pangs that longest rack and latest kill." 
 
 " Nay, Seyd ! I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
 Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
 My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
 His riches thus released, he were not free : 
 Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
 His capture could but wait thy first command." 
 
 " His capture couW .' and shall I then resign 
 One day to him the wretch already mine? 
 Release my foe ! at whose remonstrance ? thine ! 
 Fair suitor ! to thy virtuous gratitude, 
 That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
 No doubt regardless if the prize were fair, 
 My thanks and praise alike are due now hear ! 
 I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
 I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
 Of thine stamps truth on all suspicion heard. 
 Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai 
 Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
 Thou need's! not answer thy confession speaks, 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
 Then, lovely dame, betnuiR. inec ! and beware : 
 T is not MX life alone may claim such care ! 
 Another word and nay I need no more. 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 Thee from the flames, which better far but no 
 I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe 
 Now 't is thy lord that warns deceitful thing ! 
 Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 Look to thyself nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 
 
 He rose and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
 Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : 
 Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood 
 Wh'ch frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 
 When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
 flis doubts appear'd to wrong nor yet she knew 
 HDW deep the root fro-ri whence compassion grew 
 Khe was a slave from such may captives claim 
 A fellow- feeling, differing but in name ; 
 Still hall-unconscious heedless of his wrath, 
 Again ghf ventured on the dangerous path. 
 
 Again his rage repell'd until arose 
 
 That strife of thought, the- source of woman's woes ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Meanwhile long anxious weary still the same 
 Roll'd day and night his soul could terror tame 
 This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
 When every hour might doom him worse than dead. 
 When every step that echo'd by the gate, 
 Might entering lead where axe and stake await : 
 When every voice that grated on his ear 
 Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
 Could terror tame that spirit stern and high 
 Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
 'T was worn perhaps decay'd yet silent bore 
 That conflict deadlier far than all before : 
 The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
 Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
 But bound and fix'd in 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 ; 
 Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
 And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 
 Before the 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 ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 The first day pass'd he saw not her Gulnare 
 
 The second third and still she came not there ; 
 
 But what her words avouch'd, her charms had don*. 
 
 Or else he had not seen another sun. 
 
 The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
 
 Came storm and darkness in their mingling might ; 
 
 Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
 
 That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
 
 And his wild spirit' wilder wishes sent, 
 
 Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
 
 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
 
 And loved its roughness for the speed it gavt, , 
 
 And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
 
 A long-known voice alas! toe vainly nrar'. 
 
 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 mere genial than the midnight star . 
 
 Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain 
 
 And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
 
 He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
 
 One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
 
 His steel and impious prayer attract alike 
 
 The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to stnko .
 
 172 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Its peal wax d faia.er ceased he felt alone, 
 As if some fuithless frietd had spurn'd his groan ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The midnight pass'd and to the massy door, 
 A light step came it paused it moved once more : 
 Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
 '!' is as his heart forboded that fair she ! 
 VVhate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
 And beauteous stitl as hermit's hope can paint ; 
 Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
 More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
 Which spoke before her accents " thou must die ! 
 Yes. thou must die there is but one resource, 
 The last the worst if torture were not worse." 
 
 " Lady ! I look to none my lips proclaim 
 Wha^last proclaim'd they Conrad still the same 
 Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
 And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
 Well have I earn'd nor here alone the meed 
 Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 
 
 " Why should I seek? because Oh ! didst thou not 
 Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
 Why should I seek? hath misery made thee blind 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
 And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
 With all that woman feels, but should not tell 
 Because despite thy crimes that heart is moved: 
 It fear'd thee thank'd thee pitied madden'd loved. 
 R< ply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
 Tltou lov'st another and I love in vain ; 
 Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
 1 1 (ish through peril which she would not dare. 
 If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
 Were I (hine 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, 
 W ith these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! 
 Thou hast forgot is this a garb for flight? 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?" 
 
 " Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
 
 Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 
 A single word of mine removes that chain : 
 
 W ithout some aid, how here could I remain ? 
 
 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
 
 If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime: 
 
 The crime 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 
 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad he must bleed! 
 
 I see thee shudder but my soul is changed 
 
 W'ong'd spurn'd reviled and it shall be avenged 
 
 Act used of what till now my heart disdain'd 
 
 Toe faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
 
 Yes, mile ! hut he had little cause to sneer, 
 
 wiit not treacherous then nor thou too dear: 
 Bui he has said it and the jealous well, 
 Thoso tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
 Ocsoivo ih 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. 
 'T was false thou know'st but let such augurs rut 
 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 yonderrolls the sea ! 
 What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 
 To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 
 I saw thee loved thee owe thee all would save, 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 But had he not thus menaced fame and life 
 (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 
 I still had saved thee but the Pacha spared. 
 Now I am all thine own for ail prepared : 
 Thou lov'st me not nor know'st or but the worst, 
 Alas ! this love that hatred are the first 
 Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst wot 
 
 start, 
 
 Nor fear the fire that lights an eastern heart ; 
 'T is now the beacon of thy safety now 
 It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
 But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
 There sleeps he must not wake the oppressor Seyd f> 
 
 " Gulnare Gulnare I never felt till now 
 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
 
 From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
 
 To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
 
 Such is my weapon not the secret knife 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this 
 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well more peace be with thy breast! 
 
 Night wears apace my last of earthly rest !" 
 
 " Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake. 
 
 And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
 
 I heard the order saw I will not see 
 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
 
 My life my love my hatred all below 
 
 Are on this cast Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! 
 
 Without it flight were idle how evade 
 
 His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 
 My youth disgraced the long, long wasted years, 
 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 
 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 
 I '11 try tne firmness of a female hand. 
 
 The guards are gain'd one moment all were o'er 
 
 Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 
 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 
 Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 
 
 IX. 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could repiy, 
 But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
 His form, to curl their length, and curb their Round
 

 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 fcince bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 
 'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering shall he seek 
 
 Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
 
 Chance guides his steps a freshness seems to bear 
 
 Full on his brow, as if from morning air 
 
 He reach'd an open gallery on his eye 
 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
 
 Yet scarcely heeded these another light 
 
 From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
 
 Towards it he moved, a scarcely closing door 
 
 Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
 
 With hasty step a figure outward past, 
 
 Then paused and turn'd and paused 'tis she atlast! 
 
 No poniard in that hand nor sign of ill 
 
 "Thanks to that softening heart she could not kill!" 
 
 Again he iook'd, the .wildness of her eye 
 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 
 She stopp'd threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 
 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 
 They meet upon her brow unknown forgot 
 
 Her hurrying hand had left 't was but a spot 
 
 Its hue was ajl he saw, and scarce withstood 
 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime 't is blood ! 
 
 X. 
 
 He had seen battle h^iiad 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 guU'.y streak 
 
 Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
 
 Blood he had view'd could view unmoved but then 
 
 ft flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 "'Tis done he nearly waked but it is done. 
 Corsair ! he perish'd thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain away away ! 
 Our bark is tossing 't is already day. 
 The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
 And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
 Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
 When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 
 
 XII. 
 
 She clapp'd her hands and through the gallery pour, 
 Equipped for flight, her vassals Greek and Moor; 
 Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
 Once more his limbs are free as mountai wid ! 
 But on his heavy heart such 
 As if they there transferr'd t 
 No words are utter'd at her sigffj'a 'Joor 
 Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
 The city lies behind they speed, they reach 
 The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
 \nd Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
 Nor care4 he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
 
 Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
 Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew 
 How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
 Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
 Ah ! since that fatal night, though brief the time 
 Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
 As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
 He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; 
 He thought of all Gonsalvo and his band, 
 His fleeting triumph and his failing hand, 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
 He turn'd and saw Gulnare, the homicide ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
 Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
 And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, 
 Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
 She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest 
 "Thou may'st forgive, though Alla's self detest , 
 But for that deed of darkness, what wert 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." 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 nis 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 
 Bdkps harmless, hissing to the deep below 
 Ujofose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
 A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
 " 'T is mine my blood-red flag ! again agam- 
 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 deci, 
 Command nor duty could their transpoit 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 ' 
 
 XVI. 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow. 
 Yet grieve to win him back without a blow
 
 !74 
 
 * BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 They saiVd 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 Cinrad 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, 
 Shr 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 ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt ah! could he less? 
 Hate of that deed but grief for her distress ; 
 What she has done no tears can wash away, 
 And heaven must punish on its angry day : 
 But it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
 For him that pomard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
 And he was free ! and she for him had given 
 Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
 And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 
 Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
 Who now seem'd changed and humbled: faint and 
 
 meek, 
 
 But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
 Tc deeper shades of paleness all its red 
 Tnat 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, ana nis 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 (hen 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 ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Tnev gair. by twilight's hour their lonely isle : 
 TM them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 T)i haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
 The boats Are darting o'er the curly bay, 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek 
 Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
 Oh . what can sanctify the joys of home, 
 Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled foam ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 And 'niidst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 
 
 He looks in vain 'l is strange and all remark, 
 
 Amid so many, hers alone is da/k. 
 
 'T is strange of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
 
 Nor now, perchance, extinguistr'J, onl) icl'd. 
 
 With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
 
 And looks impatient on the lingering opr. 
 
 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 gavi, 
 
 He waits not looks not leaps into the wav. 
 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, a/xl 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 't is a well-known face 
 
 But not the form he panted to embrace ; 
 
 Its lips are silent twice his own essay'd, 
 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
 
 He snatch'd the lamp its light will answer all 
 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray 
 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
 
 Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 
 His steps the chamber gain his eyes behold 
 
 All that his heart believed not yet foretold ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 He turn'd not spoke not sunk not fix'd his .nok, 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 He gazed how long we gaze despite of pain, 
 And know, but dare not own, we saze in vain! 
 In life itself she was so still and fair, 
 That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
 And the cold flowers IS her colder hand contain'd, 
 In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
 And veil'd thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below. 
 Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
 But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips 
 Yet, yet, they seem as they forbore to smile, 
 And wish'd repose but only for a while ; 
 But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 Long fair but spread in utter lifelessness, 
 Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
 Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind : 
 These and the pale pure cheek, became the bier- 
 But she is nothing wherefore is he here? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He ask'd DO, question all were answer'd now 
 By the fir>t glance on that still marble brow. 
 It was en High she died what reck'd it how? 
 The love fef youth, the hope of better years, 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderest fear*. 
 The only living thing he could not hate, 
 Was reft at once and he deserved his fate, 
 But did not feel it less ; the good explore, 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 The proud the wayward who have fix'J below 
 Their joy and find this earth enough for woe, 
 Lose in that one their all perchance a mite 
 But who in patience parts with all delight? 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
 Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
 And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost 
 In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 By those, that u^nest feel, is ill exprest 
 The indistinctness f the suffering breast ; 
 Where thousand tli "his begin to end in one, 
 Which seeks from al. .ne 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 brokenness of heart : 
 The sun goes forth but Conrad's day is dim ; 
 And the night cometh ne'er to pass from him. 
 There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
 On grief's vain eye the blindest of the blind ! 
 Which may not dare not see but turns aside 
 To blackest shade nor will endure a guide ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 HTS neart was form'd for softness warp'd to wrong ; 
 Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
 Each feeling pure as falls the dropping dew 
 Within the grot like that had harden'd too ; 
 Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
 But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
 Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock ; 
 If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
 There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
 Though dark the shade it shelter'd, saved till now. 
 The thunder came that bolt hath blasted both, 
 The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth : 
 The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
 Its tale, but shrunk and wither' d where it fell, 
 And of its cold protector, blacken round 
 But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 T is mom to venture on his lonely hour 
 
 Few dare : though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
 
 He was not there nor seen along the shore ; 
 
 Ere night, akrm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
 
 Another morn another bids them seek, 
 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
 
 Mount grotto cavern valley search'd in vain, 
 
 They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
 
 Their hope revives they follow o'er the main. 
 
 T is idle all moons roll on moons away, 
 
 And Conrad comes not came not since that day : 
 
 Nor trace nor tidings of his doom declare 
 
 Wnere lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
 
 f ..on" mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside 
 
 And fair tne monument uiev save his bride : 
 
 For him they raise not the recording stone 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widelv known 
 le left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 jink'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes." 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 THE time in this poem may seem too short for th 
 occurrences ; but the whole of the j?Egean isles ar 
 vithin a few hours' sail of the continent, and the readei 
 must be kind enough to take the wind as I have oilea 
 bund it. 
 
 Note 1. Page 163, line 86. 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
 Orlando, Canto 10. 
 
 Note 2. Page 164, line 96. 
 Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 
 By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 
 stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is 
 bllowed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the 
 water. 
 
 Note 3. Page 165, line 39. 
 Though to the rest the sohcr berry's juice. 
 Coffee. 
 
 Note 4. Page Ifi5, line 41. 
 The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 
 Pipe. 
 
 Note 5. Page 185, line 42. 
 While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 
 Dancing-girls. 
 
 NOTE TO CANTO II. Page 165, line 55. 
 
 It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
 as a spy, is out of nature. Perhaps so. I find so:n> 
 thing not unlike it in history. 
 
 < Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of 
 the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the 
 colour of his hair, o visit Carthage in the character of 
 his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards 
 mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
 dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
 dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is 
 a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in 
 the life of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VI. p. 180. 
 
 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
 ture, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coin- 
 cidences which I have met with since writing "The 
 Corsair." 
 
 "Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit 
 dans un silence menacant ; il fixoit sur la terre son visago 
 feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor k sa profonde in- 
 dication. De toutes parts cependant les soldats et lr 
 peuples accouroient, ils vouloient voir cet homme, Jadit 
 si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. 
 ******** 
 
 " Eccelin etoit d'une petite tailln ; mais tout i'aspecl 
 de sa personne, tous ss mouvoments indiquoier.t u* 
 soldat. Son langage etoit amer, son deportemer.l s-. 
 perbe et par son scul regard il faisoit trembler k* 
 plus hardis." Sismondi, tome ni. pp. 219, 220. 
 
 "Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con 
 qucror of both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocm
 
 I7C 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 el equi casu ch.udicans, animo profundus, sermone ra- 
 rus, luxuri;c contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, 
 ad sollicitandas gentes providentissimus," etc., etc. 
 Junumdes de Rebus Getids, c. 33. 
 
 1 b g leave to quote these gloomy realities, to keep in 
 countenance rny Giaour and Corsair. 
 
 Note 6. Page 166, line 19. 
 And my stern vow and order's laws oppose. 
 The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
 as the Monks. 
 
 Note 7. Page 166, line 54. 
 They seize that Dervise ! seize on Zatanai ! 
 Satan. 
 
 Note 8. Page 166, line 75. 
 He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight. 
 A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
 anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. " The 
 Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; he plucked 
 up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to 
 quit the field." 
 
 Note 9. Page 166, line 119. 
 Brief time had 'Conrad now to greet Gulnare. 
 Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the 
 flower of the pomegranate. 
 
 Note 10. Page 168, line 100. 
 Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! 
 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
 and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when grasping her neck, 
 she remarked, that " it was too slender to trouble the 
 headsman much." During one part of the French Rev- 
 olution, it became a fashion to leave some " mot " as a 
 legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken 
 during that period, would form a melancholy jest-book 
 of a considerable size. 
 
 Note 11. Page 169, line 113. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ! 
 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
 set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- 
 treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 
 
 Note 12. Page 170, \. e 10. 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
 own country; the days in winter are longer, but in 
 summer of shorter duration. 
 
 Note 13. Page 170, line 20. 
 The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 
 The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is 
 without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
 temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall 
 intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
 Ilissus has no stream at all. 
 
 Note 14. Page 170, line 30. 
 That frown wlicre gentler ocean seems to smile. 
 Trie opening lines as far as Section II. have, perhaps, 
 little business here, and were annexed to an unpub- 
 lished, (though printed) poem; but they were written 
 or, the spot in the spring of 1811, and I scarce know 
 why ihe reader must <JXCUP their appearance here if 
 h can. 
 
 Note 15. Page 170, .me 116. 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 
 The coruboloio, or Mahometan rosarv ; the beads are 
 in number ninety-nine 
 
 Note 16. Paco 174, line 98. 
 And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd. 
 In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
 bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons 
 to place a nosegay. 
 
 Note 17. Page 175, line 65. 
 Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
 
 That the point of honour which is represented in one 
 instance of Conrad's character has not been carried 
 beyond the bounds of probability, rruiy perhaps be in 
 some degree confirmed by the folk rig anecdote of a 
 brother buccaneer in the present a.r, 1814. 
 
 Our readers have all seen tin Account of the enter- 
 prise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, we be- 
 lieve, were informed of the situation, history, or nature 
 of that establishment. For the information of such as 
 were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a 
 friend the following interesting narrative of the main 
 facts, of which he has personal knowludge, and which 
 cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 
 
 Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of 
 Mexico ; it runs through a rich but very 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 innumerable, in which persona 
 can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It com- 
 municates with three lakes which lie on the south-west 
 side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and 
 which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island 
 formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The 
 east and west points of this island were fortified in the 
 year 1811, by a band of pirates, under the command of 
 one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these out- 
 laws are of that class of the population of the state of 
 Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo 
 during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island 
 of Cuba: and when the last war between France and 
 Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that 
 island with the short notice of a few days. Without 
 ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of 
 them the State of Louisiana, with all the negroes they 
 had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Gov- 
 ernor of that Stale of the clause in the constitution 
 which forbad the importation of slaves ; but, at the 
 same time, received the assurance of the Governor that 
 he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the gen- 
 eral Government for their retaining this property. 
 
 The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29. deg. 
 15 min. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health aa 
 for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its waters 
 abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, 
 had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 
 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 
 :lollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte,-who was well 
 known to the inhabitants of the city of New 
 from his immediate connexion, and his or ;e having been 
 a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, whioh 
 art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he vto.9 a 
 Captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor 
 for the head of La Fitte was cnswerecl pvthe offer ot n 
 reward from the latter of 15,000 fot the nead of tlw 
 (Governor. The Governor ordered out a cc mpaiiy w
 
 LARA. 
 
 177 
 
 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 com- 
 mand of a man who had been the intimate associate of 
 this bold Captain, approached very near o the fortified 
 island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he 
 heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it 
 was he found himself surrounded by armed men, who 
 had emerged from the secret avenues which led into 
 Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor 
 developed his few noble traits ; for to this man, who had 
 come to destroy his life, and all that was dear to him, he 
 not only spared his life, but offered him that which would 
 have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of 
 his days, which was indignantly refused. He then, with 
 the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This 
 circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
 this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our 
 naval force having always been small in that quarter, 
 exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment 
 could not be expected from them until augmented ; for 
 an officer of the navy, with most of the gun-boats on 
 that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force 
 of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the 
 navy authorized an attack, one was made ; the over- 
 throw 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 Ameri- 
 can Newspaper. 
 
 In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographica 
 Dictionary, there is a singular passage in his account of 
 archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- 
 nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
 poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it : 
 
 "There is something mysterious in the history anc 
 character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but im- 
 perfectly known ; and report has even asserted he was 
 a buccaneer ; and that one of his brethren in that pro- 
 f ession having asked, on his arrival in England, wha 
 had become of his "M chum, Blackbourne, was an- 
 
 swered, he is Archbishop of York. We are informed, 
 hat Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter if 
 1694, which office he resigned in 1702: but after his 
 successor, Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained 
 t. In the following year he became dean ; and, in 1714, 
 leld with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was COP 
 secrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716 ; ani> 
 translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
 according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
 Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
 seen an unfounded calumny. As archbishop, he behaved 
 with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the 
 uardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whis- 
 pered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a 
 passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his 
 weaknesses ; but so far from being convicted by seventy 
 witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly 
 criminated by one. In short, I look upon these asper- 
 sions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a 
 buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black- 
 bourne certainly was ? he who had so perfect a know- 
 ledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek trage- 
 dians), as to be able to read them with the same ease 
 as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains 
 to acquire the learned languages ; and have had both 
 leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly 
 educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is al- 
 lowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, was 
 turned against him, by its being said, ' he gained more 
 hearts than souls.' " 
 
 " The only voice that could soothe the passions of th 
 savage (Alphonso 3d) was that of an amiable and vir 
 tuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of 
 Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, 
 and the grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. 
 Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his fiercs 
 spirit melted into tears ; and, after the last embrace, 
 Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- 
 parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
 life." Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon, new edition, 
 8vo. vol. 5. page 473. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 i. 
 
 I HE serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
 \nd slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
 Vie, their unhoped, but unfcrgotten lord, 
 The long self-exiled chieftain is restored : 
 Fhete be bright faces in the busy hall, 
 Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
 Far snookering 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. 
 T 2P 
 
 n. 
 
 The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
 And why had Lara cross'd the bounding mam 7 
 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, Viefi 
 Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
 It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
 His youth through all the mazes of ; ts race ; 
 Short was the course his restlessness had run. 
 But long enough to leave him half undone.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 BL 
 
 And Lara lefiin) oath his father-land ; 
 Bat from the boar be wared his parting hand 
 Each trace waxM fainter of his course, tin aH 
 Had Dearly ceased his memory to recall. 
 His sire was dost, his vassals could declare, 
 T was aO they knew, that Lara was out there ; 
 Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
 Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
 His hal scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
 His portrait darkens in its fijiijj,' frame, 
 Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
 Fbe young fcrgol him, and the old had died: 
 * Yet doth be fire?" exclaims the impatient beir, 
 And sighs for sables which he most not wear. 
 A hawked 'scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
 The Laras 9 last and longest dweffing-phce ; 
 But one is absent from the mouldering fife, 
 That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 
 
 IV. 
 
 IT*. ----- - _ !* M -,, ,1 I,,, i . m r... , . 
 
 ne Mnnf.il ax last HKMITII loiieuness, 
 
 And whence they know not, whj they need not goes* ; 
 
 They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, 
 
 Not that he came, but came not long before: 
 
 No tram in his beyond a single page, 
 
 Of foreign aspect, and of lender age. 
 
 Years had roIPd on, and fast they speed away, 
 
 T> those that wandW as to those that stay: 
 
 But lack of tidings from another cfime, 
 
 Had lent a flagging wing to weary time, 
 
 They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
 
 The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
 
 nor yet is passM his manhood's prime, 
 Though searM by toil, and something tooeh'd by time: 
 Bs tanks, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
 Might be untaoght him by bis varied lot ; 
 Nor good nor 31 of late were known, his name 
 Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
 His soul in youth was haughty, bnt Us sins 
 No mute than pleasure from the stnpung wins 
 And such, if not yet hardenM m their course, 
 BAjgnt be redeem d, nor nsk & lung remorse. 
 
 V. 
 
 And they indeed were changed 'tis quickly seen 
 Whate'er be be, 'twas not what he had been: 
 That brow m furrowM fines had fix'd at last, 
 And spake of passions, but of paanon past: 
 The pride, bat 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 mat sarcastic levity of tongue, 
 The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
 That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
 And makes those feel that wffl not own the wound ; 
 AH these seem'd Ins, and somethmg more beneath, 
 Than glance could weB reveal, or accent breathe. 
 Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 
 That some can conquer, and that all would chum, 
 Within ms breast appearM no more to strive, 
 Yet MCM'd as lately they had been alive; 
 And some deep teeing k were rain to trace 
 At moments ughten'd o'er kts Evid face. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Not much he loved long question of the past. 
 Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast. 
 In those far lands where he had wan Jer'd lone, 
 And as himself would hare it seem unknown 
 Yet these in rain his ere could scarcely scan, 
 Nor glean experience from his fellow-man ; 
 Bat what be bad beheld he shunn'd to show, 
 As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
 If stiffl more prying such inquiry grew, 
 His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 
 
 VIL 
 
 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 caronsab of the great and gay, 
 And saw them sonic or sigh their hours away 
 Bat sal he only saw, and did not share 
 The common pleasure or the general care ; 
 He did not follow what they all pursued 
 With hope still baffled, still to be renewM ; 
 Nor shadowy honour, nor nh^nrial gain, 
 Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
 Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
 ReoeQ'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
 Upon his eye sat somethmg of reproof 
 That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
 And things more timid that beheld him near, 
 In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear. 
 And they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
 They deem'd hint better than bis air expresu 
 
 VIII. 
 
 T was strange in youth al action and all life, 
 Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
 Woman the field the ocean all that gave 
 Piomisc of gladness, peril of a grave, 
 In torn he tried be ransack'd all below, 
 And found his lecompensis in joy or woe, 
 No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
 In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
 The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
 On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
 The rapture of his heart had iook'd on high, 
 And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
 Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
 How woke be from the wildness of that dream? 
 Alas! he told not but be did awake 
 To curse the wiiher'd bean that would not break 
 
 IX. 
 
 Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
 With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
 And oft, in sadden mood, for many a day 
 From afl communion be would start away . 
 And then, his rarely-caJPd attendants said, 
 Through night's long hoars would sound his hutnna 
 
 tread 
 
 O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers jown'd 
 In rode bat antique portraiture around : 
 They beard, bat whisper'd, u that must not be known 
 The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
 Yes, they who chose might ramie, bnt some had seen 
 They scarce knew what, <ut more than should ha*
 
 LARA. 
 
 .73 
 
 Why gazed be so upon the ghastly head 
 
 Which hands profane had gathered from the dead, 
 
 That stifl beside hi* open'd volume lay, 
 
 As if 10 startle efl save him away ? 
 
 Why slept be not when others were at rest? 
 
 Why heard DO music, and received no guest? 
 
 All was not wen they deem'd but where the wrong? 
 
 Some knew perchance bat *t were a tale too long ; 
 
 And such besides were loo 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 ugh 
 
 The immortal lights that five 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 oder to her love, 
 
 These deck the shore; the waves their channel 
 
 In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
 
 Al was so still, so soft in earth and air, 
 
 You scarce would start to meet a spirit there 
 
 Secure that nought of evil could deight 
 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night! 
 
 It was a moment only far the good : 
 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there be stood, 
 
 But tum'd in silence to hb castle-gate ; 
 
 Such scene hb soul no more could contemplate: 
 
 Such scene reminded him of other days, 
 
 Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
 
 Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that noi 
 
 No oo the storm may beat upon his brow, 
 
 Unfed unsparing but a night like this, 
 
 A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as hb. 
 
 XL 
 
 He tunrM within hb solitary hall, 
 And hb high shadow shot along the waB ; 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
 Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vauks 
 That hid their dust, their foibles, and their f 
 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 Bes like truth, and soil most truly bes. 
 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 knek in pictured prayer, 
 Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
 Ljke We, but not like mortal fife, to view ; 
 His brisuug locks oC sable, brow of gloom, 
 And the wide waving of hb shake* plume, 
 Glanced fike a spectre's attributes, and gave 
 Hb aspect afl that tenor gives the grave. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Twasmi.mi.ht .3 was slumber ; the lone fight 
 > toe lamp, a* loth to break the sight. 
 
 Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's haft 
 A sound voice- a shridt a fearful call. 
 A long, kind shriek and silence did they near 
 That frantic echo burst the deeping ear ?" 
 They heard and rose, and, tremulously brae, 
 Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
 They come with half-fit tapers m thesr hands, 
 And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Cold as the marble where bb length was bid, 
 Pale as the beam that o'er hb features playM, 
 Was Lara streteh'd ; bb half-drawn sabre near, 
 Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 
 Yet be was firm, or had been firm tiB now, 
 And stifl defiance knk hb gather'd brow ; 
 Though mixM with terror, senseless as he lay, 
 There bred upon bb Ep the wish to slay ; 
 Some halUarm'd threat m utterance there had dbtl, 
 Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 
 Hb eye was almost seaTd, but not forsook, 
 Eve* m ks trance, the gladiator's look, 
 That oft awake hb aspect could dbdose, 
 
 d now was fix'd m horrible repose. 
 They rake him bMibba; bush! be breathes, he spate 
 The swarthy blush reoolonrs m hb cheeks, 
 Hb Ep resumes ks red, hb eye, though dim, 
 Rafts wide and wfld, each slowly-quivering finm 
 
 In terms that seem not of his native tongoe; 
 Distinct, but strange, enough they OB Vrstand 
 To deem them accents of another lard; 
 And such they were, and meant to meet an eai 
 That hears hmt not mYnl that cannot hear' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His page approachM, and be alone appeared 
 To know the impart of the words they heard , 
 
 They were not such as Lara should avow, 
 
 Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
 
 Than those around their chieftain's stale he eyes, 
 
 But Lara's prostrate farm he bent beside, 
 
 And m that tongue which seem'd hb own replied; 
 
 And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
 
 To soothe away the horrors of hb dream, 
 
 If dream k were, that thus could overthrow 
 
 A breast that heeded not ideal woe. 
 
 XV. 
 
 \Vh-eVr h.s pan 
 
 n d or eye behrfci, 
 
 If yet remember d ne'er to be reveaPd, 
 Rests at bb heart. The 'customM mormng 
 And breathed *ew vigour m hb shaken frame ; 
 1 snhre sought he me from priest nor 
 
 As heretofore he flPd the passing hoars, 
 Nor less he smies, nor more hb forehead lours, 
 i* these were wont; and if die .in IIIL night 
 AppearM less welcome now to Lara's sigm, 
 He to bb marvelling vassals showd k nut, 
 Whose shuddering proved Aar fear was 
 In trembfing pan (alone they dare not) crawi 
 The astoamVd slaves, and shon the fated haS 
 The waving!
 
 ICO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
 The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 
 A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid 
 
 Had memory vanish'd then with sense restor'd ? 
 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 
 Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
 
 That fevcr'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'er-labour'd heart 
 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
 
 Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget, 
 
 When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? 
 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
 
 J'oo deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
 
 The heart to show the effect, but nrr 1 . the cause? 
 
 Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 
 Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half-told ; 
 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In him inexplical. y mix'd appcar'd 
 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
 
 In piaise or railing ne'er his name forgot; 
 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate 
 
 They guess'd they gazed they fain would know his fate. 
 
 What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
 
 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 
 
 That soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 fhcie 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 nrrmg spirit from another hurl'd ; 
 A tlung 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 mou'd and birth, 
 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
 
 And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
 
 With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 
 
 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 onward 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 condemn'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 ! 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
 And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
 He had (if 't were 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 light, 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 ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
 And aught that wealth or lofty linetge claim*
 
 LARA. 
 
 18' 
 
 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 bands ; 
 Ii is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
 And make age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
 And youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth, 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 
 
 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, 't is a face unknown, 
 
 But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's jy 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 * T is he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard 
 
 Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 
 
 " 'T is he !" " 'T is 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 raised, 
 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 
 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
 
 " 'T is he! how came he thence ? whatdoth he here?" 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 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. 
 'T is Lara ! further wouldst thou mark or ask, 
 I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
 
 " Thou shun'st no question ! Ponder is there none 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun? 
 And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! 
 At fcast thy memory was not given in vain. 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 Eternitv 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 he^s 
 To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
 But as thou wast and art nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 't is 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 wond'rous 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 thoughts shall be expresl." 
 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 aught to show 
 Which it befits Count Lara's car to know, 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest, 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
 Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 I augur right of courage &nd of worth, 
 He will not that untainted 'ine 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, secm'd on him to fall ; 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 In far forgetfulness away away 
 Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "To-morrow! ay, to-morrow!" further word 
 
 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, though 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 *own 
 
 With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down 
 
 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 all that he would do, or could endure. 
 
 Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good' 
 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speecli ,
 
 ,82 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 from deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his way 
 We J 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 ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 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 uft the unbidden blush shone through; 
 
 Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
 
 All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
 
 But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
 
 That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 
 From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
 
 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 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 
 
 And pleased 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 ; 
 
 Hi* walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
 
 HIT resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
 
 H<- seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
 
 Tu know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon our birth. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 
 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
 
 Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
 
 Suil there was haughtiness in all he did, 
 
 A pint dee]) that brook'd not to be chid ; 
 
 Hi-i zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
 
 .n act al.ne obeys, his air commands ; 
 
 As if 't was Lara's less than Us desire 
 
 That tlms he served, but surely not for hire. 
 
 fil'uhi wore the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 
 
 1 o tune his lute, or if he wiil'd it more, 
 
 ')i> ?omes of ot.-ier 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 white it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when match'd with that smooth client, 
 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
 
 More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
 
 True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
 
 But, from his aspect, might be more than guess'd 
 
 Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
 
 Another, ere he left his mountain-shore ; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 
 That name repeated loud without reply, 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then , 
 
 Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
 
 For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
 
 And when the crowd around and near him told 
 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold ; 
 
 Their marvel how 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 damp'ning heart-drops threw 
 
 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 friat we must dream and dare, 
 
 And execufe ere thought be half aware : 
 
 Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 
 To seal liis lip, but agonize 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 recognised 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 porcfc 
 
 No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seeir 
 
 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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
 The courteous host, and all-approving
 
 LARA. 
 
 133 
 
 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 lull'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 a while 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. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 i. 
 
 NIGHT wanes tne 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 nol 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 r orth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
 
 And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 
 
 II. 
 
 T is morn 't is noon assembled in the hall, 
 The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
 'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
 The me 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 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. 
 " 1 know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
 ff 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 InVU from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
 Vor had Sir Ezzelin his host disoiain'd, 
 But thai some previous prool forbade him 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 mv 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 phrensy would not be opposed ; 
 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell 
 
 " His sword is good who can maintain them well." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 
 He bled, and fell, but not with deadly wound, 
 
 Stretch'd by a dexterous 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 the moment grew 
 
 Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
 
 And fiercer shook his an^ry 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 withhek 
 
 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 ineffectual strife 
 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life : 
 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 V. 
 
 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
 Who menaced but to disappear with light? 
 Where was this Ezzelin? who cf.ne ana went, 
 To leave no other trace of his intent.
 
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 80 
 
 JiYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Hen-nance 't was but the moon's dj-< twilight threw 
 
 Along his aspect an unwonted huo 
 
 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 a? *his ; 
 
 His lip was silent, scarcely beat r..s 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 tliee !" 
 
 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 : 
 
 Outnumber'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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 wny sudoen droops that plumed crest? 
 The shaft is sped the arrow's in his breast! 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded ade, 
 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 : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
 The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
 Thii war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
 .n vaii 'mpels 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 oauw 7 No further thirst have they to slake 
 
 It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
 It was ar. agony but now forgot ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
 
 Where but for him that strife had never Iteen, 
 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
 
 'T was Lara, bleeding fiist from life away. 
 
 His follower once, and now his only guide, 
 
 Kneels Kaled, watchful o'er his welling side, 
 
 And with his 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 't is 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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 't were 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 Weeding 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 wiidiy clung. 
 They spake of other scenes, but what is known 
 To Kaled. whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
 And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
 While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
 They seem'd even then that twain unto tne last 
 To half forget the present in the past ; 
 To share between themselves some separate fate, 
 Whose darkness none b-:side should penetrate. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Their words, though faint, were many from the tone 
 Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
 From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's deal 
 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 we guess, 
 So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
 Save that, v.-hen struggling nearer to his last, 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
 And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast, 
 Rose Lara's h in I, and pointed to the East : 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from hij;h 
 Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
 Or that 't was chance, or some remember'd scene 
 That raised his arm to point where su^h h*d
 
 LARA. 
 
 Id' 
 
 Scarce Raled seem'd to know but tum'd away 
 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
 
 To look on Lara's brow where all grew night. 
 
 Yet sense seern'd left, though better were its loss ; 
 
 For when one near display'd the 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 't were with disdain : 
 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 
 
 As if such but dislurb'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 Clr-.-i is sure. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
 His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 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 look'st upon. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 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 thence his fixed glance ; 
 
 And when, in raising him from where he bore 
 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
 
 He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 
 
 But su-ove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 
 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
 
 Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
 
 Vhe 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 confess'd ; 
 
 And life retnrn'd, and Kaled felt no shame 
 
 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep ; 
 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep, 
 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
 
 Fhough priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound; 
 
 \.nd 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 Isst, 
 
 Sho to!<J nor whence, nor why she left behind 
 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 
 !Vny did she love him? Curious fool ! be still 
 
 1* nunian Icve the growth ol human will? 
 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the <='-*a 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
 They were not common links, that form'd the cnau 
 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 to!.'.. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 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, 
 Retum'd no more that night appear'd his last. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 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 mom, 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
 A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 And hew the bough that bought 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 bead, and hidden was his brow. 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
 And ome foreboding that it might be crime, 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
 Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
 And, lifting thence the 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 
 
 watch, 
 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
 And follow with his step the stream that flowM, 
 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 gather'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 gnlter'd star-like 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 : J>e horseman gazed 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steeil, 
 And instant spurr'd him into pintrng speed. 
 His face was mask'd the features of the dead. 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
 And such 't ' known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 Upon the night that led to such t morn.
 
 188 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 [f thus t.e perish {, Hea en receive his soul! 
 His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 It was not Lara's hand jy which he fell. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Kaled Lara Ezze'nn, are gone, 
 Alike without their monumental stone ! 
 The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been ; 
 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 whelpless 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. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 THE event in section 24, Canto II, was suggested by 
 *he description of the death, or rather burial, of the 
 Duke of Gandia. 
 
 The most interesting and particular account of this 
 mysterious event, is given by Burchard ; and is in sub- 
 stance 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 iS. Pietro ad vincula ; several other persons 
 facing present at the entertainment. A late hour ap- 
 proaching, and the cardinal having remindedTlis brother, 
 that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
 mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attend- 
 ants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of 
 cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
 cardi'naL, that before he returned home, he had to pay 
 i visit of pleasure. Dismissing, therefore, all his at- 
 tendants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a 
 oerson in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at 
 supper, and who, during the space of a month, or there- 
 abouts, previous to this time, had called upon him 
 almost daily, at the apostolic palace ; he took this per- 
 son behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the 
 utreet of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, direct- 
 ing him to remain there until a certain hour ; when, 
 t b* 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 assassinated, 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 intelligible account of what had befallen 
 his master. In the morning, the duke not having re- 
 turned to the palace, his servants began to be alarmed ; 
 and one of them informed the pontiff of the 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 the duke had been 
 attracted by some courtesan to pass the night with 
 her, and, not choosing to quit the house in open day, 
 had waited till the following evening to return home. 
 When, however, the evening arrived, and he found 
 himself disappointed in his expectations, he became 
 deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from 
 different persons, whom he ordered to attend him for 
 that purpose. Amongst these was a man named Gior- 
 gio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber 
 from a bark in the river, had remained on board tne 
 vessel, to watch it, and being interrogated whether he 
 i 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 see- 
 ing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards 
 two others came, and looked around in the same 
 manner as the former ; no person still appearing, 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 which hung on one side, 
 and the feet on the other side of the horse ; the two 
 persons on foot supporting the body, to prevent ita 
 falling. They thus proceeded towards that part, where 
 the filth of the city is usually discharged into the river, 
 and, turning the horse with his tail towards the water, 
 the two persons took the dead body by the arms and 
 feet, and with ah their strength flung it into the river. 
 The person on horseback then asked if they 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 hundred 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 hi 
 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 griei, 
 he shut himself up in a chamber, and wept buteriv. 
 The cardinal of Segovia, and other attenaants on tut
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 189 
 
 Pope wont to the door, aiu! utter many hours spent in 
 persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to 
 admit them. From the evening of Wednesday, till the 
 following Saturday, the Pope took no food ; nor did he 
 Iccp from Thursday morning till the same hour on the 
 
 ensuing day. At length, however, giving way lo tue 
 entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrain hi 
 sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own 
 health might sustain, by the further indulgence of ki 
 grief." Roscoe'a Leo Tenlfi, vol. i. page 26. r ' 
 
 urn of 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 Pallas te hoc vulncre, Pallas 
 
 Immolat, et puenam scelerato ex sanguine sumiL 
 
 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 ^Egina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
 More deeply purpled, met his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve, his pale'st beam he cast, 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
 That closed their murder'd sagc'a 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 seem'd to pour, 
 The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
 The cup of woe was quaff 'd the spirit fled; 
 The so il of him that 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. 2 
 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, 
 llur emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
 Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
 I'he gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, 3 
 \nd, dun and sombre 'mid the hol\ calm, 
 Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
 VU tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye 
 find dull were hi* that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 u 
 
 Again the ^Egean, 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 whe're 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 roll'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 sadly fair 
 O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
 Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
 
 Long had I mused, and measured every trace 
 
 1 
 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, 't was 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 ^Egis bore no gorgon now ; 
 Her helm was deep indented, and her lance 
 Seem'd weak and shaftless, e'en to mortal glance ; 
 The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp. 
 Shrunk from her touch and wither'd in her grasp : 
 And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
 Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
 Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
 And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe 
 " Mortal ! ('twas thus she spake) that blush of shaii 
 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: 
 Seek'st thou the cause? O mortal, look around! 
 Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
 I saw successive tyrannies exp'tc ;
 
 ir 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 'Scaped fni'ii the /avaj-e of the Turk and Goth, 
 Thy country sends a spoiler worse than bok, '. 
 Survey this vacant viol tied fane : 
 Recount the relics torn that yet remain ; 
 TheKt Cecrops placed this Pericles adorn'd* 
 That 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 the plunder came, 
 The insulted wall sust-iins 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 Pictish peer. 
 Arms gave the first his right the last had none, 
 But basely stole what less barbarians won ! 
 So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
 Next prowls the wolf the filthy 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 with 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 !' 
 Ask tliou the difference ? From fair Phyle's towers 
 Survey Bceotia Caledonia's ours. 
 And well 1 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 marshy 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 wide ; 
 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. 
 Vet, Caledonia claims some native worth, 
 As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth 
 So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
 Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave, 
 Snane off the sordid dust of such a land, 
 And shine like cniloren of a happier strand: 
 A* once of yore, in some obnoxious place, 
 Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race!" 
 
 " Mortal," the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once more, 
 BK" back my mandate to thy native shore ; 
 Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance slill is mine, 
 Tc tun) my councils Our 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 !j 
 
 The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey ! 
 
 Meantime, the flattering foeble 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 styles , 
 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
 
 And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. 10 
 
 Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs crer p 
 
 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 difference of now and then ; 
 
 Exclaims, ' these Greeks indeed were proper men ;' 
 
 Draws slight comparisons of these with tliose, 
 
 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 '.ife scarce pardon'd in the dust, 
 
 May hate pursue his sacniegious lust ! 
 
 Link'd with the fool who fired the Ephesian dome, 
 
 Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb ; 
 
 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, 
 
 Fix'd statue on the pedestal of scorn ! 
 
 Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
 
 But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
 
 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
 
 To do what oft 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 haled and alone. 
 
 Look to the east, where Ganges' swarthy rac* 
 
 Shall shake your usurpation to its basu ; 
 
 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 oortherp
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 01 
 
 So may ye perish ! Palhs, 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 
 Whcse were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
 While Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
 Can spare a few to fight and sometimes fly. 
 Oh glorious field ! by famine fiercely won ; 
 The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
 But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
 Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 
 Look last at home ye love not to look there, 
 On the grim smile of comfortless despair ; 
 Your city saddens, loud though revel howls, 
 Here famine faints, and yonder rapine prowls : 
 See all alike of more or less bereft 
 No misers tremble when there 's nothing left. 
 ' Blest paper credit' la who shall dare to sing? 
 It clogs like lead corruption's weary wing : 
 Yet Pallas plucked 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 +** ; u to that Mentor bends, 
 Though he and Pallas never yet were friends : 
 Him senates hear whom never yet they heard, 
 Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd: 
 So once of yore each reasonable frog 
 Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign log ; 
 Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
 As Egypt chose 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; 
 
 Th<; 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 rustic 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 ; 
 
 Even factions cease to charm a factious land ; 
 
 While jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
 
 And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 
 
 " 'T is 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, 
 Th?' hid the foe defiance e'** hv come ; 
 The neru nuuntlrjg al ms country's call, 
 The glorious oeam tna 1 decorates his fall, 
 
 well the young heart with visionary charms, 
 jid bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
 Jut know, a lesson you may yet be taught 
 Vith death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
 Vot in the conflict havoc seeks delight 
 lis day of mercy is the day of fight ; 
 Jut when the field is fought, the battle won, 
 Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun 
 lis deeper deeds ye yet know but by name, 
 The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
 The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
 11 suit with souls at home uniaught to yield. 
 Say with what eye, along the distant down, 
 Vould flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
 iow view the column of ascending flames 
 Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
 , frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
 That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
 Vow should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
 
 o, ask thy bosom, who deserves them most '/ 
 The law of heaven and earth is life for life ; 
 And she who raised in vain regrets the strife." 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 189, line 22. 
 How watch'd thy belter sons his farewell ray. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! 
 
 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sua 
 
 set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en 
 
 eaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 
 
 Note 2. Page 189, line 34. 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in out 
 country ; the days in winter are longer, but in sunimet 
 of less duration. 
 
 Note 3. Page 189, line 44. 
 The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 
 Tile Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm ii 
 without the present walls of Athens, not far from th 
 temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the 
 wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
 Ilissus has no stream at all. 
 
 Note 4. Page 190, line 5. 
 These Cecrops placed this Pericles adorn'd. 
 This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the 
 Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olyn- 
 pius, by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by 
 Hadrian : sixteen columns are standing, of the most 
 beautiful marble and style of architecture. 
 
 Note 5. Page 190, line 10. 
 The insulted wall sustains his hated name. 
 It is stated 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 pillai 
 of one of the principal temples. This inscription wni 
 executed in a very conspicuous manner, and deeply en- 
 graved in the marble, at a very considerable elevation. 
 Notwithstanding which precautions, some person (douot 
 less inspired by the Patron Goddess), has been at th* 
 pains to get himself raised up to the requisite heiafc-. 
 and has obliterated the name of the laird, but left trul 
 ot tue laJy untouched. The traveller in question c
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 comuanied this story by a remark, that it must have 
 cost some labour and contrivance to get at the place, 
 anJ could only have been effected by much zeal and 
 <ietermination. 
 
 Note 6. Page 190, line 21. 
 When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. 
 I^is 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 
 i>f the basso-relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to 
 remove them. 
 
 Note 7. Page 190, line 27. 
 Frown not on England England owns him not 
 Athena, no ! the plunderer was a Scot ! 
 
 The plaster wall on the west side of the temple of 
 Minerva Polias bears the following inscription, cut in 
 very deep characters : 
 
 Quod non fecerunt Goti 
 Hoc fecerunt Scoti. 
 Hobhuuse's Travels in Greece, etc., p. 345. 
 
 Note 8. Page 190, line 30. 
 And well I know within that bastard land. 
 Irish bastards, according to Sir Callaghan O'Bral- 
 laghan. 
 
 Note 9. Page 190, line 77. 
 
 With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore. 
 
 Mr. West, on seeing "the Elgin collection" (I suppose 
 to shall hear of the Abershaw's and Jack Shepherd's 
 collection next), declared himself a mere Tyro in Art. 
 
 Note 10. Page 190, line 80. 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare. 
 And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. 
 
 Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when exhibited at Elgin- 
 house ; he asked if it was not " a stone-shop : " he was 
 right, it is a shop. 
 
 Note 11. Page 190, line 94. 
 And, last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
 Some cahn spectator, as he takes his view. 
 
 "Alas! all the monuments of Roman magnificence, 
 jj( the remains of Grecian taste, so dear to the artist, 
 ihe historian, the antiquary, all depend on the will of 
 an arbitrary sovereign ; and that will is influenced too 
 aftcn by interest or vanity, by a nephew or a sycophant. 
 
 Is a new palace to be erectrd (at Rome) for an upstait 
 family? the Coliseum is stripped to furnish materials. 
 Does a foreign minister wish to adorn the bleak walll 
 of a northern castle with antiques? the temples of The- 
 seus or Minerva must be dismantled, and the works of 
 Phidias or Praxiteles be torn from the shattered frieze. 
 That a decrepit uncle, wrapped up in the religious 
 duties of his age and station, should listen to the sug- 
 gestions 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 
 the consequences of such weakness are much to be la- 
 mented 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 almost incredible. Such rapacity is a ciime against 
 all ages and all generations : it deprives the past of the 
 trophies of their genius ana tne titie-deeas of their 
 fame ; the present, of the strongest inducements to 
 exertion, the noblest exhibitions 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 everv man of ge- 
 nius, the duty of every man in power, and the common 
 interest of every civilized nation." Eustace's Classical 
 Tour I/trough Italy, p. 269. 
 
 "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 cither taste or 
 judgment." Ibid. p. 419. 
 
 Note 12. Page 191, line 19. 
 ' Blest paper credit ' who shall dare to sing ? 
 Blest paper credit, last and best supply. 
 That lends corruption lighter wings lo fly. Pope 
 
 Note 13. Page 191, line 25. 
 
 Then raves for * * * 
 The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 
 
 Note 14. Page 191, line 38. 
 Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
 And pirates barter all that 's left behind. 
 
 See the preceding note. 
 
 of CortntU* 
 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
 BY HIS FRIEND. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 4 The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
 Pume Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
 neart of the Morea, and to form the siege o<" Napoli 
 m Romania, the most considerable place in all that 
 country, 1 thought it best in the firs; place to attack 
 
 1 Napolidi Romania is no. now the most considerable place in 
 ihe Morea, butTripolitza, whore the Pacha resides, and main- 
 tains hie government. Nap >li u near Aigo. I visited all three in 
 
 Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The 
 garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it 
 
 1810-11 and in the course of journeyimg through lh country 
 from my first arrival in 1809, 1 crossed the Isthmus eitfnt tirno* 
 in my way from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, 
 or in the other direction, when passing from (he Gull of Athens 
 to that of Lt-printo. Both the routes are picturesque and beau 
 tiful, though very different : that by sea has more sameness, 
 but the voyage being always in sight of land, and often vert 
 near it, presents many attractive views i ( the islanun *H lamii 
 /Esina, Foro, etc., and the coast of th< onUr-oot.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 193 
 
 wa impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, 
 thought it fit to beat a parley : but while they were 
 treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the 
 Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels 
 of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven 
 hundred men were killed : which so enraged the infi- 
 dels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but 
 ttormed the place with so much fury, that they took it, 
 and put. most of the garrison, with Signor Minotti, the 
 governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, 
 proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war." 
 History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 MANY a vanish'd year and age, 
 
 And tempest's bi eath, 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 landmark to the double tide 
 
 That purpling rolls on either side, 
 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 
 But could the 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, through those clear skies, 
 
 Than yon tower-capt Acropolis 
 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 II. 
 
 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 leaguering lines ; 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 Beneath each bearded pacha'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, 1 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 Ard there the volleying thunders pour, 
 T "' waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
 U 2 30 
 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
 And from that waH the foe replies, 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 III. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall, 
 With deeper skill in war's black art 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 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 ; 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boasi, 
 To guide the follower o'er the field, 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade, 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ' 
 
 rv. 
 
 From Venice once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires he drew his birth ; 
 But late an exile from her shore, 
 Against his countrymen he bore 
 The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
 With Greece to Venice" rule a: last; 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
 He stood a foe, with ail the zeal 
 Which young and fiery converts feel, 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 Her ancient civic boast "the Free ;" 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 
 A charge against him uneflaced : 
 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 trmmph'd o'er the Cross, 
 'Gainst which he rcar'd the C resect* higk 
 And battled to avenge or die. 
 
 V. 
 
 Coumourgi 2 he whose closing scene 
 Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
 The last and mightiest of th slain, 
 He sank, regretting not to die. 
 But curst the Christian's victorj 
 Coumourgi can his glory cease. 
 That latest conqueror of Greece
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 TO Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of Tore? 
 A Hundred rears hare refl*d away 
 Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway; 
 And DOW be led the Mussulman, 
 And -arc the guidance of the ran 
 To Aip, who we! repawi the trust 
 BT obes leveBiwith the dust; 
 AM! proved, jfWny a deed of iemm, 
 Bow firm his heart in novel fijta, 
 
 TL 
 
 The waDs grew weak ; and fast and hot 
 
 Agamst them poor d the eeaselofs shot, 
 
 W*h onabaling fury sent 
 
 From battery to battlement ; 
 
 AM! tbrnder-Bke the pealing dm 
 
 Hate from each heated euhrerin ; 
 
 And here and there smoe cracking dome 
 
 Was fired before the exploding bomb: 
 
 AM! as the fabric sank beneath 
 
 The chattering shell's volcanic bream, 
 
 Li red aad wreathing cokmmc flasW 
 
 , as loud the 
 
 Orir 
 
 , cnshM, 
 
 WhMe cfamfa mat day grew dnmly Am, 
 
 1 1 ,,, - ,; in if, . kft<t*lm -.-. 
 
 UBpawimS W9 IDC nMUJCB aUnj 
 
 With lommed imoke mat Jowly grew 
 To <me wide sky of satplmraa has. 
 
 Akme,attAJB,ia. 
 
 Hubope would wia, waaaat oaase 
 Of that inexorable ske, 
 Waose aeart tesnsed bin in its ire, 
 When Ah*, beaeath hi. Chratiu 
 'Her virgin hud aspired to daim. 
 IB happier mood a 
 
 Gayest m gondola or hall, 
 
 He gatterM thnmjh me Caniral; 
 
 Ahd tamed he wAert 
 
 That e'er oe Adria' 
 
 vra. 
 
 AjKlmmrrBeem'd her heart wmsww; 
 For, MOfht by amber*, grrat to one, 
 Had yams Francesca'* haad remain'd 
 Sfdl vf *ne cauiCA s bomb imcham'd s 
 AM wbea the Adriatic bore 
 Laneiono to the Parmm chore, 
 Hrrwted smiesWre sea to fid. 
 wmVd the miirl, aad paie ; 
 
 Or seen at such, win mmatart eyes, 
 Wkwh eomroer'd beans they ceased to prmt* 
 Ws* EstfeM took she seems to gze; 
 Witt hmililir ore her farm arrays ; 
 
 Her Toiee less ttteiy in the sons ; 
 
 Her ster*. irx^-zp. .?^r.t, .v*s f^c?i any^njj 
 The pairs, oo whom the mornsn's gianee 
 Breaks, yet tmsated with the dance. 
 
 K. 
 
 Seat by the state to guard the land 
 (Which, wrested from the Moslem's MUM, 
 White Sofce-Ou tamed his pride 
 By Soda's wall and Danube's side, 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 From Patra to Eobcea's bay), 
 MoKXti held in Corinth's towers 
 The Doge's delegated powers, 
 While yet the p" tying eye of peace 
 SmiiiJo'er her looy-fcrgotten Greece; 
 And, ere that fiuthless truce was broke 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
 With him his gentle daughter came : 
 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 What woes await on lawless love, 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 X. 
 
 The waD is rent, the ruins yawn, 
 Asd, with to-morrow's earnest .dawn, 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assauh. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
 The fan 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 bast wno die* ' 
 
 XL 
 
 T is midnight: on the i 
 The coldi 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spread, lie an ocean bung o high, 
 Bespangled win those isles ef light, 
 So wikfly, spwituaBy 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, 
 Bat murmur d meekly as the brook. 
 The winds were pUTow'd on the waves ; 
 The banners droop'd along their staves, 
 And, as they fell around them farting, 
 Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
 And that deep silence was unbroke, 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shnl , 
 And echo answer'd from the hil', 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 Baftf*"* Bee leaves from coast to coast, 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 la midnight eal to wealed prayer
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 9 
 
 It race, that chauntrd mournful strain, 
 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
 
 *Twas musical, but nadir sweet, 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 
 To mortal mintstreUy unknown. 
 
 It seem'd to those within the waH 
 
 A cry prophetic of their (all : 
 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 
 An undefined and sudden thrifl, 
 
 Which makes the heart a moment stffl, 
 
 Then beat with quicker puke, ashamed 
 
 OT that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's kaefl. 
 
 xn. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
 The sound was hush'd the prayer was o'er ; 
 The watch was set, the nighi-round made, 
 All mandates issued and obey'd j 
 T is but another anxious night, 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 With ail revenge and lore can pay, 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 Few hours remain, and he bath need 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 Of slaughter; but within his soul 
 y The thoughts like troubled water* rofl. 
 
 He stood alone among the host ; 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 To plant the Crescent o'er the Croc*, 
 Or risk a life with little losa, 
 Secure in paradise to be 
 By Houris loved immortally : 
 Nor his, what burning patriots fed, 
 The stern nakedness of teal, 
 Profuse of Mood, unt ired in toil, 
 When battling on the parent soiL 
 He stood alone a renegade 
 Against the country he betrayM ; 
 He stood alone amidst his band, 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 They fbilow'd him, for he was brave, 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 They croueh'd to him, for he had skill 
 To warp and wield the vulgar wffl: 
 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 beet 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
 They did not know bow pride can stoop, 
 When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
 They did not know bow hate can bora 
 In hearts once changed from soft to stem; 
 Nor an the false and fatal zeal 
 The convert of revenge can feet 
 He ruled them man may rale the want, 
 By ever daring to be first : 
 So bons o'er the jackal sway ; 
 The jackal points, he fens the prey, 
 Thee on the vulgar yels pros*, 
 To gorge the rebec ef i 
 
 t XIIL 
 
 His head grows feverM, and his pulse 
 The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
 In vain from side to side be throws 
 His form, in courtship of repose ; 
 Or if be 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 it* 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 heaves was spread. 
 He could not rest, be could not stay 
 Within hb tent to wait for day, 
 Bat walk'd him drth along the sand, 
 Where thousand sleepers strewM the straa. 
 What pillowM them? and why should be 
 More wakefiil than the humblest be? 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil; 
 Wbie he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A night of sleep, perchance their out, 
 In sickly vigil waaderM on, 
 And envied al be gazed mpa*. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He felt his sod become more light 
 Beneath the freshness of the night. 
 Cool was the silent sky, though eah 
 And bathed his brow with aky hako: 
 Behind, the earns before hhn lav, 
 In many * winding creek and bay, 
 Lepanto's golf: and, on the brow 
 Of Delphi's toB, unshaken snow, 
 High and eternal, such as shone 
 Through thousand smiuueis brightly gone, 
 Along the gulf, the mount, the dime; 
 It wffl not meta, hke man, to time : 
 Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
 Less fbrm'd to wear before the ray, 
 But that white veB, the lightest, frailest, 
 Which on the mighty mount thoa haflest, 
 While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
 Shines o?ef its craggy battlement ; 
 In form a peak, in height a dood, 
 In texture like a hovering shroud, 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 As from her food abode she fled. 
 And fager'. Ae spot, where Wg 
 Her prophet spirit spake in Jong. 
 Oh, sol her step at moments taken 
 O'er winerM fields and rtrirfd atari, 
 And fai would wake, m souk to* broke*. 
 By poisaJBg to each glorious tokesj. 
 Bat vmin her voice, tit) setter day* 
 Dawn m those yet rememker d rays 
 Which jhone upon the Pemanfiymg, 
 And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Not made** of these mighty "* 
 WM Alp, oesp*e ** fcsj* **
 
 r9G 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ana tnrough this night, as on he wander' d, 
 
 AJid o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 
 
 He felt how faint an 1 feebly dim 
 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 
 Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
 
 A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
 
 And led them to the lawless siege, 
 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 
 Not so had those his fancy uurnber'd, 
 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd j 
 
 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: 
 
 i'he waters murmur'd of their name ; 
 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
 
 Claim'd kindred with iheir sacred clay; 
 
 Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 
 Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
 
 Despite of every yoke she bears, 
 
 That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
 
 'T is 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. 
 XVI. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
 
 And woo'd the freshness night diffused. 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, 1 
 
 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. 
 'le 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 Christian's hold? 
 Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 
 I know r.ot, 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 lie heard tne sound, and could almost tell 
 The sul en words of the sentinel 
 As iiis measured step on the stone below 
 Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
 And he saw the lean doge beneath the wall 
 Hold o'er the dead 'heir earvina!. 
 
 orging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 Prom a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
 As ye peel the fig when the 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 duU 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot when; thej fo<^ 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 With those who had fallen for that 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, 5 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 But close by the shore on the edge of the gulf, 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
 Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
 Scared by the 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Alp turn'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. 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 Whate'er be the shape in which death may lour ; 
 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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 oet 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of <0ay ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 benl. 
 Oft his beating fingers went, 
 Hurriedly, as you may see 
 Your own run over the ivory key.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Lre 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 Cithseron'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 satfe a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 He started up witn more of fear 
 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 
 " God of my fathers ! what is here ? 
 
 Who art thou, and wherefore sent 
 
 So near a hostile armament?" 
 
 His trembling hands refused to sig* 
 
 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 tender 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. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 'T is 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, 
 
 Ha'h extended its mercy to guard me as wefl 
 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel, 
 come and if I come in vain, 
 
 Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 
 [n falling away from thy talher't creed : 
 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sian 
 The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
 Wring \he black drop from thy heart, 
 And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 
 
 " And where should our bridal couch he spread ? 
 
 In the midst of the dying anrf 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 shall be my bride, 
 
 When once again I 've quell'd the pnde 
 
 Of Venice ; and her hated race 
 
 Have felt the arm they would debase, 
 
 Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own 
 
 Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 
 And shot a dullness to his heart, 
 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 
 Though slight was that grasp so mortal eoid, 
 
 He could not loose him from its hold ; 
 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and white, 
 
 Froze through his blood 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 
 
 5o deeply changed from what he knew : 
 
 Fair but faint without the ray 
 
 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 th ere rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dweU. 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 
 And the glance that it gave \*as wild and unmix' d 
 iVith aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 3f 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 
 ?rom the shadowy wall where their images frown j 
 fearfully flitting to and fro, 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 "If not for love of me be given 
 Thus much, then, for the love of Heaven, 
 Again I say that turban tear 
 From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
 Or thou art lost ; and never shall see, 
 Not earth that 's past but heaven or me. 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 A heavy doom 't is thine to meet, 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
 And Mercy's gate may receive ihee within ; 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake ;
 
 1 9<> 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ana look once more to heaven, and see 
 Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon ' 
 'T is 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 will thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortality of ill." 
 
 Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 
 But his heart was 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 changeling 't is 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 7 
 
 H saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The night is past, and^ shines the sun 
 
 As if that mom were a jocund one. 
 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 
 
 The morning from her mantle gray, 
 
 And the moon will look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
 ArJ the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as thev 're borne, 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 And the clash, and the shout, " they come, thev come !" 
 The horsetails 8 are pluck'd from the ground, and the 
 
 sword 
 From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the 
 
 word. 
 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 trtrike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
 Tlut the fu"itive may flee in vain, 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
 Aged or joung, in the Christian shape; 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 Bioodstam the breach through which they pass, 
 flic steeds are all bridled and snort to the rein ; 
 Curviwl i 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 are pointed and ready to roar, 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her 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 laddt 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 ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo, 
 
 Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 
 He tramples on earth, and tosses on high 
 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but to d\v 
 
 Thus against the wall they went, 
 
 Thus the first were backward bent ; 
 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 
 Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
 
 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. ^fc 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
 
 Till white and thundering down they go, 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales below ; 
 
 Thus at length outbreathed and worn, 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and ofl-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 w-lh them, or for their foes ; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new : 
 
 You might lave heard it, on that day, 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say,) 
 
 Even unto Piraeus bay. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
 - Sabres and swords with blood were gilt. 
 
 But the rampart is won, and the 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 white, 
 But his veteran arm was full of might : 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 The dead before him on that day 
 In a semicircle lay ; 
 Still he combated unwounded, 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 
 But of every wound his body bore, 
 Each and all had been ta'en before ; 
 Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 And the foes whom he singly kept at baj 
 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 co:il<! count a score. 
 Of all he might have been the sire, 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
 For, sonless left long years ago, 
 His wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 And since the day, when in the strait* 
 His only boy had met his fate, 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 For thousands of years were inhumed OL the sho.'e : 
 What of them is left to tell 
 Where they lie, and how they feli? 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bono in their g'ave? 
 But they live in the verse that immortalfy saves. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
 
 Of tne Mussulmaq 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 he is 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, 't is thero ' 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 So well advanced the ranks before ; 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 Will lure the Delhis half so far; 
 It glances like a falling star ! 
 Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
 The bravest be, or late have been ! 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
 Or the hero, silent lying, 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 " Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take, 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 "Never, renegade, 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 1 where ?" " In hea, 
 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven 
 
 Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 
 Before his words, as with a blow. 
 
 "Oh God! when died she?" "Yesternight 
 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 
 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee 
 
 Come on !" That challenge is in vain 
 
 Alp 's already with the slain ! 
 
 While Minotti's words were wreaking 
 
 More revenge in hitter 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 the failing fight renew, 
 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the groun.t , 
 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 
 That crash'd through tHe bn>in ot ihe 'mMt 
 
 Round he spun, and down he fell 
 
 A flash like fire within his: eyes 
 
 Blazeo, as he bent no more to rise.
 
 900 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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, 
 Unanel'd he pass'd away. 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid, 
 To the last a renegade. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 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 dares 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, 
 
 loin to those within the fane : 
 
 There they yet may breathe awhile, 
 
 Shelter'd by the massy pile. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 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 
 
 Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 
 Through the massy column to turn and fly : 
 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 
 They die ; but ere their eyes could close 
 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
 
 .Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 
 The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 
 
 And faint the weary Christians wax 
 
 Bnfore 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 wiMow pour 
 
 The volleys of tne sulphurous shower : 
 
 But the portal wavering grow? and 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak 
 It bends it falls and all is o'er ; 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 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 lovj ; 
 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
 
 When pictured there, we kneeling /c 
 
 Her and the boy-gcd 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. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone . 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
 Their names were on the graven floor, 
 But now illegible with gore ; 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 The varied marble's veins diffuse, 
 Were smear'd, and slippery stain'd and 
 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 fleshless dead ; 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 The Christian's chiefest magazine ; 
 To these a late-form'd train now led, 
 Minotti's last and stern resource, 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
 
 And lop the already lifeless head, 
 
 And fell the statues from their niche, 
 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 
 The silver vessels saints had blest. 
 
 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 :
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 That morn it held the holy wine, 
 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 
 
 To shrive iheir souls ere they jom'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. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train 
 
 'T is fired ! 
 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 The turban' d victors, the Christian band, 
 Ail 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 shape'ess 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 afflicted 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, 
 Little deem'd she such a day 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their offspring mere ; 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face, 
 Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
 And down came blazing rafters, strown 
 Around, and many a falling stone, 
 Deeply dinted in the clay, 
 AH blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 All the living things that heard 
 That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
 The wild birds flew, the wild dogs fled, 
 And howling left the unburied dead ; 
 The camels from their keepers broke ; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke 
 The nearer s'eed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
 31 
 
 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 cry, 10 
 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! 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 193, line 38. 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd. 
 THE life of the Turcomans is wandering and patri 
 archal : they dwell in tents. 
 
 Note 2. Page 193, line 96. 
 Coumourgi he whose closing scene. 
 AH Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
 Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelopon- 
 nesus from the Venetians, in one campaign, was mor- 
 tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at th 
 battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), ia 
 Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He diec. 
 of his wounds next day. His last order was the de 
 capitation of General Breuner, and some other Ger 
 man prisoners ; and his last words, " Oh that I could 
 thus serve all the Christian dogs !" a speech and ac 
 not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of 
 great ambition and unbounded presumption : on being 
 told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, " was 
 a great general," he said, " I shall become a greater, 
 and at his expense." 
 
 Note 3. Page 196, line 31. 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 
 The reader need hardly be reminded that there are 
 no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 
 Note 4. Page 196, line 65. 
 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter kuD. 
 This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be- 
 neath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in th 
 little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the iock, a 
 narrow terrace of which projects between the wall and 
 the water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hob- 
 house's Travels. The bodies were pi obably those at 
 some refractory Janizaries. 
 
 Note 5. Page 196, line 7<*. 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hail 
 This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition thai 
 Mahomet will draw them into paradise by it 
 
 Note 6. Page 197, line 5 
 
 I must here acknowlrd^e a close, though uiiten 
 tional, resemblance in th, twelve lines to a passage a 
 aii unpublished poem of ! . Coleridge, called "CM* 
 ;abel." It was not till suVr these line* were wmten
 
 '202 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ihat I heard thai wild and singularly original and beau- 
 tiful poem recited ; and the MS. of that 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 plagiarist. The original idea undoubt- 
 edly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been 
 composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a 
 hope, that he will not longer delay the publication of a 
 production, of which I can only add my mite of appro- 
 oation to the applause of far more competent judges, 
 
 Note 7. Page 198, line 3. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon. 
 I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 
 598 to 603, have been admired by those whose appro- 
 bation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not ori- 
 ginal at least not mine ; it may be found much better 
 expressed in pages 182-3-4, of the English version of 
 " Vathek" (I forget the precise page of the French), a 
 
 work to which I have before reftrred ; and never recul 
 to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. 
 
 Note 8. Page 191!, line 48 
 
 The horse-tails are pluck'd I'rom the ground and the swoid. 
 The horse-tail, fixed upon a lance, a pacha standard. 
 
 Note 9. Page 199, line 45. 
 And since the day, when in the strait. 
 In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
 between the Venetians and the Turks. 
 
 Note 10. Page 201, line 68. 
 The jackal's troop in gather'd cry. 
 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 the ruins of Ephesus I have 
 heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and fol- 
 low armies. 
 
 TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCHIBED, 
 
 BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS, AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Die 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 Al- 
 ficri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon 
 the continent. The following extract will explain the 
 facts on which the story is founded. The name of 
 Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 
 
 " Under the reign of Nicholas III, Ferrara was pol- 
 luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
 attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of 
 Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Pari- 
 ina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant 
 youth. They were beheaded in Ihe castle by the sen- 
 tence of a father and husband, who published his shame, 
 and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if 
 Ihey were guilty ; if they were innocent, he was still 
 more unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situation in 
 Hhich I ran sincerely approve the iast sul of the justice 
 of a parent." Gib/Jon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. 3, 
 |i 470, new edition. 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 IT is th hour <vhen from the boughs 
 The nightingale's nigh note is Heard , 
 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 And on the wave is deeper blue, 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure 
 So softly dark, and darkly puro, 
 Which follows the decline of day, 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 1 
 
 II. 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 
 That Parisina leaves her hall, 
 
 And it is noc to gaze on the heavenly light 
 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 
 'T is 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 
 
 'T is past her lover 's at her feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside. 
 With all its change of time and lide 7 
 Its living things its earth and sky 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye.
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 20J 
 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
 As if all else had pass'd away, 
 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that, did it not decay, 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream 7 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour, 
 Or thought how brief such moments last 7 
 But yet they are already past ! 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 We know such visions come no more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The 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 
 
 The lip that there would cling for ever, 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 With all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 V. 
 
 And Hugo i& gone to his lonely bed, 
 
 To covet there another's bride ; 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
 And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 A name she dare not breathe by day, 
 
 And clasps her lord unto the breast 
 Which pants for one away : 
 And he to that embrace awakes, 
 And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 For such as he was wont to bless ; 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
 And listen'd to each broken word : 
 He hears why doth Prince Azo start, 
 
 As if the Archangel's voice he heard 7 
 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 
 ITpon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
 That sleeping wh.sper of a name 
 BesoeuKs ner guilt and Azo's shame. 
 
 And whose that name? l>at 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 whose that name ? 't is Hugo's, his 
 In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! 
 'T is Hugo's he, the child of one 
 He loved his own all-evil son 
 The offspring of his wayward youth, 
 When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
 The maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made her not his bride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
 
 But sheathed it ere the point was bare 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
 He could not slay a thing so fair 
 At least, not smiling sleeping there 
 Nay, more : he did not wake her then, 
 But gazed upon her with a glance 
 Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He was not one who brook'd delay : 
 
 Within the chamber of his state, 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
 His nobles and his guards are there, 
 Before him is the sinful pair ; 
 Both young and one how passing fair ! 
 With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
 Oh, Christ! that thus a son shou.d 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, 
 
 X. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
 How changed since last her speaking e v 
 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering ro< T.
 
 204 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Where hi^h-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 no 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 ; 
 Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
 Less for her own despair than him : 
 Those lids o'er which the violet vain 
 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And Azo spake : " But yesterday 
 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 fhat dream this morning pass'd away; 
 
 Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
 My We 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 ! 
 11 igu the oriest awaC .s on .nee, 
 
 And then thy crime's reward ! 
 Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 
 Before its evening stars are met 
 I^earn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 
 
 It mercy may absolve the 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 thing ! shall 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." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And here stern Azo hid his face 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbb'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 
 Already through the battle ride, 
 And that not once a useless brand 
 Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
 Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
 Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 
 
 Thou gavest, and may'st 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. 
 'T is true, that I have done thee wrong 
 
 But wrong for wrong this deem'd thy bride, 
 The other victim of thy pride, 
 Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
 Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her cha.-ms 
 
 And with thy very crime my birth, 
 Thou taunted'st 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 than Este's shine 
 'W uh honours all my own. 
 I had a sword and have a breas. 
 That should have won as haught a 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 1'
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 20.1 
 
 I will not plead the c.i'i.sc of crime, 
 Nor sue thee, to redeem from time 
 A few brief hours or days, that must 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; 
 Such maddening moments as my past, 
 They could not, and they did not, last 
 Albeit my birth and name be base, 
 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 tamelessness of heart 
 From thee nay, wherefore dost thou start ? 
 From thee in all their vigour came 
 My arm of strength, my soul of flame 
 Thou didst not give me life alone, 
 But all that made me more thine own. 
 See 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 control : 
 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 we, all side by side, have striven, 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
 The past is nothing and at last 
 The future can .but be the past ; 
 Yet would I that I then had Hitu : 
 
 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, 
 T is 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 on.-. 
 My crime seems worst to human view, 
 But God must judge between us two!" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He ceased and stood with folded arms, 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
 Of all the chiefs that there were rsnk'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 7 
 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 tum'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 j;ather'd, slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
 it was a thin^ to see, not hear! 
 T 2 
 
 And those who saw, it did surprise. 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 To speak she thought the imperfect note 
 Was chok'd 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 like 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 deathlike swoon 
 But scarce to reason every sense 
 Had been o'erstrung 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 wratlu 
 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 ' 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 pea.s. and the hollow belia htrftf . 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
 Sad to hear and piteous to see 
 Kneeling on the barf cold ground, 
 With the block before and the guards aioumi - 
 And the heads-man with his bare arm -eady, 
 That the blow may be both swif' and
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Feeis if the axe be sharp and true 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To seo the son fall by the doom of the father. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 Which rose upon that heavy day, 
 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 
 Curl'd 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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 stnpp'd, 
 His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd j 
 'T is done all closely arc they shorn 
 The vest which till this moment worn 
 The scarf which Parisina gave 
 Must not adorn him 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 heads-man'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 
 ftoll'd the head and, gushing, sunk 
 Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 
 In the dust, which each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
 i lis eyes and lips a moment quiver, 
 < 'onvulsed and quick then fix for ever. 
 
 (e died, as erring man should die, 
 WUKout 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 feeiing ; 
 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, 
 When, bared to meet the heads-man's stroke, 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
 His solt adieu to those around. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death, 
 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 
 A cold electric shiver ran. 
 
 As down the deadly blow descended 
 
 On him whose life and love thus endec ; 
 
 And with a hushing sound comprest, 
 
 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 . hooR, 
 
 Save one: what "cleaves the silent air 
 
 So madly shriH 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-laitice driven, 
 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
 
 And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
 
 But sound and sight alike are gone ! 
 
 It was a woman's shriek and ne'er 
 
 In madlier accents rose despair ; 
 
 And those who heard it, as it past, 
 
 In mercy wish'd it were rhe last. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 
 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower, 
 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 
 Her name as if she ne'er had been 
 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 
 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 
 No tomb no memory had they ; 
 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 
 
 At least the knight's, who died that day. 
 
 But Parisina's fate lies hid 
 
 Like dust beneath the 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 tea." } 
 
 Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 
 
 For that dark love she dured 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 heads-man's shock.
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 207 
 
 In quicken'd brokenness that came, 
 In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 
 None knew and none can ever know : 
 But whatsoe'er its end below, 
 Her life began and closed in woe! 1 
 
 XX. 
 
 And Azo found another bride, 
 
 And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 
 As him who wither'd in the grave ; 
 
 Or, if they were on his cold eye 
 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
 
 Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 
 
 But never tear his cheek descended, 
 
 And never smile his brow 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 : 
 
 Nothing 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 : 
 
 The deepest ice which ever froze 
 
 Can only o'er the surface close 
 
 The living stream lies quick below, 
 
 And flows and cannot cease to 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 A/o's age was wretched still. 
 
 The tainted branches of the tree, 
 
 If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 All greenly fresh and wi'dly free : 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
 And rw er m ore a leaf reveal*. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 202, line 14. 
 
 As twilight melts beneath the mooo away. 
 
 THE lines contained in section I. were printed as s* 
 
 to music some time since : but belonged to the poem when 
 
 they now appear, the greater part of which was composed 
 
 prior to " Lara," and other compositions since published. 
 
 Note 2. Page 204, line 117. 
 That should have won as haught a crest. 
 Haught haughty : 
 
 "Away haught man, thou art insulting me." 
 Shakspeare: Richard II. 
 
 Note 3. Page 207, line 5. 
 Her life began and closed in woe. 
 
 " This turned out a calamitous year for the people ot 
 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 re- 
 jected many details, and especially the narrative of 
 Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, and who 
 does not accord with the cotemporary historians. 
 
 " By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, th 
 Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beau- 
 tiful and ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
 wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers, 
 treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret ol 
 the Marquis, 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 con- 
 dition 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 indeed his intent was accomplished but too well, 
 since, during the journey, she not only divested hnrself 
 of all her haired, but fell into the opposite extreme. 
 After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occa- 
 sion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one day 
 that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, or, as some 
 call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of 
 Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
 maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she 
 told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, haa 
 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 h:s master. He 
 was astounded thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, 
 he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 
 18th of May, by looking through a hole made in the 
 ceiling of his wile's chamber. Instantly he broke into 
 a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with 
 Aldobrand'mo Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
 also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
 abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
 brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to prononn.'o 
 sentence, in the accustomed forms, up^n the culprits. 
 This sentence was death. Some there were that bestirred 
 themselves in favour of the delinquents, mid, am..ngs 
 others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-powerful with 
 Niccolo, and also his aged and much-deserving miuiMo
 
 208 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Alberto dul Save. Both of these, their tears flowing yet? who answered him, Yes. He then gave himself 
 down the,, cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, 
 
 for mercy . adducing whatever reason they could sug- 
 gest for sparing the offenders, besides those motives of 
 honour and decency which might persuade him to con- 
 cea! 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 (he prisons of the castle, and 
 exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen at 
 this day beneath 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 be- 
 headed, first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he 
 that accused her, conducted 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 the which, sighing grievously, she 
 exclaimed, " Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;" and 
 being come to the block, she stripped herself with her 
 own hands of all her ornaments, and, wrapping a cloth 
 round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke which 
 terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with 
 llangoni, who, together with the others, according to 
 two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried 
 in the cemetery of 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 
 
 " Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried on 
 to resolve thus against my own Ugo !" And then gnavr- 
 ing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, ho 
 passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling 
 frequently upon his own dear Ugo. On the following 
 day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to mak 
 public his justification, 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 ihe square of St. Mark, in order to cele- 
 brate his advancement to the ducal chair. 
 
 " The Marquis, in addition to what he had 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, Barba- 
 rina, 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 can- 
 not be told how strange appeared this proceeding in 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." 1 
 
 1 Frizzi History of Ferrara. 
 
 Jjrfooner of CftiUon* 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 ETERNAL spirit of Ihe chainless mind! 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the heart 
 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 Chilian ! thy prison is a' holy place, 
 And thy sad floor an altar for 't wa trod, 
 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 
 By Bonnivard! 1 May none those marks efface ! 
 Fjr they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 THE 
 
 PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 
 Nor grew it white 
 
 In a single night,* 
 Ht nidi's have grown fi *a 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 godly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffer'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. 
 
 II. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
 There are seven columns, massy x. .d gra y, 
 Dim with a dull imprisopM ray.
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 209 
 
 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, 
 With marks that will not wear away, 
 Till I 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, 
 When my last brother droop'd and died, 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 III. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
 And we were three yet, each alone ; 
 We could not move a single pace, 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight: 
 And thus together yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
 T was still some solace in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth, 
 To hearken to each other's speech, 
 And each turn comforter to each, 
 With some new hope, or legend old, 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreary tone, 
 An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
 A grating sound not full and free 
 As they of yore were wont to be : 
 It might be fancy but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do and did my best 
 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 ; 
 Ana iruly might it be distrest 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young easles, 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 tney flow'd like mountain rills, 
 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 32 
 
 V. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But form'd to combat with his kind : 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy : but not in chains to pine ; 
 His spirit vvither'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 j 
 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line wa.i sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement,* 
 
 Which round about the wave enthrals : 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made and like a living grave. 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
 We heard it ripple night and day, 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were .i 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 
 And I have felt it shake unshock'd, 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 vn. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 't was coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain poat 
 Was changed for water from the moat ; 
 Our bread was such as captives' tears 
 Have 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? he died. 
 I saw and could not hold his head. 
 Nor reach his dying hand nor dead. 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died and they ur.lock'd his chain. 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our -v
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine it was a foolish thought, 
 But when 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 fiat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant, 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower, 
 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 
 'fhe infant love of all his race, 
 
 His inartyr'd father's dearest thought, 
 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 
 A spirit natural or inspired 
 
 He, too, was 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 : 
 
 [ 've suen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
 I 'vu seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of sin delirious with its dread : 
 
 But these were horrors this was woe 
 
 Unmix'd with such but sure and slow : 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender kind, 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray 
 
 An eye of most transparent light, 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise, 
 
 For I was sunk in silence lost 
 
 In this ast 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 hsfcm'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 ca'I'd, and thought I heard a sound 
 
 I bunt my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rusli'd to him : I found him not, 
 
 / only surr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived / only drew 
 
 fne ari<:ursed 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 both hud ceased to breathe 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 Alas ! in}' 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 
 Thit what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 
 I had no earthly hope but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 
 I know not well I never knew 
 
 First came the loss of light, and air, 
 
 And then of darkness too ; 
 I had no thought, no feeling none 
 Among the stones 1 stood a stone, 
 And was, scarce conscious what I 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 s>ice, 
 And fixedness without a place ; 
 There were no stars no earth no time 
 No check no change no good no crime 
 But silence, and a slirless breath 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 A sea of stagnant idleness, 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 
 
 X. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over 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 had done, 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 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,
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 21! 
 
 Jj'id cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 Had brought me back lo 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 't was mortal well I knew, 
 For he would never thus have flown, * 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, 
 Lone as the corse within its shroud, 
 Lone as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of woe, 
 But so it was : my broken chain 
 With 1'nks unfasten'd did remain, 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one, 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 XII. 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 For I had buried one and 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 ;n my misery ; 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 Once more upon the mountains high, 
 The quiet of a loving ey. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I saw them and they were the game, 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high theti wide long lake below, 
 AJI*' the hiun Rhone in fullest flow; 
 
 I heard the torrents leap and gusn 
 O'er channcli'd rock and broken busli ; 
 I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming dowu 
 And then there was a little isle, 4 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers j rowing, 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle-wall, 
 And they seem'd joyous each and aL ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he secrn'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 darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
 And yet my glance, too much opprcst, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 XIV. 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote , 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not when 
 It was 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 la* 
 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 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 208, Sonnet, line 13. 
 By Bonnivard ! may none those marks etta'-o 
 Fran9ois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivm-u. 
 origmaire de Seyssei et Seigneur de Luiws, naquit ei
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 1496; il fit scs etudes a Turin. En 1510 Jean- Aime 
 de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de Saint- 
 Victor, qui aboutissait aux murs de Geneve, et qui 
 fiirnait un benefice considerable. 
 
 Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce litre par la 
 rorce de son ame, la droiture de son coeur, la noblesse 
 de te intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage 
 ie sea demarches, 1'etendue de ses connaissances, et la 
 vivacite de son esprit), ce grand homme, qui excitera 
 ('admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu heroique peut 
 encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive recon- 
 naissance dans les co3urs des Genevois qui aiment Ge- 
 neve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes 
 appuis : pour assurer la liberte de notre Republique, il 
 ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia 
 son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses ; il ne negligea rien 
 pour aflermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son 
 choix : des ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zele 
 de ses ciloyens ; il la servit avec I'inlrepidite d'un heros, 
 et il ecrivait son histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophic 
 et la chaleur d'un patriote. 
 
 II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Ge- 
 neve, que, dit qii'il eut commend de lire thlstoire des 
 nations, il se sentii entraind par son gout pour les ri~ 
 publiques, dont il dpousa toujours les inUrcts : c'est ce 
 gout pour la liberte qui lui fit sans doute adopter Ge- 
 neve pour sa patrie. 
 
 Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonca hautement comme 
 le defenseur de Geneve centre le Due de Savoye et 
 1'evfique. 
 
 En 1519 Bonnivard devint le martyr de sa patrie : le 
 Due de Savoye elanl entre dans Geneve avec cinq cents 
 nommes, Bonnivard craignit le ressentiment du due ; il 
 voulut se retirer k Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; 
 mais il fut trahi par deux homines qui 1'accompagnaient, 
 et conduit par ordre du prince k Grolee, ou il resta pri- 
 sonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etait malheureux 
 dans ses voyages ; comme ses malheurs n'avaient point 
 ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi 
 redoutable pour ceux qui la menacaient, et par conse- 
 quent il devait fitre expose k leurs coups. II fut ren- 
 contre en 1530 sur le Jura, par des voleurs, qui le de- 
 Oouillerent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du 
 Due de Savoye : ce prince le fit enff.rmer dans le cha- 
 teau de Chillon, ou ii resta sans etre interroge jusqu'en 
 1536 ; il fut alorsdelivre par les Bernois, qui s'empare- 
 itmt du pays de Vaud. 
 
 Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
 Uouver Geneve libre et reformee: la republique s'em- 
 pressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de le de- 
 dommager des maux qu'il avail soufferts ; elle le reeut 
 bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin 1536; elle lui 
 donna la maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-Gen- 
 dral, et elle lui assigna une pension de 200 ecus d'or 
 tant qu'il sejournerail a Geneve. II fut admis dans le 
 Conseil des Deux-Cents en 1537. 
 
 Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : apres avoir Ira- 
 aille k rcndre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tole- 
 lanle. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil k accorder aux 
 ecclesiasliques el aux paysans un temps suffisanl pour 
 eiamiuer les propositions qu'on leur fais;iit ; il reussit 
 p^r sa douceur: on prfiche toujours le christianisme 
 vec succes quand on le prfiche avec charite. 
 
 Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans 
 oihuntiieoue publique, prouvcnt qu'il avail bien Ic les 
 
 auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avail approfondi U 
 Iheologie et 1'hisloire. Ce grand homme aimail les 
 sciences, et il croyait qu'elles pouvaienl faire la gloire 
 de Geneve ; aussi il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans 
 cetle ville naissante ; en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque 
 au public ; elle ful le commencement de notre biblio 
 theque publique ; et ces livres sont en partie les rares 
 et belles editions du quirizieme siecle qu'on voit dana 
 notre collection. Enfin, pendant la memo annce, ce 
 Lon patriote institua la republique son heritiere, a con- 
 dition qu'elle emploicrait ses biens k entretenir le col- 
 lege dont on projetait la fondation. 
 
 II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais on ne 
 peut 1'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le N&> 
 crologe jlepuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusqu'en 1571. 
 Note 2. Page 208, line 3. 
 ID a single night. 
 
 Ludovico Sforta, and others. The same is asserted 
 of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI., though 
 nol in quile so short a period. Grief is said lo have 
 the same effect : to such, and not to fear, this char go 
 in hers was to be atlributed. 
 
 NoieS. Page 209, line 81. 
 From Chillon's snow-while battlement. 
 
 The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarena 
 and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremily of iho 
 Lake of Geneva. On ils lefl are the entrances of the 
 Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and 
 ihc range of Alps above Bflveret and St. Gingo. 
 
 Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent; below it, 
 washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the 
 depth of 800 feet (French measure) ; within il are a 
 range of dungeons, in which ihe early reformers, and 
 subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Acrosi 
 one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which 
 we were informed that the condemned were formerly 
 executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather 
 eight, one being half merged in the wall ; in some o. 
 these are rings for the fetters and the fettered ; in the 
 pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces 
 he was confined here several years. 
 
 It is by this castle thai Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
 trophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her chil- 
 dren by Julie from the water: the shock of which, and 
 the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
 her death. 
 
 The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for ? 
 greal distance. The walls are white. 
 
 Note 4. Page 211, line 65. 
 And then there was a little isle. 
 
 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. Il contains a few trees 
 (I thmk 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 
 sufficiently aware of the hisiory of Bonnivard, or I 
 should have endeavoured to dignify the subject by in 
 atlempl to celebrate his cmirage and his virtues. Some 
 account of his life will be found in a note appended i 
 ihe " Sonnel on Chillon," wilh which I have been fur- 
 nished by ihe kindness of a citizen of thai republic 
 which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy "* 
 the best age of ancient freed Mn.
 
 ( 213 ) 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY. 
 
 Roiralind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you, lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the bcnofiu 
 of your own country ; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God foi making you that coun- 
 tenance you are ; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. 
 
 Jit You Like It, Act IV. Scent 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 Parit b *010 the seat of all dissoluteness. S. A. 
 
 T is known, at least it should be, that throughout 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
 
 Some weeks before Shrove-Tuesday comes about, 
 The people take their fill of recreation, 
 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
 However high their rank, or low their station, 
 
 With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, 
 
 And other things that may be had for asking. 
 
 II. 
 
 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, 
 
 (1'jitars, and every other sort of strumming. 
 
 III. 
 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
 
 And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
 Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
 
 All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 
 All people, as their fancies hit, may choose ; 
 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy 
 
 Therefore take heed, ye freethinkers ! I charge ye. 
 
 rv. 
 
 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 benes, unless you paid them double. 
 
 V. 
 
 But, saving this, you may put on whate'er 
 "V ou 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. 
 
 w 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 fr<sn 
 
 But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
 Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
 
 'T is as we take a glass with friends at parting, 
 
 In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 
 
 vn. 
 
 And thus they bid farewell to carnal disnes, 
 And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts, 
 
 To live for forty days on ill-dressed fishes, 
 Because they have no sauces to their stews, 
 
 A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes," 
 And several oaths (which would not suit the MUM: 
 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 
 To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And therefore humbly I would 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 Harvey, 
 
 Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
 And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 
 
 According to the proverb, although no man, 
 If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
 
 If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout 
 
 Dine, and be d d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 
 
 But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 
 
 X. 
 
 Of all the places where the Carnival 
 Was most facetious in the days of yore, 
 
 For dance and song, and serenade, and bail, 
 And masque, and mime and mystery, and mo 
 
 Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
 Venice the bell from every city bore, 
 
 And at 'Jie moment when I fix my story 
 
 That sea-born city was in all her glory
 
 214 
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 illj 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's 
 
 'The best's at Florence se it, if ye will), 
 They look when leaning over the balcony, 
 Or stepp'd from out a picture by .Giorgione, 
 
 XII. 
 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 your zest, 
 And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so, 
 "T is but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
 And self; but such a woman ! love in life! 
 
 XIII. 
 Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
 
 No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
 But something better still, so very real, 
 
 That the sweet model must have been the same : 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
 
 Wer't not impossible, besides a shame: 
 The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain, 
 You once have seen, but ne'er will see again : 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 
 And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree 
 
 In many a nameless being we retrace, 
 Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 
 J.ike the lost Pleiad ' seen no more below. 
 
 XV. 
 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 ! 
 
 XVI. 
 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 tnen, 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 Shaitspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
 
 As very fair, bit et suspect in fame, 
 And i-> this day, from Venice to Verona, 
 
 Siu:h matters may be probably the same, 
 Exr:c|it that since those times was never known a 
 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
 To suffocate a \vi> no more than twenty, 
 Boc-a.ise she had a "cavalier gervente." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
 
 Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
 Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 
 
 Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
 Bat worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 
 
 When weary of the matrimonial tether 
 His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
 But takes at once another, or another's. 
 
 XIX. 
 Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 
 
 You should not, I '11 describe it you exactly ; 
 'T is 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. 
 
 XX. 
 And up and down the long canals they go, 
 
 And under the 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 woful things belong, 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
 Like mourning coaches when the funeral 's done. 
 
 , XXI. 
 But to my story. 'T was 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 see 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
 
 Of time, anil time return'd the 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 she shone all smiles, and seom'd to flattet 
 Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 
 XXIV. 
 She was a married woman ; 't is convenient, 
 
 Because in Christian countries 't is a niie 
 To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
 
 Whereas if single ladies play the fool, 
 (Unless within the period intcrvenient, 
 
 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 k.
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 21 i 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
 
 And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
 And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 
 
 (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 
 His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
 
 For thence she could discern the ship with ease : 
 He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 1 
 
 XXVI. 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 
 Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 
 Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, 
 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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 But several years elapsed since they had met ; 
 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
 That he had somehow biunder'd into debt, 
 
 And did not like the thoughts of steering home; 
 And there were several offer'd any bet, 
 
 Or that 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. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 T is said that their last parting was 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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
 
 And thought of wearrg weeds, as well she might ; 
 She almost lost all appetite for victual, 
 
 And could not s'^ep with ense alone at night ; 
 She deetn'H the window-frames and shutters brittle 
 
 Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
 And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
 With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 
 
 XXX. 
 She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
 
 If only you will but oppose their choice?) 
 Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
 And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
 A man some women like, and yet abuse 
 A coxcomb was he hy the public voice : 
 A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
 And in his pleasures ol srreat liberality. 
 
 XXXI. 
 And then he was a coi "t, and then he knew 
 
 Music and dancing, l>dd!ing, French, and Tuscan ; 
 The last not easy, bi : t known to you, 
 
 For few Italian? s',rak the right Etruscan. 
 He was n critic u'-o r . operas too, 
 
 An ! knew r.H nicies of the sock and buskin ; 
 And no Vv>oi:an MjJirncs ?ou!'l endure a 
 S-.'ng. ocenp. or -r wheu h5 cried " seccatura." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 lis " bravo" was decisive, tor that sound 
 
 Hush'd " academic" sigli'd in silent awe ; 
 The fiddlers trembled as he look'J 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 fathoms under the Riaito. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 He patronized the improvvisatori, 
 
 Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
 Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also teli A story, 
 
 Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
 Italians can be, though in this the:r glory 
 
 Must surely yield the palm to that which France bur ; 
 [n short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
 And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 
 
 So that no sort of female could complain, 
 Although they 're now and then a little clamorous, 
 
 He never put the pretty souls in pain : 
 His heart was one of those which most enamour us. 
 
 Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
 He was a lover of the good old school, 
 Who still become more constant as they cool. 
 
 XXXV. 
 No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
 
 A female head, however sage and steady 
 With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
 
 In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
 
 And she had waited several years already ; 
 And really if a man won't let us know 
 That he 's alive, he 's dead, 01 should be so. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
 
 (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin), 
 'T is, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
 
 I can't teH who first brought the custom in, 
 But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common, 
 
 And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 
 And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
 A second marriage which corrupts the fast. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
 
 But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
 The Spaniards call the person a " Curtejo,"* 
 
 For the same mode subsists in Spain, though reccM . 
 In short if reaches from the Po to Teio, 
 
 And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 
 But Heaven preserve Old England from such course* 
 Or what becomes of damage and divorces? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 However, I still think, with all due deference 
 
 To the fair single part of the creation, 
 That married ladies should preserve the preference 
 
 In tete-b-tctc or general conversation 
 And this I say without peculiar referenc* 
 
 To England, France, or any other natiii 
 Because they know the world, and are t eaws. 
 And being natural, nar.iral.r please.
 
 JIG 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 T is true, your budding Miss is very charming, 
 But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
 
 So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, 
 All 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. 
 
 XL. 
 
 But " Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 
 
 Used in politest circles to express 
 fhis 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. 
 
 XLI. 
 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. 
 
 XLII. 
 I Uko 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 : 
 . know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
 Reeling with grapes red vagons choke the way 
 IP. England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 XLin. 
 
 I also like to dine on becaficas, 
 
 To see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
 Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 
 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
 But with all heaven t' himself; that day will break as 
 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
 That sort of farthing-candle light which glimmers 
 Wnere reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. 
 
 XLiV. 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
 ^nd sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
 
 With syllables which breathe of the sweet south, 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
 
 I'nat not a single accent seems uncouth, 
 Line our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
 Whicn we 're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 
 
 XLV. 
 I like the women too (forgive my folly), 
 
 Froi. the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 
 And lai ge black eyes that flash on you a volley 
 
 Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
 
 But clear, and wi>h a wild and liquid glance, 
 rleart en her lips, and soui within her eyes, 
 Soft as her dime, and sunny as her skies. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 
 Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael, 4 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 Ivre, 
 Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
 While yet Canova can create below. * 
 
 XLVH. 
 
 " 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 the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it) 
 I like a parliamentary debate, 
 Particularly when 't is not too late ; 
 
 XLVIII. 
 I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 
 
 I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear ; 
 J 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. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
 
 Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's deb,'. 
 Our little riots just to show we 're 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 lories. 
 
 L. 
 But to my tale of Laura, for I find 
 
 Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 
 
 And, therefore, may the reader too 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. 
 
 LI. 
 Oh ! that I had the art of easy writing 
 
 What should be easy reading ! could I scak 
 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. 
 
 Jfoic. 
 In talking thns, the writer, more especially 
 
 Of women, woiOd 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 kpow, without the sex, our sonnets 
 
 Would seem unfinbh'd like their untrimm'il bonnet* 
 (Signed! Printer'* Dtfii
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 21 
 
 LII. 
 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person 
 
 (A broken dandy lately on my travels), 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
 
 The first that 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
 
 VVhwh tasted, 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 But on the whole they were a happy pair, 
 
 As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 
 
 Their chains so slight, 't was not worth while to break 
 
 them: 
 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. 
 
 LV. 
 But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
 
 Would love be ? What would youth be without love ? 
 Vouth lends its 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, the reason why old fellows 
 Arc always so preposterously jealous. 
 
 LVI. 
 It was the Carnival, as I have said 
 
 Some six-and-thirty stanzas back, and so 
 Laura the usual preparations made, 
 
 Which you do when your mind 's made up to go 
 To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
 
 Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
 The only difference known between the cases 
 Is here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces." 
 
 LVII. 
 Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 
 
 A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
 Fresh 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. 
 
 LVIII. 
 They went to the Ridotto ; 't is a hall 
 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance again : 
 Its proper name, perhaps, were a mask'd ball, 
 
 But that 's of no importance to my strain ; 
 T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
 The company is " mixt" (the phrase I quote is, 
 la muck as saying, they're below your notice), 
 w2 33 
 
 LIX. 
 
 'or a "mixt company" implies, that, save 
 
 Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
 iVhom you may bow to without looking grave, 
 
 The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 Of public places, where they basely brave 
 
 The fashionable stare of twenty score 
 Jf well-bred persons, called "the world;" but I, 
 Although I know them, really don't know why. 
 
 LX. 
 This is the case in England ; at least was 
 
 During the dynasty of dandies, now 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 
 Of imitated imitators : how 
 Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
 
 The demagogues of fashion : all below 
 Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
 By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 
 
 LXI. 
 Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
 
 Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
 Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
 
 A blundering novice in his new French grammar , 
 Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
 
 And as for fortune but I dare not d n her, 
 Became were I to ponder to infinity, 
 The more I should believe in her divinity. 
 
 LXH. 
 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 bounties to disparage, 
 We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see jet 
 
 How much she '11 make amends for past miscarriag* 
 Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune, 
 Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 
 
 LXII1. 
 To turn, 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 began, I can 't well break it, 
 
 But must keep time and tune like public singers : 
 But if I once get through my present measure, 
 I '11 take another when I 'm next at leisure. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto 't is 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 sonow 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I '11 make, or find 
 Something shall leave it half an hour behind. 
 
 LXV. 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on 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 . 
 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; 
 She then surveys, condemns, but pities stui 
 Her dearest friends for being drest to SL
 
 218 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 One lias 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 iook '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 '11 see no more !" 
 
 For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
 Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
 
 She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
 And, till 't was 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. 
 
 LXVIH. 
 
 For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
 
 Why naughty women but I won't discuss 
 
 A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
 
 I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
 And if I were but in a gown and band, 
 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 I 'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
 Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 
 
 LXIX. 
 While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 
 So that her female friends, with envy 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 seejn'd to stare 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 lie 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 ; 
 'T is said they use no better than a dog any 
 
 Poor woman, whom the^ purchase like a pad : 
 They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
 Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 
 
 LXX1. 
 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 j 
 
 An</ as the Turks abhor long conversations, 
 Triiir days are either pass'd in doing nothing, 
 Oi outhing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 
 
 LXXII. 
 They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 
 
 N<r write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
 Wer- never caught in epigram or witticism, 
 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, 
 In liai.uns learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 
 
 Bui luckily these beauties are no " blues," 
 No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
 
 Tnaf charming passage in the last new poem." 
 
 LXXIH. 
 
 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 ! . 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A sulking oracle of awful phrase, 
 
 The approving " Good /" (by no means GOOD in taw| 
 Humming like files 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 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 One hates an author, that 's all author, fellows 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 
 
 So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 
 
 One don't know what to say to them, or think, 
 
 Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
 
 Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 
 
 These unquench'd snuffings of the midnignt taper. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 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 brothers, 
 
 Who think of something else besides the pen ; 
 But for the children of the " mighty mother's," 
 
 The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 
 I leave them to their daily "tea is ready," 
 Snug coterie, and literary lady. 
 LXXVII. 
 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 Why I tnank God for that is no great matter, 
 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
 
 I '11 keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 
 I fear I have a little turn for satire, 
 
 And yet methinks the older that one grows 
 Inclines us more to iaugh than scold thoug 
 Leaves us so doub'v serious shortly alter
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 21* 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 On, mirth and innocence ! Oh, milk and water ! 
 
 Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
 In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 
 
 Abominable man no more allays 
 His thirst with suih pure beverage. No matter, 
 
 I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
 Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy! 
 Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 
 Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honour, 
 
 And while I please to stare, you '11 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. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
 
 A turn of time at which I would advise 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or- partaking 
 
 In any other kind of exercise, 
 To make their preparations for forsaking 
 
 The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 
 Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
 His blushes make them look a little pale. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I 've seen some balls and revels in my tune, 
 And staid them over for some silly reason 
 
 And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime), 
 To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
 
 And 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. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The name of this Aurora I '11 not mention, 
 
 Although I might, for she was nought to me 
 More tnan that patent work of God's invention, 
 
 A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
 But writing names would merit reprehension, 
 
 Yet, if you like to find out this fair she, 
 At the next London or Parisian ball 
 You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
 
 To meet the day-light 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 styiuld not. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 fn 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. 
 \t home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
 
 And here a sentrv stands within your calling ; 
 But, tor all that, there is a deal of swearing, 
 A.PI) nauseous words oast mentioning or bearing. 
 
 LX xxvii. 
 
 The count and Laura found their boat it 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 scandal 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. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 " Sir," said the count, with brow exceeding grave, 
 
 " Your unexpected presence here will make 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import ! But perhaps 't is a mistake ; 
 I hope it is so ; and at once to waive 
 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
 " Sir," (quoth the Turk) "'t is no mistake at all. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 That lady is my wife !" Much wonder paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 
 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
 Italian females don 't do so outright ; 
 
 They only call a little on their saints, 
 
 And then come to themselves, almost or quite : 
 
 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling fa cut, 
 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 
 
 xc. 
 
 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." 
 
 XCI. 
 They enter'd, and for coffee call'd, it came, 
 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
 Although the way they make it's not the same. 
 
 Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
 To speak, cries, " Beppo ! what 's your pagan name * 
 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 And how came you to keep away so long ? 
 Are you not sensible 't was very wrong ? 
 
 XCH. 
 " And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 
 
 With any other women did you wive ? 
 Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 
 
 Well, that 's the prettiest shawl as I 'm alive ! 
 You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no poik. 
 
 And how so many years did you contrive 
 To-^Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I nevsr 
 Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver * 
 
 XCIII. 
 " Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you no' 
 
 It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : 
 Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot 
 
 Pray, don't you think the weather here s co.des f 
 How do I look ? you sha'n't stir froi "his spot 
 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the story known. 
 How short vour hair is ! Lord ! how grav it 's ^rowi- "*
 
 220 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 xcrv. 
 
 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. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
 Keen the desire to see his home again, 
 
 He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
 And not be always thieving on the main ; 
 
 Lonely he felt, at times, as 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. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten) cash, 
 He then embark'd with risk of life and limb, 
 
 And got clear off, although 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, 
 
 Fxcept three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 'Fhey reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
 And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 
 
 And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 
 With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 
 
 However, he got off" by this evading, 
 
 Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
 
 And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
 
 His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 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 laugh of then 
 For stories, but / don't believe the half of them. 
 
 XCIX. 
 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 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 
 Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 
 'T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
 But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xiv, line 8. 
 
 Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below. 
 
 " Q.IKC septern dici sez tamen esso sclent." OniiL 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxv, line 8. 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Berpo 
 Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxvii, line 3. 
 The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo." 
 "Cortejo" is pronounced " Corte/io," with an as- 
 pirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
 what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
 though the practice is as common as in any tramontane 
 country whatever. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xlvi, line 3. 
 Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies. 
 For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael'* 
 death, see his Lives. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 " CELUI qui remplissait alors cette place etoit un 
 gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le 
 palatinat de Padolie ; il avail et6 elevd page de Jean 
 Casimir, et avail pris a sa cour quelque teinture des 
 nelles-letlres. Une intrigue qu'il eul dans sa jeunesse 
 avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais, ayant e"te 
 decouverte, le mari le fil Her tout nu sur un cheval 
 f arouche, et le laissa aller en cet e'tat. Le chetal, qui 
 e"tait du pays de 1'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Ma- 
 zcppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques 
 paysans le secoururent : il resta long-temps parmi eux, 
 et se signala dans olusieurs courses contre les Tartares. 
 La superiorite ae ses lutnieres lui donna une grande 
 r.onside'ratjon parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'aug- 
 mciitant de jr-ur en jour, obligea le Czar k le faire 
 Princf ae 1'Uitraine." 
 
 Voi.rAiRE, HitUnre de Charles XII. p. 196. 
 
 " Le roi fuyanl el poursuivi eut son cheva! tue" sous 
 lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse", ct perdant toul son sang, 
 lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois k cheval, dans 
 la-fuitc, ce conqudrant qui n'avail pu y monter pen- 
 dant la balaille." 
 
 VOLTAIRE, Hlstoire de Charles XII. p. 216. 
 
 " Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cav- 
 aliers. Le carrosse ou il 6tait rompit dans la marche ; 
 on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il 
 s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage 
 ne pouvanl plus suppleer k ses forces e'puise'es, les dou- 
 leurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par 
 la fatigue, son cheval t?tant tombe de lassitude, il st 
 coucha quelques heurcs, au pied d'un arbre, en danger 
 d'filre surpris k tout moment par les vainqueurs qui I* 
 cherchaient de tons cotes." 
 
 VOLTAIRE, Histoire dt f3t >nrlef XII. f 218.
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 i. 
 
 T WAS 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. 
 
 n. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die ; 
 
 The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
 
 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 7 
 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. 
 
 Bit 
 
 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 are fellows in their need. 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade 
 Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
 The Ukraine's helms n, calm and bold ; 
 
 But first, outspent with this long course, 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
 And made for him a leafy bed, 
 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 For until now he had the dread 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
 But he was hardy as his lord, 
 And little cared for bed and board ; 
 But spirited and docile too, 
 Whate'er was to be done, would do ; 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
 All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
 And knew him in the midst of all : 
 Though thousands were around, and night. 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 Felt if his arms in order good 
 The long day's march had well withstood 
 If still the powder fill'd the pan, 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
 And whether they had chafed his belt- 
 Arid next the venerable man, 
 From out his haversack and can, 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 The whole or portion ofler'd then, 
 With far less of inquietude 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 With smiles partook a moment there, 
 To force of cheer a greater show, 
 And seem above both wounds and woe ; 
 And then he said " Of all our band, 
 Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 Can less have said, or more have done, 
 Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
 So fit a pair had never birth, 
 Since Alexander's days till now^ 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 Mazeppa answer'd " 111 betide 
 The school wherein I leam'd to ride !" 
 Quoth Charles "Old hetman, wherefore MS 
 Since thou hast leam'd the art so well ?" 
 Mazeppa said " 'T were long to tell ; 
 And we have many a league to go 
 With every now and then a blow, 
 And ten to one at least the foe, 
 Before our steeds may graze at east 
 Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
 And, sire, your limbs have need of r*i, 
 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 Of this your troop." "But I reques.. 
 Said Sweden's monarch, "th<u wilt tifi
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 This tale of i hine, and I may reap 
 Perchance frcm 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 '11 track 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 I think 't was in my twentieth spring, 
 Ay, 'l was, 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 ffites 
 Yll 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 some verses, 
 And sign'd my odes, Despairing Thirsts. 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 
 A count of far and high descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine ; ' 
 And ne 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, 
 
 lie thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion 
 
 His junior she by thirty years 
 tjrew 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 dances, 
 Awaited but the usual chances, 
 Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender, 
 To deck her count with titles given, 
 'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Jf these who have deserved them mast. 
 V. 
 
 I \<u* a goodly stripling then ; 
 
 At seventy years I so may say, 
 
 ) This comparison of a " salt mine " may perhaps be per- 
 mitted to i Pulp, u the wealth of the country consign greatly 
 10 tho fait mine! 
 
 That there were few, or boys cr men, 
 
 Who, in my dawning time of day, 
 Of vassal or c r Vnight's degree, 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 For I had strength, youth, 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 agw 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 With years, we know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 
 But let me on : Theresa's form 
 Methinks it glides before me now, 
 Between me and yon chesnut'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 that 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 beholds her face within. 
 A cheek and lip but why proceed? 
 
 I loved her then I love her still ; 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes in good 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. 
 
 VI 
 
 " We met we gazed I saw, and sigh'd, 
 
 She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 
 We hear and see, but none defines 
 
 Involuntary sparks of thought, 
 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought. 
 
 And form a strange intelligence, 
 
 Alike mysterious and intense, 
 
 Which link the burning chain that binds. 
 
 Without their will, young hearts and minda ; 
 
 Conveving, as the electric wire, 
 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. 
 
 I saw, and sigh'd in silence wept, 
 
 And still reluctant distance kept,
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 22,1 
 
 Until I was made known to her, 
 And we might then and there confer 
 Without suspicion then, even then, 
 
 1 long'd, and was 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 chance, which I forget : 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to hear, and oh ! to 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 
 Jfet bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did pass 
 
 Even as a flash of lightning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair ; 
 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 
 All incoherent as they were 
 Their eloquence was little worth, 
 But yet she listen'd 't is enough 
 
 Who listens once will listen twice ; 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I loved, and was beloved again 
 They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
 Those gentle frailties : if 't is true, 
 I shorten all my joy or pain, 
 To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
 But all men are not born to reign, 
 Or o'er their passions, or, as you, 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 I am or rather was a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 The like control But to resume: 
 I loved, and was beloved again ; 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
 
 But yet where happiness ends in pain. 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 Was fiery expectation's dower. 
 My days and nighls were nothing all 
 Except that hour, which doth recall 
 In the long lapse from youth to age 
 No other like itself I 'd give 
 The Ukraine back again to live 
 It o'er once more and be a page, 
 Th happy page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 Save nature's gift of youth and health 
 We met in secret doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that I would have given 
 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " For lovers there are many eyes, 
 And such there were on us: the devil 
 On such occasions should be civil 
 
 The devil ! I 'in loth to do him wrong. 
 It might be some untoward saint, 
 
 Who would not be at rest too long, 
 But to his pious bile gave vent 
 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 
 The count was something more than wroth 
 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
 
 All cap-h-pic, from head to heel, 
 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? 
 
 'T was near his castle, far away 
 From city or from succour near, 
 
 And almost on the break of day ; 
 
 I did not think to see another, 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
 And, it may be, a saint or two, 
 
 As I resign'd me to my fate, 
 
 They led me to the castle gate : 
 
 Theresa's doom I never knew, 
 
 Our lot was henceforth 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 have got, 
 
 While he was highest of his line : 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 The first of men, nor less he deeni'd 
 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 
 'Sdeath ! with a page perchance a kir.g 
 
 Had reconciled him to the thing : 
 
 But with a stripling of a page 
 
 I felt but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Bring forth the horse !' the horse was brr 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 Who look'd as though the speed of though! 
 Were in his limbs : but he was wild, 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undelileti- 
 
 'T was but a day he had been caught . 
 And snorting, with erected msne, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 In the full foam of wrath and Jreau 
 To me the desert-Jwrn was led r
 
 -224 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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 : 
 
 T was 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 sadden wrath I wrench'd my head, 
 
 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
 And writhing half my form about, 
 HowPd back my cune ; but 'midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed, 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
 It rexes me for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it wefl in after days : 
 There is not of that castle gate, 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 Nor of its fields a Made of grass, 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
 
 Where stood lite hearth-stone of the ball ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass, 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
 I saw its turrets in a Maze, 
 Their crackling battlements all deft, 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof; 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 
 
 They Bale thought that day of pain, 
 When lanch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 
 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice fire thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The count for his uncourteous ride. 
 They piayM me (ben a bitter prank, 
 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
 fney bound me to his foaming flank : 
 Atkagth I play'd them one as frank- 
 Far time at last sets all things even 
 
 And if we do but watch the boor, 
 
 Tocrc BCTCT jret wu bmn 
 fVhich could evade, if unforgrvtn, 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 XL 
 
 "Away, away, my steed and I, 
 Upon the pinions of the wind, 
 Ai nonan dwdfings left behind ; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky, 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is dkrqnerM with the northern light : 
 Towa village none were on oar track, 
 Bo* a wild plam of far extent, 
 
 And bounded by a fort si black : 
 
 And, save the scarrx-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 Spain's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod : 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray > 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by 
 I couJd have answer'd with a sigh- 
 But fast we fled, away, away 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane : 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career : 
 At times I almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed : 
 But no my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoin limbs from their agony 
 Increased his fury and affright : 
 I tried ray voice, 't was faint and low, 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o r er , 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 xn. 
 
 " We nearM the wild wood 't was so wide, 
 
 I saw no bounds on either side : 
 
 *T was 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 voung and green. 
 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 
 Ere strown bv those autumnal eves 
 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 
 DiscoloorM with a Bfeless 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 
 
 T was a wild waste of underwood, 
 
 And here and there a chesnut stood, 
 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 But for apart and well it were, 
 Or else a different lot were mine 
 The boughs gave way, and did not fear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength 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 behind 
 By night I heard them on the track, 
 Their troop came hard upcn our back
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 223 
 
 With their long gallop, which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
 Where'er we flew they foilow'd on, 
 Nor left us roth the nK>rning sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
 At daybreak winding through the wood, 
 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 (be. 
 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, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
 Than through the forest-paths he past 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour' d child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer stiB 
 A woman piqued who has her will. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " The wood was past ; 't was 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 weu 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 rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk 7 
 The earth gave way, the skies roU'd round, 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 But err'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 sx.w no farther: he who dies 
 Con die no more than then I died. 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 I felt as on a plank at sea, 
 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 
 X " ^4 
 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 Fever begins upon the brain; 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
 But a confusion worse than such : 
 I own that I should deem it much, 
 Dying, to 'eel 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 ami now. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "My thoughts came back; where was I? 
 
 And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 Life reassumed its lingering bold, 
 And throb by throb ; till grown a pang 
 
 Which f or 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 retum'd, though dim, alas ! 
 And thickerfd, as it were, with glass. 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 There was a gleam too of the sky, 
 Studded with stars ; it is no dream ; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are half-way struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shoie. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance. 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiffen'd nrabs were rebapuzed, 
 My coursers broad breast proudly braves, 
 And dashes off the ascending waves, 
 And onward we advance ! 
 We reach the slippery shore at length 
 
 A haven I but bole prized, 
 For all behind was dark and drear, 
 And all before was night aad fear. 
 How many hours of night or day 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 I could not leU ; I scarcely knew 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still snain 
 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 We gain the top : a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seem* 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams, 
 To stretch beyond the sight; 
 And here and there a speck of white, 
 
 Or scattered spot of dusky green. 
 In masses broke into the light, 
 AM rose the moon upon my right. 
 
 But nought distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste, would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate; 
 No twinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuu* rate 
 To make him merry with my
 
 5*6 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Thai very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
 Although detected, welcome still, 
 Reminding me, through every ill, 
 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Onward we went but slack and slow ; 
 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour ; 
 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born lameness 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 bonds so starkly tied- 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 
 Which but 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 ! 
 Metliought 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 fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around behind before : 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
 No sign of travel none of toil ; 
 The very ir was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
 Panting as if his heart would burst, 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
 And still we were or seem'd alone : 
 At length, 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 ! 
 Wiui flowing tail, and flying mane, 
 Wide nostrils never stretch'd by pain, 
 Mouths Oioodless to the bit or rein, 
 
 And feet that iron never shod, 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh, 
 
 He answer'd, and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable, 
 
 His first and last carerr is done ! 
 On came the troop they saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 They stop they start they snuff' 'he air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 Approach, retire, wheel round anH 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 his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort they foam neigh swerve 
 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 stiffening 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 toil round, 
 With just enough of life to see 
 My last of suns go down on me, 
 In hopeless certainty of mind, 
 That makes us feel at length reslgn'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 lear, 
 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
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 The wrelcK 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, 
 llopaid 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 ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 '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 sky, 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fly, 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die, 
 
 Ere his repast begun ; 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before ; 
 I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
 And once so near me he alit 
 
 1 could hav-e smote, but lack'd the strength; 
 But the slight motion of my hand, 
 And feeble scratching of the sand, 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 
 
 Together scared him off at length. 
 I know no more my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 And then subsiding back to death, 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense, 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " I woke Where was I ? Do I see 
 A human face look down on me 7 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
 Thai watches me with gentle glance? 
 
 I closed my own again once more, 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
 Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
 
 The sparkle of her eye t caugm, 
 Even with my first return of though,.; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 I 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 : 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
 She smiled and I essay'd to speak, 
 
 But fail'd and she approach'd, and mad* 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 And then her hand on mine she laid, 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers ne'er was voice so sweet 
 Even music follow'd her light feet ! 
 
 But those she call'd were not awake, 
 And she went forth ; but ere she pass'd, 
 Another look on me she cast, 
 
 Another sign she made, to say, 
 That I had 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 1 felt too much alone. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " She came with mother and with sm-' 
 What need of more 7 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. 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess? 
 
 Let-none despond, let none despair ! 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 May see our courser's graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 Comrades, good night!" The hetman threw 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 
 With leafy couch alitady made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him, who took his rest whenever 
 The hour arrived, no matter wnere : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steer*. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, - 
 
 The king had been an hour isleer
 
 % 228 ^ 
 
 J&auftretr; 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 " There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 ABBOT or ST. MAURICE. 
 
 MANUEL. 
 
 HERMAN-. 
 
 WITCH or THE ALPS. 
 
 ARIMANES. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 THE DESTINIES. 
 
 SPIRITS, etc. 
 
 The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps 
 partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
 Mountains. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 A Gothic Gallery. Time, Midnight. 
 
 MANFRED (alone). 
 
 The lamp must be replenish'*!, but even then 
 If. will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers if I slumber are not sleep, 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 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 
 The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the wise : 
 Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
 The tree of knowledge is not that of life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these 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 
 But this avail'd not : good or evil, life, 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
 Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, 
 Or lurking love of something on the earth. 
 Now to my task 
 
 Mysterious Agency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded universe! 
 Vhom I have sought in darkness and In light 
 Ve. 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- 
 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 
 Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 
 
 [Apavtt 
 
 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 ! 
 
 [ApauM. 
 
 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 gal 
 lery; it is stationary ; and a voice it heard 
 singing.] 
 
 FIRST SPIRIT. 
 
 Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
 From my mansion in the cloud, 
 Which the breath of twilight builds, 
 And the summer's sunset 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 crown'd 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, the 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 THIRD SPIRI r 
 In the blue depth of the waters, 
 Where the wave hath no strife
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 22U 
 
 Where the wind is a stranger, 
 
 And the sea-snake hath life, 
 Where the mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells ; 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells; 
 O'er my calm hall of coral 
 
 The deep echo 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 ; 
 [ have quitted my birth-place, 
 
 Thy bidding to bide 
 fliy spell hath subdued me, 
 
 Thy will be my guide ! 
 
 FIFTH SPIRIT. 
 
 I 'm the rider of the wind, 
 
 The stirrer of the storm ; 
 fhe hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet with lightning warm ; 
 fo speed to thcc, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 
 'T will sink ere night be past. 
 
 SIXTH SPIRIT. 
 
 My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
 Why doth thy magic torture me with light 7 
 
 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 on with innate force, 
 
 Without a sphere, without a course, 
 
 A bright deformity on high, 
 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 
 And thou ! beneath its influence 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 partly with a thing like thee 
 
 What wouldst thou, child of clay, with me ? 
 
 THE SEVEN SPIRITS. 
 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 
 Are at thy beck and bidding, child of clay ! 
 
 Before thee, at thy quest, their spirits are 
 What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals Bay? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Forgetfulne 
 I 2 
 
 FIRST SPIRIT. 
 
 Of what of whom and whj 7 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Obliyion, self-oblivion- 
 Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
 But thou may'st die. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Will death bestow it on me T 
 
 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 ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Ye mock me but the power which brought ye her* 
 Hath 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 I 
 Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
 Is even in thine own words. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Why say ye BO ? 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Ii^ as thou say'at, thine essence be as ours, 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain , 
 Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Say; 
 
 What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again 
 Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of dayf 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Accursed ! what have, I to do with days ? 
 They are too long already. Hence begone ! 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee service . 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes T 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 No, none : yet stay one moment, ere we part- 
 I would behold ye face to face. I hew 
 Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounas, 
 As music on the waters ; and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star , 
 But nothing more. Approach me as ye are. 
 Or one, or at., in your accustom'd fornw.
 
 230 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 We have no forms beyond (he elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 Kut choose a form in that we will appear. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
 Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
 As unto him may seem most fitting Come ! 
 
 SEVENTH SPIRIT. 
 
 {Appearing m the shape of a beautiful female figure') 
 
 Behold! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
 
 Art not a madness and a mockery, 
 
 I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 
 
 And we again will be [The figure vanishes. 
 
 My heart is crush'd ! 
 
 [MANFRED falls senseless. 
 (A voice is heard in the Incantation which fallows'). 
 
 When the moon is on the wave, 
 And the glow-worm in the grass, 
 
 And the meteor on the grave, 
 And the wisp on the morass ; 
 
 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, 
 
 There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 
 By a power to thee unknown, 
 
 Thou canst never be alone ; 
 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
 
 Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 
 
 And for ever shall thou dwell 
 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by, 
 
 Thou shall 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 shall marvel I am not 
 
 As thy shadow on the spot, 
 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And <. 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 fuee 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 dirt disth 
 
 An essonce which hath strength to kill : 
 
 From tliy own heart I then did wring 
 
 Pbe hUck b'on<l in its bVtkest 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 harm ; 
 
 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 I pour the vial 
 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 
 Shall be in thy destiny ; 
 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 
 To thy wish, but as a fear ; 
 
 Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 
 
 And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 
 
 O'er thy heart and brain together 
 
 Hath the word been pass'd now wither ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Mountain of the Jungfrau. Time, Morning 
 MANFRED alone upon the Cliff's. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 The spirits I have raised abandon me 
 
 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 gulf'd in darkness, 
 
 It is not of my search. My mother earth ! 
 
 And thou, fresh breaking day, and you, ye mo 
 
 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 ; 
 
 [ 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 ; 
 
 [f 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 
 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
 Well mav'st thou swoop so near me I rhohlo he
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 231 
 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 
 Where the eve 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! 
 
 Bui we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 
 The breath of degradation and of pride, 
 
 Contending 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 bells of the sauntering herd ; 
 My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment born and dying 
 With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 CHAMOIS 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 distanre. 
 I will approach him nearer. 
 
 MANFRED (not perceiving the other). 
 
 To be thus 
 
 Gray-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 furrow'd o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years ; 
 And hours all tortured into ages hours 
 Which I outlive! Ye toppling crags of ice! 
 fe avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
 ( 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. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
 I Ml warn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curlinw fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
 *jike foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, 
 vVhose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
 Heao'd with the damn'd like pebbles. I am giddy. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER, 
 
 I must approach him cautiously ; f near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Mountains have fallen, 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
 Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction's splintcit, 
 Dai.. ming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
 Which crusli'd the waters into mist, and made 
 Their fountains find another channel thus, 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenburg 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Friend ! have a care, 
 
 Tour next step may be fatal ! for the love 
 Of him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 
 
 MANFRED (not keyring him). 
 Such would have been for me a fitting tomb ; 
 My bones had then been quiet in their depth : 
 They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
 For the wind's pastime as thus thus they shall be- 
 In this one plunge. Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully 
 Ye were not meant for me Earth ! take these atomi '. 
 [As MANFRED is in act to spring from the clif, 
 the CHAMOIS HUNTER seizes and retains him 
 with a sudden grasp.] 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Hold, madman! though aweary of thy life, 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood. 
 Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I am most sick at heart nay, grasp me not 
 
 I am all feebleness the mountains whirl 
 
 Spinning around me I grow blind. What art thou ? 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 I '11 answer that anon. Away with me 
 
 The clouds grow thicker there now lean on me 
 
 Place your foot here here, take this staff, and cling 
 
 A moment to that shrub 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 '11 quickly find a surer footing, 
 
 And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
 
 Hath wash'd since winter. Come, 'tis bravely done 
 
 You should have been a hunter. Follow roe. 
 
 [As they descend the rocks with difficulty, Vu 
 scene closes.] 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 
 MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTEI. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 No, no yet pause thou must not yet go fortn 
 Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
 To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
 When thou art better, I will be thy guide- 
 But whither? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 It imports not : I do know 
 My route full well, and need no further guidance
 
 2.12 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 fhy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage 
 Or.e of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
 Look o'er the lower valleys which of these 
 May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
 My way of life leads me but rarely down 
 T 5 bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
 Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
 Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
 I know from childhood which of these is thine ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 No matter. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Well, sir, pardon me the question, 
 And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
 'T is of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
 'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
 Let it do thus for thine Come, pledge me fairly. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Away, away ! there 's blood upon the brim ! 
 Will it then never never sink in the earth ? 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander from thee. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 { say 'tis blood my blood ! the pure warm stream 
 Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
 When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
 And loved each other as we should not love, 
 And this was shed : but still it rises up, 
 Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
 Where thou art not and I shall never be. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin, 
 Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
 Thy dread and sufferance be. there 's comfort yet 
 The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Patience, and patience ! Hence that word was made 
 For brutes of burthen, nor for birds of prey ; 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine 
 I am not of thine order. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 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. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Do I not bear it ? Look on me I live. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 fhis is convulsion, and no healthful life. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
 Hath scarce been set ; 1 am thine elder far. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Think's! thou existence doth depend oh time ? 
 It doth . but actions are our epochs : mine 
 Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
 Cndle&, and all alike as sands on the shore, 
 Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
 v--on Mid cold, on which the wild wares break. 
 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
 Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Alas ! he 's mad but yet I must not leave him. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I would I were for then the things I see 
 Would be but a distemper'd dream. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 What is it 
 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon 'l 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Myself and thee a peasant of the Alps 
 
 Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
 
 And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 
 
 Thy self-respect, graled on innocent thoughts ; 
 
 Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils. 
 
 By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
 
 Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
 
 With cross and garland over i's 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 ! 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 No, friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
 My lot with living being : I can bear 
 However wretchedly, 't is still to bear 
 In life what others could not brook to dream, 
 But perish in their slumber. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 And with this 
 
 This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
 Canst thou be black with evil? say not so. 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
 Upon his enemies? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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. 
 
 CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
 
 Heaven give thee rest ! 
 And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
 V4NFRED. 
 
 I need them not, 
 
 But can endure thy pity. I depart 
 'T is time farewell ! Here 's gold, and thanks for thee- 
 No words it i thy due Follow me not 
 I know my path the mountain peril 's past : 
 And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 
 
 [Exit MANFRED. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A lower 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's tai., 
 The giant steed, to be bestrode by Death 
 AM told in the Apocalypse. No eve*
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 233 
 
 But mint 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. 
 
 [MANFRED takes some of the water into the 
 palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, 
 muttering the adjuration. After a pause, 
 the WITCH OF THE ALPS rise* beneath the 
 arch of the sunbeam of the torrent. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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 youth, 
 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 
 Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
 
 The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 
 Beautiful spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a son 
 
 Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 
 At times to commune with them if that he 
 
 Avail him of his spells to call thee thus, 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 Son of earth ! 
 
 I know thcc, 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 sufferings. 
 I have expected this what wouldst thou with me? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 To look upon thy beauty nothing further. 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 What could be the quest 
 
 Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 A boon ; 
 Bat why should I repeat it? 't were in rain. 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same ; 
 
 My pang shall find a voice. From 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 ; 
 
 My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
 
 Made, me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
 
 I h-d no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
 
 Nor 'midst the creatures of clay that girded me 
 
 W an there but one who but of her anon. 
 
 35 
 
 said, with men, and with the thoughts of mer, 
 held but slight communion : but instead, 
 fly joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
 'he difficult air of the iced mountain's lop, 
 Vhere the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
 'lit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 nto the torrent, and to roll along 
 )n the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
 Jf river-stream, or ocean, in their flow, 
 n these my early strenglh exulted ; or 
 'o follow through the night the moving moon, 
 stars and their developement ; or catch 
 dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
 Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 
 Vhile autumn winds were at their evening song. 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 ^or if the beings, of whom I was one, 
 lating to be so, cross'd me in my path, 
 felt myself degraded back to them, 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived, 
 n my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
 Vom wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust, 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
 The nights of years in sciences untaught, 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and toil, 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 As in itself hath power upon the air, 
 And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
 Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
 Vline eyes familiar with eternity, 
 iuch as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 le who from out their fountain dwellings raised 
 Eros and Anteros, 1 at Gadara, 
 As I do thee ; and with my knowledge grew 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 
 Of this most bright intelligence, until 
 
 WITCH. 
 Proceed. 
 
 MANFRSD. 
 
 Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 As I approach the core of my heart's grief- 
 But to my task. I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
 With whom I wore the chain of human ties , 
 If I had such, they seem'd not such to me 
 
 Yet there was one 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 Spare not thyself proceed. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 She was like me in lineaments her eyes, 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said, were like to mine ; 
 But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings. 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, hut with them gentler powers than mine, 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears which I had not : 
 And tenderness but that I had for her ; 
 Humility and that I never nad. 
 Her faults were mine her virtues were her owi- 
 I loved her, and destroy'd her! 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 With thy hand 7
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Not with my hand, but heart which broke her heart 
 [t gazed on mine, and wilher'd. I hare shed 
 Blood, but not hers and yet her blood was shed 
 I saw and could not stanch it, 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 And for this 
 
 A being of the race thou dost despise, 
 The order which thine own would rise above, 
 Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink 1 st back 
 To recreant mortality Away ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Daughter of Air ! I ell thee, since that hour 
 
 But words are breath look on me in my sleep, 
 
 Or watch my watchings Come and sit by me! 
 
 My solitude is solitude no more, 
 
 But peopled with the Furies. I have gnash'd 
 
 My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
 
 Then cursed myself till sunset ; I have pray'd 
 
 for madness as a blessing 't is denied me. 
 
 I have affronted death but in the war 
 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
 
 And latal things pass'd harmless the cold hand 
 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
 
 Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
 
 In phantasy, imagination, all 
 
 The affluence of my soul which one day was 
 
 A Croesus in creation I plunged deep, 
 
 But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back. 
 
 Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
 
 I plunged amidst mankind Forgetfulness 
 
 I sought in all, save where 't is 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. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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 tost. 
 
 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. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I will not swear. Obey ! and whom ? the spirits 
 Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
 Of those who served me Never ! 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 Is this all ? 
 
 Hasi thou no gentler answer? Yet bethink thee, 
 \nd pause ere thou rejectest. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I have said it. 
 
 WITCH. 
 
 n.Aih! 1 mav retire then say! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Retire ! 
 
 [The WITCH disappear!. 
 MANFRED (alone). 
 We are me fools of lime and terror: days j 
 
 Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
 Loathing our lile, 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 r^in, 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few how less than few wherein the som 
 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 spirit 
 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 fulfill'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, 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart , 
 But I can act even what I most abhor, 
 And champion human fears. The night approaches. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain, 
 
 Enter FIRST 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 put 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 't is strange they come not, 
 
 A. voice without, singing. 
 The Captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down from the throne, 
 Lay buried in torpor, 
 Forgotten and lone ;
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 235 
 
 I broke through his slumbers, 
 
 I shiver'd his chain, 
 I leagued him with numbers 
 
 He 's tyrant again ! 
 
 With the blood of a million he '11 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 
 fl'tt 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 cherish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish, 
 And evil and dread, 
 
 Envelop a nation 
 The blest are the dead, 
 Who see not the sight 
 
 Of their own desolation. 
 This work of a night, 
 
 Phis wreck of a realm this deed of my doing 
 Cor ages I 've done, and shall still be renewing ! 
 Enter tiie SECOND and THIRD DESTINIES. 
 
 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 DESTINY. 
 
 Welcome! Where's Nemesis? 
 
 SECOND DESTINY. 
 
 At some great work ; 
 But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
 
 THIRD DESTINY. 
 
 Behold she cometh. 
 
 Enter NEMESIS. 
 
 FIRST DESTINY. 
 
 Say, where hast thou been ? 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 I was dtain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
 Avenging men upon their enemies, 
 And making them repent their own revenge ; 
 (loading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
 Shapino out oracles to rule the world 
 
 r o 
 
 Afresh, for thuy were waxing out of date, 
 
 And mortals dared u> ponder for themselves, 
 
 To weigh kinjys in 'he balance, and to speak 
 
 V)f freedom, tne lorbidden fruit. Away ! 
 
 We ha vp outstaid th'; hour mount we our clouds! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The Hall of Arimanes Arimanes on m vont 
 
 Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 
 
 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 his glance the sunbeams flee ; 
 
 He moveth earthquakes rend the world asunder, 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
 
 His shadow is the pestilence ; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 
 
 And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
 To him war offers daily sacrifice ; 
 
 To him death pays his tribute ; life is his, 
 With all its infinite of agonies 
 
 And his the spirit of whatever is ! 
 
 Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS. 
 
 FIRST DESTINY. 
 
 Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
 
 His power increaseth both my sisters did 
 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 
 
 SECOND DESTINY. 
 
 Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
 
 The necks of men, bow down before his throne ' 
 
 THIRD DESTINY. 
 
 Glory to Arimanes ! we await his nod ! 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 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 fulfilled to the utmost. 
 
 Enter MANFRED. 
 
 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, clave ! 
 
 What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our sovereign ? Tremble, and obey ! 
 
 ALL THE SPIRITS. 
 
 Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay, 
 Child of the Earth 1 or dread the worst. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I know 11 , 
 And yet ye see I kneel not. 
 
 FOURTH SPIRIT. 
 
 'T will be taught thec. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 'T is taught already ; many a night on the earth, 
 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face. 
 
 And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
 
 The fulness of humiliation, for 
 
 I sutik before my vain despair, and knelt 
 
 To my own desolation.
 
 236 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 FI TH SPIRIT. 
 
 Dost thou dare 
 
 Refuse to Arirnanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
 The terror of his glory ? Crouch ! I say. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Bid him bow down to that which is above him, 
 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 DESTINY. 
 
 Hence ! Avaunt ! he 's mine, 
 Prince of the powers invisible ! this man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote : his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our own ; his knowledge and his power and will, 
 As far as is compatible with clay, 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
 And they have only taught him what we know- 
 That knowledge is not 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 his 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. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 What doth he here then ? 
 
 FIRST DESTINY. 
 
 Let him answer that. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Ye know what I have known ; and without power 
 I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond I come in quest 
 Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 What wouldst thou ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Thou canst not reply to me. 
 'Jail up the dead my question is for them. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal ? 
 
 ARIMANES. 
 
 Yea. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 Whom wouloV t 
 UiiRhurnel? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 One without a tomb call up 
 
 Asian* 
 
 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 the day ! 
 Bear what thou borest, 
 
 The heart and the form, 
 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 
 Appear ! appear ! appear ! 
 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here ' 
 
 [The phantom of ASTARTE n*e enrf 
 stands in the midst. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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 hath broken 
 
 The grave which enthrall'd thee, 
 Speak to him who hath spoken, 
 Or those who have cali'd thee ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 She is silent, 
 And in that silence I am more than answer'd 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 My power extends no further. Prince A &> 
 It rests with thee alone command h'.r -c-o> 
 
 ARIMANES. 
 
 Spirit ! obey this sceptre ! 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 Silu BtlH ! 
 
 She is not of our order, but U..c.i^ 
 To the other powers. MortJ! Jy quest n v* . 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 MA 'U RED. 
 
 Hear me, hear me 
 Astarte! my beloveo I s>peaktome: 
 I have so much enJur'-d so much endure 
 Look on me ! tho ^rave hath not changed thee !.<< 
 Than I am chtn^eJ for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 Too much, ?> I loved thee : we were not made 
 To torture *hds each other, though it were 
 The deacii^st sin to love as we have loved. 
 Say thia thou loathest me not that I do bear 
 This punishment for both that thou wilt be 
 Gnu r,f the blessed and that I shall die ; 
 F /r hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 To bind me in existence in a life 
 Which makes me shrink from immortality 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 I know not what I ask nor what I seek : 
 I feel but what thou art and what I am ; 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 The voice which was my music Speak to me 
 For I have cali'd on thee in the still night, 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd bo'ighi, 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
 Acquainted with thy vainly-echoed name, 
 Which answer'd me many things answerM me
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 23, 
 
 Spirits and men but thou wort silent all. 
 Yet speak to me ' I have outwatch'd the stars, 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of iliee. 
 Speak to me ! 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 
 This once once more ! 
 
 PHANTOM OF ASTAUTE. 
 
 Manfred ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Say on, say on 
 I live but in the sound it is thy voice ! 
 
 PHANTOM. 
 
 Manfred ! to-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 ' -MANFRED. 
 
 Yet one word more am I forgiven ? 
 
 PHANTOM. 
 
 farewell! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Say, shall we meet again? 
 
 PHANTOM. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 One word for mercy ! say, thou lovest me. 
 
 PHANTOM. 
 
 Manfred ! 
 
 [The Spirit of ASTAHTE disappears. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 She 's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
 Her words will be fulifiil'd. Return to the earth. 
 
 A SPIRIT. 
 
 He is convulsed. This is to be a mortal, 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. 
 
 ANOTHER SPIRIT. 
 
 Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 Had he been one of us, he would have made 
 An awful spirit. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 Hast thou further question 
 Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 None. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 Then for a time farewell. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ? 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
 now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 
 
 [Exit MANFRED. 
 (Scene doses.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
 MANFRED AND HERMAN. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 VTiat is the hour? 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 It wants but one till sunset, 
 \nd promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Say. 
 
 Are all things so disposal of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 All, my lord, are ready , 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 It is well : 
 Thou may's! retire. [Exit HERM i 
 
 MANFRED (alone). 
 
 There 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. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE. 
 ABBOT. 
 Peace be with Count Manfred 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Thanks, holy father ! wehome to these walls ; 
 Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Would it were so, Count . 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest ? 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Thus, without prelude: Age and zeal, my office, 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
 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 
 For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Proceed, I listen. 
 ABBOT. 
 
 'T is said thou boldest converse with the things 
 Which are forbidden to the search f 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. 
 
 MANFRED 
 
 And what are they who do avouch these thing* 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 My pious brethren the scared peasantry 
 Even thy own vassals who do look on t ice
 
 BYRON 1 S WORKS. 
 
 W:th most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Take it. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 I come to save, and not destroy 
 I would not pry into thy secret sou! ; 
 But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
 For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
 With tie trvs church, and through the churcn to Heaven. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I hear thee. This b toy reply ; whatever 
 
 I may ban been, or am, doth rest between 
 
 Heaven an j myself. I shall no: choree a mrrtai 
 
 To be my mediator. Hare I smn'd 
 
 Against your ordinances ? prove and punish! 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 My sac! I did not speak of punishment, 
 Bat penitence and pardon ; with thyself 
 The choice of such remains and for the last, 
 Oar insti adoas and oar strong belief 
 Hare 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. 
 
 O!d man ! there b no power in holy men, 
 
 Nor charm m 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 b remorse without the fear of heU, 
 
 But all in afl sufficient to itself 
 
 Would make a hefl of heaven can exorcise 
 
 From oat the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
 
 Of 'U own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
 
 I/pan itself; there b no future pang 
 
 Can deal that justice oa the sdf-condemn'd 
 
 He deals on hb own souL 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 All thbis wefl; 
 
 Par this wB pass away, and be succeeded 
 By an autpicmnt hope, which shall look up 
 With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
 Which ail who seek may win, whatever be 
 Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
 
 The sense of its necessity. Say on 
 
 And aB our church can teach ti>ee shall be taught ; 
 
 And aH we can absolve thee shaD be pardon'd. 
 
 MAXFKED. 
 
 When ROOM'S sixth Emperor was near hb last, 
 The victim of a setfinficted wound, 
 To sfana the torments of a public death 
 From senates once hb slaves, a certain soldier, 
 With show of loyal pity, wouU have staach'd 
 The gushing throat with hb officious robe; 
 The dying Rowan thrust hb* back and said 
 Same empire soli m hb expiring glance, 
 "It b too late bthb fidelity 7" 
 
 And wnat of thb? 
 
 M: i* wo te:e:' 
 
 MAVFRED. 
 
 with the BnauB 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 It never can be so, 
 To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
 \nd thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope ' 
 T is strange even those who do despair above, 
 fet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, 
 To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 
 
 MAXFRED. 
 
 \y father ! I have had those earthly visions 
 And noble aspirations in my youth, 
 To make my own the mind of other men, 
 ["he enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
 knew not whither it might be to fall ; 
 But fall, even as the mountain cataract, 
 iVhich having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
 ven in the foaming strength of its abyss 
 AVhich casts up misty columns that become 
 
 louds, raining from the reascended skies), 
 Lies low but mighty still. Bat this is past, 
 Hy thoughts mistook themselves. 
 ABBOT. 
 
 And wherefore ?o? 
 
 MAKFRED. 
 
 [ could not tame my nature down ; for he 
 Most 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 die mean, and such 
 The mass are : I disdain'd to mingle widi 
 A herd, though to be leader and of wolves. 
 The Eon b alone, and so am I. 
 ABBOT. 
 And why not live and act with other men ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Because my nature was averse from life ; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
 But find a desolation : like the wind, 
 The red-hot breath of the roost lone Simoom, 
 Which dwells but in die 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 b 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 dial thou art past afl aid 
 From me and from my calling : yet so young, 
 I still would 
 
 MAHFRED. 
 
 Look on me ! there b an order 
 Of HKirtals on die 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 withered or of broken hearts; 
 For thb but b a malady which slays 
 More than are numbered in die lists of Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names, 
 Look upon me ! for even of all these dungs, 
 Have I partaken; and of all these diing#, 
 One were enough: then wonder not that I
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 23* 
 
 Am what 1 am, but thtt I ever was, 
 Or, having been, that I am still on earth. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 Vet, hear me still 
 
 MAHTRED. 
 
 Old man! I do respect 
 Inline order, and rerere thy years ; I deem 
 Thy purpose pious, but it is in rain: 
 Think me not churlish ; I would spare ftyseKJ 
 Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
 All further colloquy and BO fkrewefl. 
 
 [Exit MJUTFKED. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 This should have been a noble creature : be 
 
 Hath all the energy which would have mide 
 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
 
 Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
 
 It is an awful chaos tight and darkness 
 
 And mind and dost and passions and pore though!*, 
 
 Mix'd and contending without end or order, 
 
 All dormant or destructive : he win perish, 
 
 And vet he must not ; I wiD try once more, 
 
 For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
 
 Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
 
 I 'II follow him bat cautiously, though snrery. 
 
 [Exit ABBOT. 
 
 SCENE II 
 Another Chamhtr. 
 
 MA5FBED AND HEKMA5. 
 HERMAN. 
 
 My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset: 
 He nnks behind the mountain. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Doth be so? 
 win look on him. 
 
 [MANFRED adntnte* t the vindow of the HalL 
 
 Glorious orb! the idol 
 Of early nature, aad the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, the goat sons* 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 The erring spirits who cut ne'er return 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was rereal'd J 
 Thou earliest minister of the Aknighty, 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, nH they pour'd 
 Themselres 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 tenaperest the hoes 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy ran ! 
 Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes, 
 And those who 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. Ac my first glance 
 Of tore and wonder was for thee, then take 
 Mr latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
 T " whom the gifts of life and warmth hare been 
 >i a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 I fcEow [Exit MASH-RE D. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 The MntntvuifTlte CatOe <jf Moafmf at WM dm 
 
 ttaux A Terrace btfare a Tower. Tone, 1 *ih-tt. 
 
 HERMAN, MANUEL, and other dtpcndtou* ^ 
 
 MANFRED. ' 
 
 HERMAN, 
 
 Tb strange enough: night alter eight, for years. 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
 Without a witness. I have been within it, 
 So have we all been oft-times : but from it, 
 Or its coafentB, 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 yean, 
 To pore upon tfs mysteries. 
 
 JtANL'EL. 
 
 T were dangerous; 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 
 
 HEBMAK. 
 
 Ah I Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
 And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the cat De- 
 How many fears is ! i ? 
 
 MANUEL, 
 
 Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 
 
 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 Stgisronnd 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; be did not walk the rocks 
 And forests Eke a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their defights. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 Beshrew the hour, 
 But those were jocund times! I wodU lhat such 
 Would visit the old wafls again; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 MAS U EL. 
 
 These waSs 
 
 Host change their chieftain first. Oh ! I hare seen 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 MANTEL. 
 
 That was a night indeed ; I do remember 
 Twas twilight as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening : yon red cloud, which restt 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested tnen, 
 So like that it might be the same : the wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the n^unta-n snows 
 Began to gntter with the combing moo* ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within h tower 
 How occupied, we knew not, but wtth him 
 The sole companion of his wanderingi 
 And watdungs her, whom tf a= <4rthr/ thsv
 
 240 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 T v al li>d, the only thing he seem'd to love, 
 A* he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
 
 The lady Astarte, his 
 
 Hush ! who comes here 7 
 Enter the ABBOT. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Where is your master ? 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 Yonder, in the tower. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 I mus* speak with him. 
 
 MANUEL. 
 
 'T is impossible ; 
 
 He is most private, and must not be thus 
 Intruded on. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Upon myself I take 
 
 The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be 
 But I must see him. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 Thou hast seen him once 
 This eve already. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Herman ! I command thee, 
 Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 We dare not. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Then it seems I must be herald 
 Of my own purpose. 
 
 MANUEL. 
 
 Reverend father, stop 
 I pray you pause. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 Why so? 
 
 MANUEL. 
 
 But step this way, 
 And I will tell you further. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Interior of the Tower. 
 MANFRED, alone. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful ! 
 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 
 I Inarn'd the languqje of another world. 
 
 1 do remember me, that in my youth, 
 
 When I was wandering,- upon such a night 
 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall 
 
 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
 
 Fhe trees which grew along the broken arches 
 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
 
 More near from out the Caesar's palace came 
 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 
 Hegun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
 
 AppearM to sum the horizon, vet they stood 
 
 Within a bow-shot where 'he Caesars dwelt, 
 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 
 A grove which springs through levell'd battlemenu 
 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; 
 
 But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 
 While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halts, 
 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 
 
 As 't were 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. 
 
 'T was such a night ! 
 'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter 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 a.1 it hath of ill 
 Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
 May light upon your head could I say heart 
 Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I shou'd 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Thou know'st me not: 
 
 My days are number'd, and my dee<ls recorded . 
 Retire, or 't will be dangerous Away ! 
 
 ABBOT. 
 Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Not I; 
 
 I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 What dost mean 7 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Look there 
 What dost thou see 7 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Look there, I say, 
 And stedfastly ; now tell me what thou seest 7 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 That which should shake me, but I fear it not-~ 
 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 betwewi 
 Thyself and me but I do fear him not. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Thou hast no cause he shall not harm thee Du 
 His sight may shock thine 'VI limbs irio nalr. 
 I say to thee Retire '
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 211 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 And I reply 
 
 Never till I have battled with this fiend 
 What doth he here ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Why ay what doth he here 7 
 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 7 
 Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortality of hell 
 A vaunt! 
 
 MANFREL 
 
 Pronounce what is thy mission ? 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Come! 
 ABBOT. 
 What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! speak ! 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 The genius of this mortal. Come ! 't is time. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 i am prepared for all things, but deny 
 Fhe power which summons me. Who sent thee here ? 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 rhou 'It know anon Come ! come ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I have commanded 
 
 Fhings of an essence greater far than thine, 
 And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 Mortal ! thine hour is come Away ! I say. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 I knew, and know my hour 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 Spirits rise uj 
 
 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, 
 It were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him Away ! away ! 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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 be ta'en limb by limb. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Reluctant mortal ! 
 
 is .his tne 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! 
 
 i a 36 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Thou false fiend, thou lies 
 My life is in its last hour, that I know, 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 And thy surrounding angels : my past power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
 But by superior science penance daring 
 And length of watching strength of mind and skill 
 In knowledge of our fathers when the earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength I do defy deny 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 But thy many crimes 
 Have made thee 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 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 shall 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 
 Requital for its good or evil thoughts 
 Is its own origin of ill and end 
 And its own place and time its innate sense, 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 No colour from the fleeting things without ; 
 But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
 Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt mt 
 I have not been thy dupe, noi 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 ! 
 
 [ The Demons disappear 
 
 ABBOT. 
 
 Alas ! how pale thou art thy lips are white 
 And thy breast heaves and in thy gasping throat 
 The accents rattle. Give thy prayers to Heaven 
 Pray albeit but in thought, but die not thus. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 'T is 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 the heart- 
 But yet one prayer alas ! how fares it with thee ? 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Old man ! 't is not so difficult to die. 
 
 [MANFRED expve* 
 ABBOT. 
 
 He *s gone his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight 
 Whither? I dread to think but he is gone. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 232, lines 114 and 115. 
 
 the siinbow's rays still area 
 
 The torrent with the many hues i*f heaven. 
 
 THIS Iris is formed by the rays of tne rii over tn
 
 212 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ewer ;iai I of <ho Alpine torrents : it is exactly like a. 
 lainbow, comit down to pav a visit, and so close that 
 foil may walk into it : this effect lasts till noon. 
 
 Note 2. Page 233, lines 100 and 101. 
 He who from out their fountain dwellings railed 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. 
 
 The philosopher lamblicus. The story of the raising 
 of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life, by 
 Eunapius. It is well told. 
 
 Note 3. Page 234, lines 91 and 92. 
 
 she replied 
 
 In wocds of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
 
 The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who com- 
 manded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and after- 
 
 wards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedft- 
 monians), and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life ot 
 Cimon ; and in the Laconics pf Pausanias the Sophist, 
 in bis description of Greece. 
 
 Note 4. Page 239, lines 39 and 40. 
 
 the giant soni 
 
 Of the embrace of angels. 
 
 " That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men 
 that they were fair," etc. 
 
 " There were giants in the earth in those days ; and 
 also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto 
 the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, 
 the same became mighty men which were of old, men 
 of renown." Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. 
 
 iFaUero, 23ofje of Venice; 
 
 A HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of 
 the most remarkable events in the annals of the most 
 singular government, city, and people of modern his- 
 tory. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about 
 V enice is, or was, extraordinary her aspect is like a 
 dream, and her history is like a romance. The story 
 of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and 
 tiarticuWly detailed in the " Lives of the Doges," by 
 Marin Saaito, which is given in the Appendix. It is 
 impl_- mi jlearly related, and is, perhaps, more dra- 
 matic in itself than any scenes which can be founded 
 jjioi. the subject. 
 
 Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of tal- 
 ents and of courage. 1 find him commander-in-chief 
 of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat 
 the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand 
 men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the be- 
 sieged at the same time in check, an exploit to which 
 I know none similar in history, except that of Caesar 
 a Elesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was 
 afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. 
 He took Capo d'Isiria. He was ambassador at Genoa 
 and Rome, at which last he received the news of his 
 election to the dukedom j his absence being a proof 
 that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprized 
 of his predecessor's death and his own succession at 
 the same moment. But he appears to have been of 
 an ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, 
 of his hav.ns, many years before, when podesta and 
 cantain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who 
 *va:> somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this 
 honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as 
 Thwackum did Square ; but he does not tell us whether 
 h- as punished or rebuked by the senate for this 
 outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, in- 
 ueed, to have teen afterwards at peace with the church, 
 611 we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested 
 *iih the fief of Val di Marino, in the March of Tre- 
 iso. and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo Count- 
 Biwiop of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are, 
 
 Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account 
 of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable 
 Abbate Morelii, in his "Monumenti Veneziani di varia 
 letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have looked 
 over in the original language. The modems, Daru, 
 Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree w>th the ancient 
 chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his 
 jealousy; bull find this nowhere asserted by tho na- 
 tional historians. Veltor Sandi, indeed, says, that " Altn 
 
 scrissero che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge 
 
 siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," etc.,etc, ; 
 but this appears to have been by no means the general 
 opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Nava- 
 gero ; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that 
 " per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo 
 desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura ma anche 
 la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava a farsi 
 principe mdcpendente." The first motive appears lo 
 have been excited by the gross affront of the words 
 written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by 
 the lisht and inadequate sentence of the Fortv on the 
 offender, who was one of their "tre capi." The at- 
 tentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed 
 towards one of her damsels, and not to the " Doga- 
 ressa" herself, against whose fame not the slightest 
 insinuation appears, while she is praised for her heauty, 
 and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it 
 asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that 
 the Doge was actuated by jealousy of 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 wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew 
 that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown de- 
 prived the Duke of Malborough of bis command, and 
 led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht thai Louis XIV. 
 was plunged into the most desolating wars because 
 his minister was nettled at las finding fault wilu a
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 243 
 
 windo-v, and wished to give him another occupation 
 that Hclcr lost Troy that Lucretia expelled the Tar- 
 quins from Rome and that Cava brought the Moors to 
 Spain that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clu- 
 gium, and thence to Rome that a single verse of Fred- 
 eric II. of Prussia, on the Abbe de Bemis, and a jest 
 on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Ros- 
 bach that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac 
 Murchad, conducted the English to the slavery of Ire- 
 land that a personal pique between Marie Antoinette 
 and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion 
 of the Bourbons and, not to multiply instances, that 
 Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims, not to 
 their public tyranny, but to private vengeance and that 
 an order to 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 extraordinary in Dr. Moore 
 to seem surprised that a man, used to command, who 
 had served and swayed in the most important 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 ^he 
 purpose, unless to favour it. 
 
 " The youne man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
 Bui like red-hot steel is the old man's ire." 
 " Young mpn soon give and soon forget affronts. 
 Old age is slow at both." 
 
 Laugier's reflections are more philosophical : "Tale 
 fu il fine ignominioso di un uomo, che la sua nascita, 
 la sua eth, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle 
 passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per 
 lungo tempo csercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua 
 capacita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, 
 gli avevano acquistato la stirna c la fiducia de' cittadini, 
 ed avevano uniti i suffragi per collocarlo alia testa della 
 republica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava glo- 
 riosamenta la sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria 
 leggiera insinuii nel suo cuore tal veleno che baslb a 
 corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a condulo al ter- 
 mine dei scellerati ; serio esempio, che prova rum es- 
 servi etfi, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura e che neW 
 uomo reslano sempre pasxioni capaci a disonorarlo, quan- 
 do non iniigili sopra se stesso." LAUGIEK, Italian 
 translation, vol. iv. pp. 30, 31. 
 
 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 conducted 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 hav- 
 ing shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless 
 have been also mentioned by those minute historians 
 who by no means favour him : such, indeed, would be 
 contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in 
 which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the 
 truth of history. I know no justification at any distance 
 of time for calumniating a historical character ; surely 
 truth belo:^ 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 con- 
 duct-Mi them to their violent death renders, of all others, 
 the most improbable. The black veil which is painted 
 ov* the place of Marino Faliero amongst the doges, 
 
 and the Giant's Staircase, where he was crowned, and 
 discrowned, and decapitated, striiCK forcibly upon m 
 imagination, as did his fiery character and strange story 
 I went in 1819, in search of his tomb, more than once, 
 to the church of San Giovanni e San Paolo ; and, as 
 was standing before the monument of another family 
 a priest came up to me and said, "I can show you 
 finer monuments than that." I told him that I was ii 
 search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly ot 
 the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, "I will show it 
 you j" and, conducting me to the outside, pointed out 
 a sarcophagus in the wall, with an illegible inscription. 
 He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, bu' 
 was removed after the French came, and placed in its 
 present situation ; that he had seen the tomb opened at 
 its removal ; there were still some bones remaining, but 
 no positive vestige of the decapitation. The equestrian 
 statue, of which I have made mention in the third act 
 as before that church, is not, however, of a Faliero, 
 but of some other now obsolete warrior, although of a 
 later date. There were two other Doges of this family 
 prior to Marino : Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, 
 in 1117 (where his descendant afterwards conquered 
 the Huns), and Vital Faliero, wno reigned in 1082. 
 The family, originally from Fano, was of the most il- 
 lustrious in blood and wealth in the chy of once the 
 most wealthy, and still the most ancient families in Eu- 
 rope. The length I have gone into on this subject, will 
 show the interest I have taken in it. Whether I have 
 succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at least trans- 
 ferred into our language a historical fact worthy of 
 commemoration. 
 
 It is now four years that I have meditated this work, 
 and, before I had sufficiently examined the records, I 
 was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy 
 in Faliero. But perceiving no foundation for this in 
 historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted 
 passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical 
 form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew 
 Lewis on that point, in talking with him of my inten- 
 tion, at Venice, in 1817. "If you make him jealous," 
 said he, " recollect that you have to contend with es- 
 tablished writers, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and an 
 exhausted subject ; stick to the old fiery Doge's natu- 
 ral character, which will bear you out, if properly 
 drawn ; and make your plot as regular as you can." 
 Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the same 
 counsel. How far I have followed these instructions, 
 or whether they have availed me, is not for me to de- 
 cide. I have had no view to the stage ; in its present 
 state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambi- 
 tion ; besides, I have been too much behind the scenes 
 to have thought it so at any time. And I cannot con- 
 ceive any man of irritable feeling putting himself at 
 the mercies of an audience : the sneering reader, and 
 the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and 
 distant calamities ; but the trampling of an intelligent 
 or of an ignorant audience, on a production which, be 
 it good or bad, has been a mental labour to the writer, 
 is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by 
 a man's doubt of their competency to judge, and ht 
 certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his 
 judges. Were I capable of writing a play which could 
 be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me IK 
 pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this re**or
 
 244 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 lhat, even during the time of being one of the com- 
 mittee of one of the theatres, I never made the attempt, 
 and never will. 1 But surely there is dramatic power 
 somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and 
 John Wilson exist. The "City of the Plague" arid 
 the "Fall of Jerusalem," are full of the best malMel 
 for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, 
 except passages of " Ethwald" and " De Montfort." 
 It is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole, firstly, 
 because he was a nobleman, and secondly, because he 
 was a gentleman ; but, to say nothing of the composi- 
 tion 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 romance, 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 irregulari- 
 ty, which is the reproach of the English theatrical com- 
 positions, permits, has induced me to represent the 
 conspiracy 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 characters 
 (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 con- 
 sultations 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 conspirators, 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 the Italian, with a translation. 
 
 1 " While I was in the sub-committee of Drury-Lane The- 
 atre, I can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope for myself, 
 that we did our best to bring back the legitimate drama. 1 
 tried what 1 could to get " De Montfort" revived, but in vain, 
 and equally in vain in favour of Sotheby's "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, will hardly believe that the "School for Scandal" is 
 the play which has brought least money, averaging the num- 
 ber of times it has been acted since its production ; so Mana- 
 ger Dibdin assured me. Of what has occurred since Matu- 
 rin'i " Bertram," I am not aware ; so that I may be traducing, 
 through ignorance, some excellent new writers ; if so, I beg 
 their pardon. I have been absent from England nearly five 
 years, and, till last year, I never read an English newspaper 
 lince my departure, and am now only aware of theatrical 
 matter* through the medium of the Parisian English Gazette 
 of Galignani, and only for the last twelve months. Let me 
 then deprecate all offence to tragic or comic writnrs, to whom 
 I wish well, and of whom I know nothing. The long com- 
 plaints of the actual state of the drama arise, however, from 
 no fault of the performers. I can conceive nothing better 
 than Kemble, Cooke, and Kean, in their very different man- 
 ners, or than Elliston in grittlcman'x comedy, and in seme 
 parts of tragedy. MLss O'Neill I never saw, having made 
 tnd kept a determination to see nothing which should divide 
 >r durturb my recollection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble 
 were llie ideal of tragic action ; I never saw any thing at all 
 resembling them, even in person : for this reason we shall 
 lever see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is 
 limed for want of dignity, we should remember that it i 
 B grace and not an art. and not to be attained by study. In 
 Ul not tupcrnatural parts, he is perfect ; even his very de- 
 fects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, and 
 appear truer to nature. But of Kemble we may sajr, with 
 reference to his acting, what the Cardinp', de Rutz said of the 
 Marquis o*' Montrose, "that he was the only man he ever 
 < who reminded him of -ne heroes of Plutarch." 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, Doge of Venice. 
 BEHTUCCIO FALIERO, Nephew of tht Dogt. 
 LIONI, a Patrician and Senator. 
 BENINTEHDE, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
 MICHEL STENO, one of the three Capi of the Forty. 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO, Chief of the Arsenal. 
 PHILIP CALENDARO, 1 
 > 
 
 DAGOLIXO, 
 BERTRAND, 
 
 Signer of the Tfi 
 
 5 
 
 ht, > 
 ) 
 
 Conspirators. 
 
 " Signore di Notte," one of tht 
 Officers belonging to the Rf 
 public. 
 first Citizen. 
 Second Citizen. 
 Third Citizen. 
 
 VlNCENZO, 1 
 
 PIETRO, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
 BATTISTA, j 
 
 Secretary of the Council of Ten, 
 
 Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, the Council of Ten, At 
 Giunta, etc,, etc. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 ANGIOLINA, Wife to the Doge. 
 MARIANNA, her Friend. 
 Female Attendants, etc. 
 
 Scene, VENICE in the year 1355. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 
 PIETRO speaks, in entering, to BATTIST*. 
 
 PIETRO. 
 
 Is not the 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 Steno's accusation. 
 
 PIETRO. 
 
 Too long at least so thinks the Doge. 
 
 BATTISTA. 
 
 How bears he 
 
 These moments of suspense ? 
 PIETRO. 
 
 With struggling patience. 
 Placed at the ducal table, cover'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 or usu, 
 And seat himself again, and fix his gazt 
 Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
 For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 245 
 
 BATTISTA. 
 
 Tis said he is much moved, and doubtless 'twas 
 Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 
 
 PIETRO. 
 
 Ay, if a poor man : Steno 's a patrician, 
 Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 
 
 BATTISTA. 
 
 Then you think 
 He will not be judged hardly. 
 
 PIETRO. 
 
 'T were enough 
 
 He be judged justly ; but 't is not for us 
 To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 
 
 BATTISTA. 
 
 And here it comes. What news, Vincenzo? 
 Enter VINCENZO. 
 
 TINCENZO. 
 
 '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 II. . 
 
 The Ducal Chamber. 
 MARINO FALIERO, Doge; and hisnephew, BERTPCCIO 
 
 FALIERO. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 It cannot be but they will do you justice. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
 \Vho sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
 To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 His peers will scarce protect him ; such an act 
 Would bring contempt on all authority. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Know you not Venice ? know you not the Forty ? 
 But we shall see anon. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO (addressing VINCENZO, then 
 entering). 
 
 How now what tidings ? 
 TINCENZO. 
 
 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 wondrous dutiful, and ever humble. 
 Sentente is past, you say ? 
 
 VINCENZO. 
 
 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. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Are you aware, from aught you hare perceived, 
 Of their decision? 
 
 VINCENZO. 
 
 No, my lord ; you know 
 The secret customs of the courts in Venice. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 True ; but there still is something given to guess. 
 Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would caVcn a 
 Ae whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
 More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
 The Forty are but men most worthy men, 
 And wise, and just, and cautious this I grant 
 And secret as the grave to which they doom 
 The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects 
 At least in some, the juniors of the number 
 A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
 Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 
 
 VINCENZO 
 
 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 ; 
 My station near the accused too, Michael Steno 
 Made me 
 
 DOGE (abruptly). 
 And how look'd he ? deliver that, 
 
 VINCENZO. 
 
 Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
 To the decree, whate'er it were ; but lo ! 
 It comes, for the perusal of his hignness. 
 
 Enter the SECRETARY of the Forty. 
 
 SECRETARY. 
 
 The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
 Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
 Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
 His highness to peruse and to approve 
 The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, 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 papei : 
 
 [Exeunt SECRETARY and VINCENZO 
 The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
 I cannot fix them. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Patience, my dear uncle : 
 Why do you tremble thus ? nay, doubt not, all 
 Will be as could be wish'd. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Say on. 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO (reading). 
 
 "Decreed 
 
 In council, without one dissenting voice, 
 That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
 Guilty on the last night of carnival 
 Of having graven on the ducal thronfc 
 The following words " 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Wouldst thou repeat I n ' 
 Wouldst thou repeat them thou, a Faliero, 
 Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
 Dishonour^ in its chief that chief the prince 
 Of Venice, first of cities? To the sentence. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey 
 (Reads) That Michel Steno be detain'd a monU> 
 [n close arrest."
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Proceed. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 My lord, 't is finish 1 d. 
 DOOE. 
 
 H >w, say you ? finish' d ! Do I dream ? 'T is false- 
 Give me the paper (Snatches the paper, and reads). 
 
 " 'Tis decreed in council 
 That Michel Steno" Nephew, thine arm. 
 
 BEB.TUCC10 FALIERO. 
 
 Nay, 
 
 Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for 
 Let me seek some assistance. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Stop, sir stir not* 
 Tis past. 
 
 BEB.TUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 I cannot but agree with you 
 The sentence is too slight for the offence : 
 [t is not honourable in the Forty 
 To affix so slight a penalty to that 
 Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
 To them, as being your subjects ; but 't is not 
 Yet without remedy ; you can appeal 
 To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
 Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
 Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
 And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
 Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
 So fix'd ? you heed me not : I pray you, hear me ! 
 DOGE (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
 
 to trample upon it, exclaims, ax he is uith- 
 
 held by his nephew). 
 
 Oh, that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's 
 Thus would I do him homage. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 For the sake 
 Of heaven and all its saints, my lord 
 
 DOGE 
 
 Away! 
 
 Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
 
 Oh that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
 
 Were ranged around the palace ! 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 T is not well 
 
 IP Vernce Luke to say so. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Venice' Duke ! 
 
 Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him, 
 That he may do me right. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 If you forget 
 
 Tour office, and its dignity and duty, 
 Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
 
 The Duke of Venice 
 
 DOGE (interrupting him). 
 
 There is no such thing 
 
 it is a word nay, worse a worthless by- word: 
 Tne most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless wretch, 
 Who begs h.s bread, if 't is refused by one, 
 May win it from another kinder heart; 
 But he who is denied his right by those 
 Wli.ise place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
 Thii" ti.e rejected beggar he's a slave- 
 And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
 fc'vez from this hou"-; the meanest artisan 
 
 Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
 May spit upon us : where is our redress ? 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 The law, my prince 
 
 DOGE (interrupting him). 
 
 You see what it has don : 
 I ask'd no remedy but from the la\v 
 I sought no vengeance but redress by law 
 I call'd no judges but those named bv law 
 As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my suojecis, 
 The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
 And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
 The rights of place and choice, of birih and service. 
 Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
 The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
 The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
 Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 
 The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
 Of a rank, rash patrician and found wanting ! 
 And this is to be borne ? 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 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 thou my brother's son ? 
 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 say'st well we must be humble now. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 My princely uncle ! you are too much moved : 
 I grant it was a gross offence ; 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 '11 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 instroctor- 
 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 comprehen j 7 
 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? 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 'T is the first time that honour has been doubted, 
 And were the last, from any other sceptic. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You know the full offence 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 commtuu 
 And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
 While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guie, 
 Whisper'd the tale and smiled uoon the lie
 
 MAR1XO FALIERO. 
 
 247 
 
 Which made me look like them a. courteous witiai, 
 Patient ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 
 
 EERTUCCIO FAL1ERC. 
 
 But stiP. il was a lie you knew it fake, 
 And so did all men. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Nephew, the high Roman 
 
 Said " Csesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
 And put her from him. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIEBO. 
 
 True but in those days 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What is it that a Roman would not suffer, 
 That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dandolo 
 Refused the diadem x>f all the Caesars, 
 And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
 Because 't is now degraded. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 T is even so. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It is it is : I did not visit on 
 
 The innocent creature, thus most vilely s!anderM, 
 
 Because she took an old man for her lord, 
 
 For that he had been long her father's friend 
 
 And patron of her house, as if there were 
 
 No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
 
 And beardless faces ; I did not for this 
 
 Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
 
 But craved my country's justice on his head, 
 
 The justice due unto tie humblest being 
 
 Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
 
 Who hath a home whose hearth 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. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 And what redress 
 Did you expect as his fit 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 offence like his a complication 
 Of insult and of treason ? aiid he lives ! 
 Had he, instead of en the Doge's throne, 
 Smmp'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. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Do not doubt it : 
 
 He shall not live till sunset leave to me 
 The means, and calm your 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Hol<|, nephew! th 
 
 Would have sufficed but yesterday : at present 
 t have no further wrath against this man. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 What mean you ? is not the offence redoubled 
 By this most rank I will not say acquittal, 
 For it is worse, being fufl acknowledgment 
 Of the offence, and leaving it unpunished 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 [t is redoubted, but not now by him ; 
 
 The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest 
 We must obey the Forty. 
 
 BEB.TUCCIO FALIEh-5. 
 
 Obey than ! 
 Who hare forgot their duty to the sovereign T 
 
 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. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Not twelve hours longer, had" you left to me 
 The mode and means : if you had calmly heard DM 
 I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
 Bat wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion, 
 That we more surely might devise together 
 His taking oS 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 No, nephew, he must live ; 
 At least, just now a life so vile as his 
 Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
 Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim ; 
 Great expiations had a hecatomb. 
 
 BERTL'CCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Your wishes are my law ; and vet I fain 
 Woold prove to you how near unto my heart 
 The honour of our house must ever be. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Fear nut ; you shall have time and place of proa!. 
 But be net thou too rash, as I have been. 
 I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
 I pray you, pardon me. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 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 
 
 DOCC. 
 
 Ay, think upon the cause 
 Forget it not : when you lie down to rest, 
 Let it be black among your dreams ; and whea 
 The mom returns, so let it stand between 
 The sun and you, as an iil-omen'd cloud 
 Upon- a summer-day of festival : 
 So will it stand to me ; but speak not, sur not, 
 Leave all to me ; we shafl have much to do, 
 And you shall have a part, But now retire, 
 T is fit I were alone. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 ( Taking up mil placing the ducal tonne* on the tab*) 
 
 Ere I depart, 
 
 I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd, 
 TiSl you can change it hapiy for a crown. 
 And now I take any leave, imploring you 
 In all things to rely upon my duty 
 As doth become yotir near and faithful kinsman. 
 And not less loyal citizen and subject. 
 
 [Eiit BERTCCCIO FALIEB* 
 DOGE (:'.). 
 Adieu, toy worthy nephew. Hollow bauble ! 
 
 [Takntf *p Je aucnl em
 
 248 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Besei 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, 
 
 L 2t me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Pu& it on, 
 
 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 shatter the Briarean sceptre 
 
 Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
 
 Making the people nothing, and the prince 
 
 A uageant ? In my life I have achieved 
 
 Tasks no' 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 swoln patricians ; 
 
 But now I must look round for other hands 
 
 To serve this hoary head ; but it shall pjan 
 
 In such a sort as will not leave the task 
 
 Herculean, though as yet 't is but a chaos 
 
 Of darkly-brooding thoughts : my fancy 'a 
 
 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 ViltCENZo. 
 
 There is one without 
 Craves audience of your highness. 
 DOGE. 
 
 I 'm unwell 
 
 1 can see no i ne, not even a patrician 
 Let him refer his business to the council. 
 
 YINCENZO. 
 
 My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
 
 It cannot much import he 's a plebeian, 
 
 The master of a galley, I believe. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 How ! did you say the patron of a galley 7 
 That is I mean a servant of the state : 
 Admit him, he may be on public service. 
 
 [Exit VISCENZO 
 
 DOGE (solus). 
 
 This patron may be sounded ; I will try him. 
 
 I know the people to be discontented ; 
 
 They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
 
 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 the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
 
 'Ifte troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 
 
 And murmur deeply any hope of change 
 
 \Vifi draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
 
 With plunder : but the priests I doubt the priesthood 
 
 Will not be with us ; they have hated me 
 
 Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 
 
 mote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 1 
 Quickening his holy march : yet, ne'ertheless, 
 They may be won, at least their chief at Rcme, 
 Hy some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
 A.I 1 things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 
 Uf twihgnt, little light of life remains. 
 I'ould ' free Venice, and avenge my wiongs, 
 nd lived too long, and willing'./ would sleep 
 
 Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 
 
 Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
 
 Had been already where how soon, I care not- 
 
 The whole must be extinguish'd ; better that 
 
 They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
 
 The thing these arch oppressors fain would make me. 
 
 Let me consider of efficient troops 
 
 There are three thousand posted at 
 
 Enter YIHCEXZO and ISRAEL BERTCCCIO. 
 VINCEXZO. 
 
 May it please 
 
 Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
 Is here to crave your patience. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Leave the chamber, 
 Vincenzo. 
 
 [Exit VIWCESZO. 
 Sir, you may advance what would you 7 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Redress. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Of whom ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Of God and of the Doge, 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
 Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
 You must address the council. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 'T were in vain ; 
 For he who injured me is one of them. 
 
 DOGE. 
 There 's blood upon thy face how came it there 7 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 'T is mine, and not the first I 've shed for Venice, 
 But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
 A noble smote me. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Doth he live 7 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Not long 
 
 But for thejiope 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 7 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I am a man, my lord. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Why, so is he who smote you. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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-* 
 'T is said the worm will. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Say his name and lineagt ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTCCCIO. 
 
 Barbaro. 
 
 DOGE. 
 What was the cause, or the pretext?
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I am the chief of the arsenal, employ'd 
 
 At present in repairing certain galleys 
 
 But roughly 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, 
 
 T-> 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 senred ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 80 long as to remember Zara's siege, 
 
 And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 
 
 Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 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 7 
 
 rhe late Doge ; keeping still my old command 
 As pati on 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 accessor as a helpless plaintiff, 
 At least, in such a cause. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Are you much hurt? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
 DOGS. 
 
 Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at heart, 
 What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 That which I dare not name, and yet win do. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Then wherefore came you here ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTCCCIO. 
 
 I come (or justice, 
 
 Because my 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 't was denied 
 To me most solemnly an hour ago. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 How says your highness ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Steno is condemn'd 
 To a month's confinement, 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 What ! the same who dam 
 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'nr the arsenal, 
 Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, 
 As & good jest to jolly artisans ; 
 Or miking chorus to the creaking oar, 
 Z 37 
 
 n the vile tune of every galley slave, 
 Vho, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
 le was not a shamed dotard, like the Do<>e 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 s it possible ? a month's imprisonment ! 
 No more for Steno ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You have heard the offence, 
 And now you know his punishment ; and then 
 t'ou ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
 Vho pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
 fhey '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 
 DOGE. 
 
 Give them breath. 
 Vline have no further outrage to endure. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
 To punish and avenge I will not say 
 My 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 robe* 
 Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
 Say, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
 But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
 [is part with all its empire in this ermine. 
 
 ISKAF.L BEHTUCCIO. 
 
 Wouldst thou be king ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 f Yes of a happy people. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 
 
 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 
 
 ISRAEL BE1TI.-CCIO. 
 
 Yet, thou wast bom 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 servan. 
 
 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 conqu* t 
 
 Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
 
 As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
 
 Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
 
 Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
 
 My fathers' and my birth-place, whose dear spuf*, 
 
 Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
 
 It wan reward enough for me to view 
 
 Once more ; but not for any knot of men. 
 
 Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
 
 Bat would you know why I have done all thai t 
 
 Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
 
 Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voi<. 
 
 She 'd tell thee 't was for aU her b'ttle ooet.
 
 250 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 And vet they made thee Duke. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 They 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 s!ate, 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 nei'her right myself nor thee. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Which shall soon be read, 
 At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
 To lend a patient ear. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Say on. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Not thou, 
 
 Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
 Contemn'd and trampled on, but the whole people 
 Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs : 
 The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
 Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
 The native mariners and civic troops 
 Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst them 
 Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
 Have, not partook oppression, or pollution, 
 From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
 Against the Genoese, which is still maintain' J 
 With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
 From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further : 
 Even now but I forget that, speaking thus, 
 1'erhups I pass the sentence of my death! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 And, suffering what thou hast done, fear'st thou death ? 
 Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
 By those for whom thou hast bled. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 No, I will speak 
 
 At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
 Shouid turn delator, be the shame on him, 
 And sorrow too : for he will lose far more 
 Than I. 
 
 POGE. 
 from me fear nothing ; out with it. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Know, then, iliat there arc met and sworn in secret 
 
 A hand of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 
 
 MCI- iiio have proved all fortunes, and have long 
 
 Gri< ved ovei that of Venice, and have right 
 
 T -lo so having served her in all climes, 
 
 Anil having rescued her from foreign foes, 
 
 Would do the same from those within her walls. 
 
 They aie not numerous, nor yet too few 
 
 For the.r great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
 
 Itir- he?.t* and hopes, and faith and patient courage. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 For what then do they pause ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 An hour to strike. 
 DOGE (aside). 
 Saint Mark's shal. strike that hour ! 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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 : should it be so, 
 Be our chief now our sovereign hereafter 
 
 DOGE. 
 How many are ye ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I '11 not answer that 
 Till I am answer'd. 
 
 DOGE. 
 How, Sir ! do you menace ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 No ; I affirm. I have betray'd myself; 
 
 But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 
 
 Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
 
 Not less appalling cells, " the leaden roofs," 
 
 To force a single name from me of others. 
 
 The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; 
 
 They might wring blood from me, but treachery nerd, 
 
 And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs,'" 
 
 Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
 
 Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
 
 Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
 
 The prison and the palace walls : there are 
 
 Those who would live to think on 't and avenge me. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 If such your power and purpose, why come here 
 To sue for justice, being in the course 
 To do yourself due right ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Because the man 
 
 Who claims protection from authority, 
 Showing his confidence and his submission 
 To that authority, can hardly be 
 Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
 Had I sate down too humbly with this Wow, 
 A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
 A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ? 
 But loud complaint, however angrily 
 It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
 And less distrusted. But, besides al! this, 
 I had another reason. 
 
 DOGE. 
 What was that ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Some rumours that the Doge was greatly movea 
 
 By the reference of the Avogadori 
 
 Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
 
 Had reach'd me. I had served you, honour'd /M*, 
 
 And felt that you were dangerously insulted. 
 
 Being of an order of such spirits as 
 
 Requite tenfold both good and evil ; 't was 
 
 My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
 
 Now you know all ; and that I speaV th **uth. 
 
 My peril be the proof.
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 251 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You have deeply ventured ; 
 But all mus* do so who would greatly win : 
 Thus far I '11 answer you your secret's safe. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 And is this all ? 
 
 DOCG. 
 
 Unless will: all entrusted, 
 What would you have me answer ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I would have you 
 Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 But I must know your plan, your names, and numbers ; 
 The last may then be doubled, and the former 
 Matured and strengthen'd. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 We 're enough already ; 
 You are the sole ally we covet now. 
 
 DOGE. 
 But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 That shall be done, upon your formal pledge 
 To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 
 
 DOGE. 
 When? where? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 This night I '11 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 you, 
 And leave the palace'/ 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 You must come alone. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 With but my nephew. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Not were he your son. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He died in arms, 
 At Sapienza, for this faithless state. 
 Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
 Or that he were alive ere I be ashes! 
 should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Not one of all those strangers whom thou doubtest 
 
 But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 
 
 So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 
 
 DOGE. 
 The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
 Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
 To wait your coming, and conduct jou where 
 You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
 Upon our project. 
 
 DO*F. 
 
 At wh?t hcur arises 
 flic 1 moon ? 
 
 ISR >**, BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Late; j.it the slmosphere is thick and dusky; 
 T i saur-'o, 
 
 DOGE. 
 A> Hie midnight hour then 
 
 Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same. 
 
 Twin-named fr^m the apostles John and Paul * 
 
 A gondola, 5 with one oar only, will 
 
 Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
 
 Be there. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I will not fail. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 And now retire 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 In the full hope your highness will not falter 
 
 In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 
 
 [Exit ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 DOGE (solus). 
 
 At midnight, by the church Saints John and Pan., 
 Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair 
 To what ? to hold a council in 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 couVl 
 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, 
 Which never spare the fame of him who fails, 
 But try the Csesar, or the Catiline, 
 By the true touchstone of desert success. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Ducal Palace 
 ANGIOLINA (wife of the Doge) and MARIA** *. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 What was the Doge's answer? 
 
 KIARIAKNA. 
 
 That he was 
 
 That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
 But 't is by this time ended. I perceived 
 Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
 And the last gondola may now be seen 
 Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
 The glittering waters. 
 
 ANGIOLIWA. 
 
 Would he were retum'd ' 
 He has been much disquieted of late ; 
 And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spiri* 
 Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
 Which seems to be more no>irish'd by a soul 
 So quick and restless that it would consume 
 Less hardy clay Time has but little powei 
 On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
 To other spirits of his order, who, 
 In the first burst of passion, pour away 
 Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear \n him 
 An aspect of eternity : his thoughts, 
 His feelings, passious, good or evil, all 
 Have nothing of old age ; and his boia brox 
 Bears but the scars of mind, iae incugnu of VMI*
 
 2.'-2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Not theii decrepitude and he of late 
 Has been inoie agitated than his wont. 
 Would lie were com". I for I alone have power 
 Upon his troubled spirit. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 It is true, 
 
 His highness has of late been greatly moved 
 By the affront 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. 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 
 *T was 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 Faliero's soul, 
 The proud, the fiery, the austere austere 
 To all save me : I tremble when I think 
 To what it may conduct. 
 
 MARIAN!A. 
 
 Assuredly 
 The Doge cannot suspect you ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Suspect me ! 
 
 Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie, 
 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. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 'T were fit 
 He should be punishM grievously. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 He is so. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he condemn'd ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 I know not that, but he has been detected. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 } would not be a judge in my own cause, 
 *Jor do I know what sense of punishment 
 May reach the soul of ribalds such as Sleno ; 
 But if his insults sink no deeper in 
 The minds of the inquisitors than they 
 Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
 Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 Seme sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
 Or if it mast depend upon men's words? 
 The dying Roman said, " 't was but a name :" 
 It were indeed no more, if human breath 
 Could make or mar it. 
 
 MARIANNA.. 
 
 Yet full many a dame, 
 
 Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
 Of sucV a slander and less rigid ladies, 
 Such a abound i.i Venice, would be loud 
 \na all-inexorable in their cry 
 If or "isticc. 
 
 AXGIOLINA. 
 
 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' thoughts, 
 
 And would seem honest as they must seem fair 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame. 
 
 ANOIOLINA. . 
 
 And yet they were my father's ; with his name. 
 The sole inheritance he left. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 You -,vant none ; 
 Wife to a prince, the chief of the republic. 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 
 I should have sought none, though a peasant's 
 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 V&l di Marino, now our Doge. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 And with that hand did he bestow your heart? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
 And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
 Might make the world doubt whether such an union 
 Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 
 The world will think with worldlings : but my heart 
 Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
 But never difficult. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 And do you love him ? 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 
 I love all noble qualities which merit 
 
 Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
 
 To single out what we should love in others, 
 
 And to subdue all tendency to lend 
 
 The best and purest feelings of our nature 
 
 To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 
 
 Upon Fahero : he had known him noble, 
 
 Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 
 
 Of, soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
 
 Such have I found him as my father said. 
 
 His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 
 
 Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 
 
 And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
 
 The uses of 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 yuth upwards, 
 
 Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 
 
 In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
 
 Has lavished all its chief employs upon him, 
 
 From his first fight to his last embassy, 
 
 From which on his return the dukedom met him. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 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
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 I answer' d your first question when I said 
 married. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 And the second ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Needs no answer. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 I pray you pardon, if I have offended. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not 
 That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
 To ponder upon what they now might choose, 
 Or aught, save their past choice. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 'T is their past choice 
 
 That far too often makes them deem they would 
 Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 
 
 MARIANNA. 
 
 Here comes the Doge shall I retire ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 It may 
 
 Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapt 
 in thought. How pensively he takes his way ! 
 
 [Exit MARIANNA. 
 .Enter the DOGE and PIETRO. 
 
 DOGE (musing). 
 
 There is a certain Philip Calendaro 
 Now in the arsenal, who holds command 
 Of eighty men, and has great influence 
 Besides on all the spirits of his comrades. 
 This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
 Sudden and daring, and yet secret : 't would 
 Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
 That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
 But fain would be 
 
 PIETRO. 
 
 My lord, pray pardon me 
 For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
 The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
 Charged rfie to follow and inquire your pleasure 
 To 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. [Exit PIETRO. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 My lord! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 My dearest child, forgive me why delay 
 So long approaching me ? I saw you not 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 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 7 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 would not interrupt him in his duty 
 \nd theirs. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 The senate's duty! you mistake ; 
 "T ia we who owe all service to the senate. 
 
 kl 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 I thought the Duse had held command in Venice. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 He shall. But let that pass. We will b jocuna. 
 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 1 
 Speak, and 'l is done. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 You 're ever kind to me 
 I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
 Except to see you otlener and calmer. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Calmer ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 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 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Disclose too much I of what ' 
 What is there to disclose ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 A heart so ill 
 At ease. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 'T is 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 't is this which makes m 
 More pensive arxl less tranquil than my wont. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Yet this existed long before, and never 
 Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
 Forgive me : there is something at your heart 
 More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
 Which long use and a talent like to yours 
 Have renderM light, nay, a necessity, 
 To keep your mind from stagnating. 'T is 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, 
 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. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Yea the same sin that overthrew 
 And of all sini most easily beset*
 
 254 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Mortals Ine n-r-?t to the angelic nature : 
 The vilo are 'nly vain ; the great are proud. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I had the pnde of honour, of your honour, 
 Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Ah no ! As I have ever shared your kindness 
 In all things else, let me not be shut out 
 From your distress : were it of public import, 
 You know I never sought, would never seek 
 To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
 Your 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. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 To what I was ! Have you heard Steno's sentence 1 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 No. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 A month's arrest. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Is it not enough 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Enough ! Yes, for a drunken galley slave, 
 Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
 But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
 Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour, 
 Even on the throne of his authority. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 There seems to be enough in the conviction 
 Ol a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
 A- other punishment were light unto 
 His loss of honour. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Such men have no honour; 
 They have but their vile lives and these are spared. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Fou would not have him die for this offence 1 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Not now : being stiil 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. 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 
 Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
 Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
 Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
 A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood 1 
 And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 
 Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 
 That makes such deadly to the sense of man 1 
 Do not the laws of man say blood for honour 1 
 And !ess than honour, for a little gold 1 
 Say not tne laws ol 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 brought into contempt 
 A prince before his people 7 to have fail'd 
 In the respect accorded by nankind 
 To youth in woman, and old age it: man ? 
 To virtue ju your >ex, and dignity 
 
 [n ours ? But let them IOOK to it who have saved him 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 
 Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan saved 
 From wrath eternal ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Do not speak thus wildly 
 Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Amen ! May Heaven forgive them. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 And will you 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Yes, when they are in heaven ! 
 
 ANGIOLIXA. 
 
 And not till then 7 
 DOGE. 
 
 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 ui 
 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 ! 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 [ am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
 And trust, and honour me ; and all men know 
 That you are just, and I am true : what more 
 Could I require, or you command 7 
 
 D0QX. 
 
 T is well, 
 
 And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
 Be thou at least kind to my memory. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Why speak you thus ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It is no matter why , 
 But I would still, whatever others think, 
 Have your respect both now and in my grave. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Why should you doubt it? has it ever fail'd ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Come hither, child ; I would a word with you. 
 Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
 Made him my debtor for some courtesies, 
 Which bind the good more firmly : when oppres- 
 With his last malady, he will'd our union 
 It was not to repay me, long repaid 
 Before by his great loyalty 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 ai.J undower'd maid. I did not 
 Think with him, but would not oppose the thougl* 
 Which soothed his death-bed. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 I have not forgotten 
 The nobleness with which you bade me speak,
 
 MARINO FALiERO. 
 
 255 
 
 tf my young heart held any preference 
 Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 
 To make my dowry equal to the rank 
 Of .aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
 My father's last injunction gave you. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Thus, 
 
 'T was not a foclish dotard's vile caprice, 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
 Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
 And a young bride ; for in my fieriest youth 
 I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age, 
 Infected with that leprosy of lust 
 Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
 Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
 Too helpless to refuse a state that 's honest, 
 Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
 Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
 Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
 Your father's choice. 
 
 ANGIOLIXA. 
 
 I did so ; I would do so 
 
 In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
 Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
 In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I knew my heart would never 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 
 By passing these probationary years ; 
 Inheriting a prince's name and riches ; 
 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. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 
 
 Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
 
 For doing all its duties, and replying 
 
 With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
 
 Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and, should 
 
 The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I do believe you ; and I know you true: 
 For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
 I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
 Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
 No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
 And could not be so now, did such exist. 
 But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
 As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
 A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
 A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
 Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failing 
 As youth is apt in ; so as not to check 
 Rashly, hut win you from them ere you knew 
 
 And not a doting hor.iage friendship, faiih 
 Such estimation in your eyes as these. 
 Might claim, I hoped for. 
 
 ANGIOLIXA. 
 
 And have ever ha... 
 DOGE. 
 
 [ think so. For the difference in our years, 
 You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I trusted 
 Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
 In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, 
 Were I still in my five-and-twenlieth spring: 
 I trusted to the blood of Loredano, 
 Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
 God gave you to the truths your father taught vr- 
 To your belief in heaven to your mild virtues- 
 To your own faith and honour, fo r my own. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 You have done well. I thank you for that trust, 
 Which I have never for one moment ceased 
 To honour you the more for. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Where is honour, 
 
 Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 't is the rock 
 Of faith connubial ; where it is not where 
 Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
 )f worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
 )r sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
 Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
 )f honesty in such infected blood, 
 Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 
 An incarnation of the poet's god 
 In all his marble-chiseli'd beauty, or 
 The demi-deity, 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 fallen 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 as|*cL 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 And seeing, fee'ing thus this truth in others. 
 (I pray you pardon me), but wherefore yiei j you 
 To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
 Disquiet your great thoughts, with restless hate 
 Of such a thing as Steno 1 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You mistake me. 
 
 It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
 Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 
 
 ANGIOHNA. 
 
 What b 't you fe*> so deeply, Uien, even r-ow ' 
 POCK. 
 
 The violated majesty of Venic\ 
 
 At once insulted in her lord and laws. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Alas ! why will you thus consider it? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I have thought on't till but let me lead you bar* 
 To what I urged ; a!! these things being noted, 
 I wedded yoa ; the world then did me justice 
 Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
 
 had been won, but thought the change your choice ; 
 A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct. 
 A trust in you a patriarchal love. 
 
 They did me*right, while youn was all to nraisa 
 You had all freedom- -all respect all tnm 
 From me and mine ; and, born of those ho n*J
 
 256 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
 On foreign shores, in all things you appear' d 
 Worthy to be our first of native dames. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 To what does this conduct ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 To thus much tha. 
 
 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 chambers ; 
 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 honour, pass 
 Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
 (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. 
 
 ANOIOLINA. 
 But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 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. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 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. (Giw'ng- her a paper) Fear not ; they 
 
 are for your advantage : 
 Read them hereafter, at the fitting hour. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 My lord, in fife, 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 ask, or hope, 
 Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
 And the soul's labour through which I have toil'd 
 To make mv country honour'd. As her servant 
 Her servant, tnouh her chief I would have gone 
 Down to my minors with a nanr.e serene 
 And (tare as theirs ; but this has been denied me. 
 WoM 1 na<i Htea at Zara ! 
 
 AROIOLINA. 
 
 There you saved 
 
 The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
 Another day like that wouhl 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 't is 
 Enough 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 hasten* 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Remember what you were. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It were in vain , 
 
 Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
 While sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 At least, whate'er may urge, let me 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 thus 
 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. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 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 not have thee mourn it, but remember ; 
 Let us begone, my child the time i pressing. 
 
 \ Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A. retired spot near the Arsenal. 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO and PHILIP CALENDAKO. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint 7 
 
 ISRAEL FERTU ft) 
 
 Why, well
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 25" 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Is't possible? will he be punish' cl? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 With what 7 a mulct or an arrest 7 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 With death ! 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
 
 Such as I counseled you, with your own hand. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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 
 
 My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
 
 No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
 
 Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 
 
 For their requital but not only his ; 
 
 Wo will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
 
 Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
 
 But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 You have more patience than I care to boast. 
 Had I been present \vhtn you bore this insult, 
 1 must have siaiti him, or expired myself 
 In th vain effort to repress my wrath. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Thank Heaven you were not all had else been marr'd : 
 As 't is, our cause looks prosperous still. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 You saw 
 The Doge what answer gave he ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 That there was 
 No punishment for such as Barbaro. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 I toia you so before, and that 't was idle 
 To think of justice from such hands. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 At least, 
 
 It 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. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 But wherefore not address you to the Council 7 
 The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
 Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him 1 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Fou shall know that hereafter. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Why not now 7 
 
 ISRAFL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, 
 \nd bid your friends prepare their companies : 
 'Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
 Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
 for a fit time that hour is on the dial, 
 tt may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
 Beyond may oreed us double danger. See 
 That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
 And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
 Who will remain among the troops to wait 
 The signal. 
 
 38 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 These brave words have breathed new life 
 Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
 And hesitating councils : day on day 
 Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
 To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
 Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
 Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
 Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
 For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
 I 'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
 Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready 7 
 And are the sixteen companies completed 
 To sixty 7 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 All save two, in which there are 
 Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 No matter; we can do without. Whose are they 7 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
 Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
 Who are not restless, cold : but there exists 
 Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
 Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
 
 There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
 
 To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 
 
 Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
 
 Ot others, heedless of his own, though greater ; 
 
 And, in a recent quarrel, I beheld him 
 
 Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
 And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
 I have known Bertram long ; there doth not 
 A soul more full of honour. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 It may be so, 
 
 I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
 Yet, as he has no mistress, and no wife 
 To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
 He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
 He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
 A woman or a child had made him less 
 Than either in resolve. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Such ties are not 
 
 For those who are called to the high destinies 
 Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
 We must forget all feelings save the one 
 We must resign all passions save our purpcse- 
 We must behold no object save our country 
 And only look on dea.h as beautiful, 
 So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven. 
 And draw down freedom on her evermore. 
 
 CALENDARO, 
 
 But, if we fail? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 
 
 They never fail who me 
 In a great cause : the block may soak 'heir xor
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Their head n ay s xlden ji the sun ; their limbs 
 
 Be strung tr c ty gxtes add castle walls 
 
 But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
 
 Eiapsc, anJ others share as dark a doom, 
 
 They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
 
 Which o'erpower all others, and conduct 
 
 The world at last to freedom. What were we, 
 
 If Brutus had not lived V He died in giving 
 
 Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson 
 
 A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
 
 Which multiplies itself throughout all time, 
 
 When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
 
 Turns servile : he and his high friend were styled 
 
 " The last of Romans !" Let us be the first 
 
 Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
 
 Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
 
 On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
 
 To own a thousand despots in his place. 
 
 Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
 
 A Tartar lord, than these swoln silk-worms 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTPCCIO. 
 
 It shall be broken soon. 
 You say that all things are in readiness ; 
 To-day I have not been the usual round, 
 And why 'hou 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, 
 Ot fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
 The hoped-for fleet. Are all supplied with arms? 
 
 CALENDARO 
 
 Ab who were deem'd trust-worthy : there are some 
 
 Whom it were we.1 to keep in ignorance 
 
 Till it be time to strike, and then supply them ; 
 
 When n the heat and hurry of the hour 
 
 They have no opportunity to pause ; 
 
 But needs must on with those who will surround them. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 You have said well. Have you remark'd all such ? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 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 't is begun, 
 Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Let the Sixteen meet at the tvonted hour, 
 Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
 And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
 Within the <irsenal, and hald all ready, 
 ExpeeUnr. of the signal we will fix on. 
 
 CAtENDARO. 
 
 We will 10* fail 
 
 ISRAEL BERTCCCIO. 
 
 Let ail the rest be there : 
 1 hat *t ranger to present to them. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 A stranger! doth he know the secret? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
 On a rash confidence in one we know not? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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 comts alone with me, 
 And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve, 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 I cannot judge of this until I know him: 
 Is he one of our order ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTCCCIO. 
 
 Ay, in spirit, 
 
 Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
 Who would become a throne, or overthrow one 
 One who has done great deeds, and seen great change! , 
 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 baffled, as he has been 
 Upon the tendcrest points, there is no Fury 
 In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
 His vitals with her 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. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 And what part would you have him take witli us ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 It may be, that of chief. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 What ! and resign 
 Your own command as leader ? 
 
 ISRAEL EERTUCCIO, 
 
 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 sue 1 * 
 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 iix'd hour. 
 Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
 Trustv and brave, with head and heart to plan 
 What I have still been prompt to execute. 
 For my own part, I seek no other chiet ; 
 What the rest will decide I know not, but 
 I am with you, as I have ever been
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 /ii all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
 "ntil the hour of midnight sees us meet. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 S.;c?if, the Space between the Canal and the Church of 
 San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian Statue 
 jefore it. A Gondola lien in the Canal at some dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Enter theDoaz alone, disguised, 
 
 DOGE (solus}. 
 
 ' am before the hour, the hour whose voice, 
 Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
 Hiese 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 that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
 Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 
 
 thee 
 
 A War-house of tyranny : the task 
 Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
 And therefore was I punished, 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 
 The 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 w 10 guard our house ! 
 Vault where two Doges re-rt my sires ! who died 
 The one of toil, the other in the field, 
 With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
 And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state 
 I have inherited, let the graves gape, 
 Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
 And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 
 I call them up, and them and thce to witness 
 What it hath been which put me to this task 
 Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 
 Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 
 Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
 We fought to make our equals, not our lords : 
 And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 
 Who perish'd in the field where I since conquer'd, 
 Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
 Of thine and Venice' foes, there ofTer'd up 
 By thy descendant, merit such acquittance? 
 Spirits ! smile down upon me, for my cause 
 Is yours, in all life now can be of yours 
 Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
 And in the future fortunes of our race ! 
 ly>t me but prosper, and I make this city 
 Free and immortal, and our hous-'s name 
 Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter ! 
 Enter ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Who goes there 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 A friend to Venice. 
 
 ISRAEL LERTUCC10 
 
 is he, 
 
 Welcome, my lord, you are before ire time. 
 
 DOGE. 
 I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Have with you. I am proud and pleased to se 
 
 Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
 
 Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Not so but I have set my little left 
 Of life upon this cast: the die was thrown 
 When I first listen'd to your treason Start not ! 
 That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
 To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
 Though I be wrought on to commit them. When 
 I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
 To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
 Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
 If it so please you, do as much by me. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
 I am no spy. and neither are we traitors. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 IVe! We! no matter you have earn'd the n^i 
 
 To talk of us. But to the point. If this 
 
 Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
 
 And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
 
 Conducts her generations to our tombs, 
 
 And makes her children, with their little hands, 
 
 Strew flowers o'er their deliverers' ashes, then 
 
 The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
 
 And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
 
 The annals of hereafter ; but if not, 
 
 If we should fail, employing bloody means 
 
 And secret plot, although to a good end, 
 
 Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; thou 
 
 No less than he who was thy sovereign 
 
 Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 '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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 We observed' 
 
 Let me discover and this steel - 
 DOGE. 
 
 Put up ; 
 
 Here are no human witnesses : look there- 
 What see you ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Only a tall warrior's statue 
 Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
 Of the dull moon. * 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That warrior was the sue 
 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 ' 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCC'O. 
 
 My lord, these are mere phantasies ; there ar 
 No eyes in marble.
 
 260 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 But there are m death. 
 ( 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, 
 'T is in such deeds as we are now upon. 
 Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
 Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
 Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
 With stung plebeians ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 It had been as well 
 
 To ae 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, 
 W hich 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Lflt us away ! hark ! the hour strikes. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 On on 
 It a ova knell, or that of Venice. On. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Say, rather, 't is her freedom's rising peal 
 
 Of triumph This way we ar? near the place. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE H. 
 
 The House where the Conspirators meet. 
 
 DAGOLINO, DORO, BERTRAM, FEDELE TREVISAWO, 
 
 CALENDARO, ANTONIO DELLE BENDE, etc., etc 
 
 CALENDARO (entering). 
 Are all here ? 
 
 DACOLINO. 
 
 All with you : except the three 
 On duty, and our leader Israel, 
 Who is expected momently. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Where 's Bertram ? 
 
 BERTRAM, 
 
 Here! 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Have you not been able to complete 
 The number wanting in your company ? 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 I had rnaru'd out some ; but I have not dared 
 To trust them with the s%cret, till assured 
 That they were worthy faith. 
 
 CALEJTDARO. 
 
 There is no need 
 
 Of trusting to their faith: who, save ourselves 
 \nd our more chosen comrades, is aware 
 Kully of our intent ? they think themselves * 
 IP secret to the Signory, 
 
 To punish some more dissolute young 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 
 
 The example of their chiefs ; and I for ofie 
 
 Will set them such, that they for very shame 
 
 And safety, will not pause till all have perish'd. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 How say you ? all? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Whom wouldst thou spare ? 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 / tpo.it 
 
 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. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Yes, such pity 
 
 As 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 ! 
 
 DAGOLINO. 
 
 Should 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 r"d out ; and ; f here were 
 A single shoot of the whole tree in life, 
 'T would fasten in the soil, and spring again 
 To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
 Bertram, we must be firm ! 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Look to it well, 
 Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Who 
 Distrusts me ? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Not I ; for if I did so, 
 
 Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trus 
 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, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen rae 
 Put to the proo*"; or, if you should have doubts, 
 I '11 clear them on your person. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 You are welcome 
 
 When once our enterprise is o'er, whicb m jst re 
 Be interrupted by a private brawl.
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 2CI 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 1 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 
 [ own my natural weakness : I have not 
 Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate mjrder 
 Without some sense of shuddering ; and khe 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 those 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 ! 
 
 DAGOLIWO. 
 
 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 '11 wash away 
 All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 
 Enter ISRAEL BERTUCCIO and the DOGE, disguised. 
 
 DAQOLINO. 
 
 Welcome, Israel. 
 
 CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 Most welcome. Brave Bertuccio, thou art late 
 Who is this stranger? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 It is time to name him. 
 
 Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
 In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
 That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
 Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
 Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
 Let him unfold himself. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Stranger, step forth ! 
 [The DOGE discovers himself. 
 
 CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 To arms ! we are betray'd it is the Doge ! 
 Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
 The tyrant he hahh sold us to. 
 
 CALENDARO (drawing his 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 mystery? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Let them advance and strike at their own bosoms, 
 
 Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
 
 Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Strike ! If I dreaded death, a death more fearful 
 Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
 I should not now be here : Oh, noble Courage ! 
 The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 
 Against this solitary hoary head ! 
 See th bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
 And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
 At sight of one patrician. Butcher me. 
 2 A 
 
 You can : I care not Israel, are these men 
 The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon them ' 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Faith ! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
 Was this your trust in your true chief Bertuccio, 
 To turn your swords against him and his guest'' 
 Sheathe them, and hear him. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I disdain to speak. 
 
 They might and must have known a heart like mirw 
 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 brough. 
 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. 
 
 .ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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, 
 And droop their heads ; believe me, they are suet: 
 As I described them. Speak to them. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Ay, speak 
 We are all listening in wonder. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 (Addressing the Conspirators'). 
 
 You are safe, 
 
 Nay, more, almost triumphant listen then, 
 And know my words for truth. 
 DOGE. 
 
 You see me her* 
 
 As one of you hath raid, an old, unarm'd, 
 Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw n>t 
 Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
 Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
 Robed in official purple, dealing out 
 The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
 Nor yours, but of our masters the patricians 
 Why I was there you know, or think you know , 
 Why I am here he who hath been most wrong'd, 
 He who among you hath been most insulted, 
 Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
 If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
 Asking of his own heart what brought i.im here ? 
 You know my recent story, all men know it, 
 And judge of it far differently from those 
 Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
 But spare me the recital it is here, 
 Here at my heart, the outrage but my words, 
 Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
 Would only show my feebleness the more, 
 And I come here to strengthen even thf stron^, 
 And urge them on to deeds, and not to wai 
 With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge yoo 
 Our private wrongs have sprung from public vice* 
 In this I cannot call it commonwealth 
 Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor peop 
 But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
 Without its virtues temperance and valour. 
 The lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers, 
 But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
 Of whom I am the lowest, mos enslaveo.
 
 262 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Although drest out to head a pageant, as 
 
 The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 
 
 A pastime for their children. You are met 
 
 To overthrow this monster of a state, 
 
 This mockery of a government, this spectre, 
 
 Which must be exorcised with blood, and then 
 
 We will renew the times of truth and justice, 
 
 Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
 
 Not rash equality, but equal rights, 
 
 Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 
 
 Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
 
 And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 
 
 So thai i.o ja. 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 another day to act the tyrant 
 
 As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 
 
 And never have been read it in our annals : 
 
 I can appeal to my past government 
 
 In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
 
 If I were an oppressor, or a man 
 
 Feeling and thinking for my fellow-men. 
 
 Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
 
 A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
 
 To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 
 
 A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
 
 A stickler for the Senate and " The Forty," 
 
 A 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 
 
 Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 
 
 Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 
 
 That many know, and they 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 
 
 Lefbre he was degraded to a Doge, 
 
 Ancl 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 me, 
 
 A prince who fain would be a citizen 
 
 Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 
 
 CALEXDARO. 
 
 Long live Faliero ! Venice shall be free ! 
 
 CONSPIRATORS. 
 Long live Faliero ! 
 
 ISRAEL EERTUCCIO. 
 
 Comrades ! did I well 7 
 Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 TKw is no time for eulogies, nor place 
 Foe exultation. Am I one of you? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 4 y, and the ft-st amongst us, as thou hast bcn 
 Of Vmce be our general and chief. 
 
 CCGE. 
 
 Ohii-f! General! I was general at Zara, 
 Ami rhiet in RhoJes and Cyprus, prince in Vonic ; 
 <.u>n>< uoiiu that is. I am not fit 
 
 To lead a band of--' patriots : when I lay 
 AsiJe the dignities wMch I have borne, 
 T is not to put on othei-s, but to be 
 Mate to my fellows but now to the point 
 Israel has stated to me your whole plan 
 'TIs bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
 And must be set in motion instantly. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 E'en when thou wilt is it not so, my friendi / 
 I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
 When shall it be then ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 At sunrise. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 So soon ' 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 So soon ! so late each hour accumulates 
 
 Peril on peril, and the more so now 
 
 Since I have mingled with you ; know you not 
 
 The Council, and " The Ten!" the spies, the eye* 
 
 Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 
 
 And now more dubious of the prince they have made one? 
 
 I tell you you must strike, and suddenly, 
 
 Full to the hydra's heart its heads will Mow. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 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, the signal ? 
 DOGE. 
 
 When you hear 
 The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not ">e 
 Struck without special order of the Doge 
 (The last poor privilege they leave their prince), 
 March on Saint Mark's ! 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 And there? 
 DOGE. 
 
 By different route* 
 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 davm 
 Discern'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
 Within whose court will be drawn out in arm* 
 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 !" 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 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 gathered in unto the harvest, 
 And we will reap them wilii the sword fw sickle. 
 If some few should be tardy or absent then. 
 'T will be but to be taken faint and single 
 When the majority are put to rest. 
 
 CALENDAR*,. 
 
 Would that the hour were cow: ' rv will rot coa 
 But kill
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 263 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Once more, sir, with your pardons, 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 this slaughter 7 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 AD who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
 rhe mercy they have shown, I show. 
 
 CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 All! an! 
 
 la this a time to talk of pity ? when 
 Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Bertram, 
 
 This false compassion is a folly, and 
 Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
 Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
 Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
 The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
 From out the guilty ? all their acts are one 
 A single emanation from one body, 
 Together knit for our oppression ! 'Tis 
 Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
 If al! 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 their fangs ? However, 
 ( will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
 Let him decide if any should be saved. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ask me not tempt me not with such a question 
 Decide yourselves. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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 
 Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
 Mv 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'erbiown 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 ! 
 
 CALEJJDARO. 
 
 They cannot co-exist with Venice' freedom! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ye, though you know and feel our mutual mass 
 Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
 \Yhat fatal poison to the springs of life, 
 To human tics, and all that's good and dear, 
 L-irks in the present institutes of Venice. 
 Ml these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 
 Iteijuited honourably my regards; 
 We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in concert ; 
 We levell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
 
 We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
 
 We grew in years and honours fairly, tiU 
 
 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 friend 
 
 ships, 
 
 When the survivors of long years and actioi.s, 
 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 
 A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
 Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 
 Oime ! Oime ! and must I do this deed ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 
 
 My lord, you are much moved : it is not now 
 That such things must be dwelt upon. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Youi patience 
 
 A moment I recede not : mark with me 
 The gloomy vices of this government. 
 From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge THI r 
 
 mode me 
 
 Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been, 
 Or rather they to me : no friends, no kindness, 
 No privacy of life all were cut off: 
 They came not near me, such approach gave umbrapt ' 
 They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
 They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy ; 
 They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty ; 
 They wrong'd rne, for such was to right the stale ; 
 They could not right me, that would give suspicion : 
 So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 
 So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
 Begirt with spies for guards with robes for powe 
 With pomp for freedom gaolers for a council 
 Inquisitors for friends and hell for life ! 
 1 had one only fownt of quiet left, 
 And that they poison'd ! My pure household goJa 
 Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
 Sate grinning ribaldry and sneering scorn. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 You have been deeply wrong'd, and now shall b*> 
 Nobly avenged before another night. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I had borne all it hurt me, but I bore it 
 Till this last running over of the cup 
 Of bitterness until this last loud insult, 
 Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then 
 And thus, I cast all further feelings from me 
 The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, IDIJJ; 
 Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
 Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
 Their friend, and made a sovereign, as boys mak 
 Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken ' 
 I from that hour have seen but senators 
 In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
 Brooding with him in rniit.ial hate and fear ; 
 They dreading he should snatch the t.yrannv 
 From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrant*
 
 264 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To me, then, these men have no private life, 
 Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others ; 
 As senators for arbitrary acts 
 Amenable, I look on them as such 
 Let them be dealt upon. 
 
 CALE.3DARO. 
 
 And now to action ! 
 
 Hence, breihien, to our posts, and may this be 
 The last night of mere words : I 'd fain be doing ! 
 Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me wakeful ! 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Disperse then to your posts ; be firm and vigilant ; 
 Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
 This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
 Watch for the signal, and then march : I go 
 To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
 His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
 To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
 We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to you 
 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 garni" is ouarried : his offence 
 Was a mere eouuition of the vice, 
 The 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, ir the thought of our great purpose. 
 A slave iiisx'j me I require his punishment 
 From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
 The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Farewell, then, until dawn. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Success go with you ! 
 
 CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 We wid not fail away ! My lord, farewell ! 
 
 I Thf loitupiratort salute the DOGE and Isr AEL BER- 
 
 r-o< a., and retire, headed by PHILIP CALENDARO. 
 
 t'H lioi.E and ISRAEL BERTUCCIO remain. 
 
 ISRAEL ERTUCCIO. 
 
 We have them in the toi --- -it cannot fail ! 
 Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
 A name immortal greatei than the greatest : 
 Free citizens have struck "i kings ere now ; 
 Caesars 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 ; 't is 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 ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Who? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 My own friends by blood and courtesy, 
 And many deeds and days the senators? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just one. 
 
 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 yo , 
 So they have me : but 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 smn 
 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
 
 A child ; if you are not in second childhood 
 
 Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
 
 Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I 'd rath* 
 
 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 ind 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 :
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 2C5 
 
 Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
 
 Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
 
 Hut let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
 
 I'o which you only and the night are conscious, 
 
 And both regardless : when the hour arrives, 
 
 T is 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 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 '11 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 oh God ! oh God! 'tis true, 
 And thou dost well to answer that it was 
 " My own free will and act ;" and yet you err, 
 For I will do this ! Doubt not fear 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 Venice 
 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. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 With all my soul ! 
 
 Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
 Remember what these men have deult 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 hath wrung you 
 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. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Man, tliou hast struck upon the chord which jars 
 AJI nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 
 
 [Exevnt 
 
 2 A 2 39 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Palazzo of the Patrician LIONI. LIONI laying asvit 
 the mask and cloak which the Venetian Nobles war 
 in public, attended by a Domestic. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 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 my heart, 
 Which in the lightest movement of the dance, 
 Though eye to eye and hand in hand united, 
 Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
 And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
 A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
 To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be ; 
 Through all the music ringing in my ears 
 A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
 Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
 Rose o'er the city's murmur in the nioht, 
 Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark ; 
 So that I left the festival before 
 It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
 For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
 Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
 The lamp within my chamber. 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Yes, my lord ; 
 Command you no refreshment? 
 
 Lion. 
 
 Nought, save sleep, 
 Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 
 
 [Exit ANTOKIO 
 Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
 Whether the air will calm my spirits ; 't is 
 A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
 From the Levant hath crept into its cave, 
 And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness 
 
 [ Grits to an open lattiae. 
 And what a contrast with the scene I left, 
 Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
 More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
 Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
 Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
 A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
 Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
 There Age essaying to recall the past, 
 After long striving for the hues of youth 
 At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
 Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
 Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 
 Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
 Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
 Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'a. 
 There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of sued 
 Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
 And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
 Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
 Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
 And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
 On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should n* 
 Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
 The music, and the banquet, and the wine-
 
 266 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The garlands, the rose odours, and the flowers 
 The sparkling eyej and flashing ornaments 
 The white arms and the raven hair the braids 
 And bracelets ; svvanlike bosoms, and the necklace, 
 An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
 The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes 
 Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven ; 
 The many twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 
 Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
 Of the fair forms which terminate so well 
 All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 
 Its false and true enchantments art and nature, 
 Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
 The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
 On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
 A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
 4re 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 lo space 
 What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
 Soften'd with 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 massy 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 (he 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-born and earth-commanding city. 
 How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 
 I thank thee, night ! for thou nast chased away 
 Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
 1 1 ould not dissipate: and, with the blessing 
 Ol thy benign and quiet influence, 
 ticw wiu I to my couch, although to rest 
 
 IB *imost wronging such a night as this 
 
 [A knocking is heard from without. 
 Rurk ! wnat is that? or who at such a moment? 
 Enter ANTONIO. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 My lord, a man without, on iu gent business, 
 Implores to be admitted. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Is he a stranger? 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
 His voice and gestures seern familiar to me ; 
 I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
 To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
 He sues to be permitted to approach you. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 'T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing 
 And yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in 
 Their houses noble men are struck at ; still, 
 Although I know not that I have a foe 
 In Venice, 't will 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 BERTRAM muffled. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 My good lord Lioni, 
 
 I have no time to lose, nor thou dismiss 
 This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 
 
 LIONI. 
 It seems the voice of Bertram go, Antonio. 
 
 [Exit ANTONIO. 
 Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 
 
 BERTRAM (discovering himself), 
 A boon, my noble patron ; you have granted 
 Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
 This one, and make him happy. 
 
 Lion. 
 
 Thou hast known DM 
 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 heard, but that the hour, 
 Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
 Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
 Hath some mysterious import but say on 
 What has occurred, gome rash and sudden broJ ' 
 A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab? 
 Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
 Spilt noble blood, I guaranty thy safety ; 
 But then thou must withdraw, 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 
 
 LIOSI. 
 
 But what? You have M 
 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 thed 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 swnra 
 And is about to take, instead of sand, 
 The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass ! 
 Go not thou forth to morrow ! 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Wherefo enot?- 
 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 
 Tht groans of men the clash of arms the sound 
 Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
 Pea! in one wide alarum ! Go not forth 
 Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
 Till I return ! 
 
 Lion. 
 Again, what does this mean ? 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
 Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven by all 
 The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
 To emulate them, and to leave behind 
 Descendants worthy both of them and thee 
 By all thou hast of 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. 
 
 [ am indeed already lost in wonder: 
 Surely thou ravest ! what have / to dread ? 
 Who are my foes ? or, if there be such, why 
 A:t 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 ? 
 
 LIOXI. 
 
 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 there aught which shall impede me ! 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! Farewell 
 
 [Going-. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Stay there is more in this than my own safety 
 Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part thus: 
 Bertram, I have known thee long. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 From childhood, signor, 
 Vou have been my protector : in the days 
 Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
 Or, lather, is not yet taught to remember 
 Its coid prerogative, we play'd together; 
 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 hai)|iv, heart-full hours ! 
 Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 
 
 LIONI. 
 B" :-am, 't is tnou who hast forgotten them. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 
 I would have saved you : when to manhooj i growth 
 
 We sprung, and you, devoted to the stute, 
 
 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, 't was 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 thine 
 
 Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
 
 Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 
 
 LIOXI. 
 Why, what hast thou to say against the senate > 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 I know that there are angry spirits 
 And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
 Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
 Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
 Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
 And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns. 
 Thou herdest not with such: 't is true, of late 
 I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert won'. 
 To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
 With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect 
 What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
 And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
 Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
 To waste thee. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Rather shame and sorrow light 
 On the accursed tyranny which rides 
 The very air in Venice, and makes men 
 Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
 Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 
 
 LIOM. 
 
 Some villains have been tampering with thee, Bertram 
 This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
 Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection . 
 But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 
 And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
 As vice and villany would put thee to : 
 Confess confide in me thou khow'st my na uta-- 
 What is it thou and thine are bound to do, 
 Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 
 Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 
 So that our good-will is a heritage 
 We should bequeath to our posterity 
 Such as ourselves received it, or augmented , 
 I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
 Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the hous 
 Like a sick girl ? 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Nay, question me no further : 
 
 I must be gone 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 And I be murder'd! say, 
 Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram ' 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Who talks of murder? what said I of murder ' 
 'T is false ! I did not utter auch a we'd
 
 268 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Thou didst not , but from out thy wolfish eye, 
 
 So changed fiom what I ki>ew it, there glares forth 
 
 The gladiator. Jf my life's thine object, 
 
 Take it I am unarm'd, and then away ! 
 
 I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
 
 As the capricious mercy of such things 
 
 As thou and those who have set thee to thy task-work. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Sooner than spill thy blooH, I peril mine ; 
 Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
 In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
 As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram ; 
 I am not worthy to be singled out 
 From such exalted hecatombs who are they 
 That are in danger, and that make the danger? 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
 
 Divided like a house against itself, 
 
 And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now, 
 Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
 Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out, 
 And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 
 Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too- 
 Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
 How would it look to see upon a spear 
 The 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 I swear, 
 Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
 Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 
 Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
 The consequence of all which led thee here ! 
 
 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 the 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; 
 
 1 could have wound my soul up to all things 
 Save this. Thou must not die ! and think how dear 
 Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
 Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
 Of future generations, not to be 
 The assassin thou miscall'st me ; once, once more 
 I dc djure tnee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 It t) ruin- -irnB moment I go forth. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
 I will disclose ensnare betray destroy 
 Oh, what a villain I become for 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 
 The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
 Nobility itself I guaianty 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 ! 
 Farewell ! we meet no more in life ! farewell ! 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 What, ho ! Antonio Pedro to the door ! 
 
 See that none pass arrest this man ! 
 
 Enter ANTONIO and other armed Domestics, who seizt 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 LIONI (continue*). 
 
 Take cart 
 
 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 too* 
 Bear me a prisoner 7 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Firstly, to " The Ten ;" 
 Next, to the Doge. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 To the Doge? 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Assuredly ; 
 Is he not chief of the 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 dungeoni 
 A rack. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Apply to it before the dawn 
 
 Now hastening into heaven. One moie such woid, 
 And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
 Ye think to doom to me. 
 
 Re-enter ANTONIO. 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 The bark is readv, 
 My lord, and all prepared. 
 
 LIONI. 
 
 Look to the prisoner. 
 Bertram, I '11 reason with thee as we go 
 To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo.
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 271 
 
 SCENE II. -ell thy life's worth, 
 
 T>L n. i n i ,t r, i^s function? 
 The Ducal Palace the Doge's 
 
 HT. 
 The DOGE and his nephew BERTUCCIU . 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Are all the people of our house in muster? 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 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. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Methinks, my lord, 't is 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, 
 These are the men for such an enterprise : 
 These city slaves have 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 country 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 chief in armour is their suzerain, 
 And not a thing in robes. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 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 '11 wish with me 
 A. band of iron rustics at our backs. 
 
 BERTl'CCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolved 
 To st.-ike the blow so suddenly. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Such blows 
 
 Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
 ( had i>'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
 Which > carn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
 * moment to the feelings of old days, 
 1 was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
 ( might not yield again to such emotions ; 
 And, secondly because of all these men, 
 
 DOGE (aside). 
 
 There now is nothing left me save to die , 
 And yet how near success ! I wyild have fallen, 
 And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
 TVmiBo it. thus ! 
 
 tuey must on for the,. ,. THE N IGHT with BERTULCI 
 And the mere instinct of the prisoner. 
 Which ever lurks somewhere in t.u., 
 Though circumstance may keep it in ai., t 
 Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sigu r 
 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 tiO 
 That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 
 Is capable of turning them aside. 
 How goes the night ? 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Almost upon the dawn. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
 Are the men posted ? 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 By this time they are ; 
 But they have orders not to strike, until 
 They have command from you through me in person. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 'T is 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 cost 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 oeen 
 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. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 [t gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
 Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
 You were decided. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It was ever ths 
 With me ; the hour of agitation came 
 [n the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
 Passion had too much room to sway ; but ir. 
 The hour of action I have stood as calm 
 As were the dead who lay around me : tnis 
 They knew who made me what I am, and trust** 
 To the subduing power which I preserved 
 3ver my mood, when its first burst was spent 
 But they were not aware that there are things 
 Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
 And not an impulse of mere anger : though 
 The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured strum 
 Oft do a public right with private wrong.
 
 268 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 X.IONI. 
 
 Thou didst not , but from out thy wolfish eye, 
 
 So changed fiom what I knew it, there glares forth 
 
 The gladiator. Jf my life's thine object, 
 
 Take it I am unarm'd, and then away ! 
 
 I would not hold my breath on such. -*- 
 
 As the capricious mercy of su- 
 
 As thou and those who-b~ 
 
 .ig in the sky. 
 
 Sooner than i 
 Sooner i 
 
 True, 
 
 Away, then! 
 
 . u>at they strike without delay, ana wun 
 
 The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
 
 With all our house's strength ; here I will meet you 
 
 The Sixteen and their companies will move 
 
 In separate columns at the self-same moment 
 
 Be sure you post yourself by the great gate, 
 
 1 would not trust " The Ten " except to us 
 
 The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
 
 Glut the more careless swords of those leagued with us. 
 
 Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark! 
 
 The Genoese are come ho ! to the rescue ! 
 
 Saint Mark and liberty !" Now now to action ! 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
 In freedom and true sovereignty, or never! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Come hither, my Bertuccio one embrace 
 Speed, for the day grows broader Send me soon 
 A messenger to tell me how all goes 
 When you rejoin our troops, and then sound sound 
 The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 
 
 [Exit BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 DOGE (solus). 
 
 He is gone, 
 
 And on each footstep moves a life. 'T is done. 
 Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
 Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
 Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
 And for a moment poised in middle air, 
 Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
 Then swoops with his unerring beak. Thou day ! 
 That slowly walk's! the waters ! march march on 
 I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
 That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ' 
 I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
 With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
 While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious: 
 Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; no 
 Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
 Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
 But 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. 
 Do"t> Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
 To vanquisn empires and refuse their crown ; 
 
 will resign a crown, and make the state 
 Renuw, its freedom but oh ! by what means? 
 The noble end must justny them What 
 Are. u few drops of human blood 'I 't is false, 
 The blood of tyrants is not human ? they. 
 
 olochs. feed on ours, 
 Then perish V enice r ., 
 . ... * , ive them to the tombs 
 
 I will disclose en? , i r^, , , , 
 
 . e made so populous. Oh work 1 ! 
 
 ' That are ye, and our best designs, 
 
 _ _ -e must work by crime to punish crime 1 
 And sky as if Death had but this one gate, 
 Vhen a few years would make the sword superfluouf 
 And I, upon the verge of the unknown realm, 
 Yet send so many heralds on before me 1 
 [ must not ponder this. 
 
 [A paute. 
 Hark ! was there not 
 
 A murmur as of distant voices, and 
 The tramp of feet in martial unison 1 
 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 me, and he 
 Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
 Qpon 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 bodements ; let it do its office, 
 And be this peal its awfullest and last. 
 Sound till 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 or the weak, in case of conflict: 
 For if they should do battle, 't will 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 1 Is he marching ? Hath he sped ? 
 They here ! all's lost yet will I make an effort. 
 Enter a SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT,* with Guards, etc. 
 
 SIGNOR 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 ? 
 
 SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT (showing hit order). 
 Behold my order from the assembled Ten. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 And where are thy, and why assembled ? no 
 Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
 Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on thine 
 I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
 To the council chamber. 
 
 SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Duke, it may not be ; 
 
 Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
 But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 
 
 DOGE. 
 You dare to disobey me then ? 
 
 SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 I serve 
 
 The state, and needs must serve it faithfully. 
 My warrant is the will of those who rul" it 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 And till that warrant has my signature. 
 It b illegal, and, as now applied,
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 27J 
 
 Rebellious * [ast thou weigh'd well thy life's worth, 
 That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 
 
 SIGNOR Or THE NIGHT. 
 
 *T is not my office to reply, but act 
 
 I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 
 
 And not as judge to hear or to decide. 
 
 DOGE (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 ! be they prince and people, 
 Or slaves and senate 
 
 [The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
 Lo ! it sounds it tolls ! 
 
 DOGE (aloud). 
 
 Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, ye hirelings, 
 Who wield your mercenary slaves in fear, 
 It is your knell Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
 Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives? 
 
 SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Confusion! 
 
 Stand to your arms, and guard the door all 's lost, 
 Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
 The officer hath 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. 
 
 [Exit a part of the Guard. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, implore it ; 
 It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
 Ay, send ihy miserable ruffians forth ; 
 They never shall return. 
 
 SIGNOR 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 thou provok'st not peril by resistance, 
 And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
 To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 
 
 SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 And learn thou to be captive It hath ceased, 
 
 [The 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 (after a pause). 
 M's silent, and all's lost! 
 
 SIGNOR 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 eam'd the price 
 Of blood, and they wh'o use thee will reward thee. 
 But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
 As thou said'st even now then do thine office, 
 But let be in silence, as behoves thee, 
 Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 
 
 SIGNOH Or THE WIGHT. 
 
 aid not mean to fail in the respect 
 Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 
 
 DOGE (aside). 
 
 There now is nothing left m<> save to die ; 
 And yet how near success ! I w^vild have fallen, 
 And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
 To miss it thus ! 
 
 Enter other SIGNORS or THE NIGHT wuh BERTULCI 
 FALIERO prisoner. 
 
 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 
 Wliich lead up to the palace well secured ? 
 
 SECOND SIGNOR. 
 
 They are besides, it matters not ; the chiefs 
 Are all in chains, and some even now on trial 
 Their followers are dispersed, and many taKen. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Uncle ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 
 The glory hath departed from our house. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 Who would have deem'd it ? Ah ! one moment soonc* 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That moment would have changed the face of ages ; 
 This gives us to eternity We 'II 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, 't is 
 But a brief passage I would go alone, 
 Yet if they send us, as 't is like, together, 
 Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 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. 
 'T is 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 Judas 7 
 
 FIRST SIGNOR. 
 
 I am not warranted to answer that. 
 
 BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 I '11 answer for thee 't is a certain Bertram, 
 Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile toois 
 We operate to slay or save ! This creature, 
 Black with a double treason, now will eain 
 Rewards and honours, and be stampt in stoiy 
 With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
 Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
 While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, wa? so* 
 From the Tarpeian. 
 
 FIRST SIGNOR. 
 
 He aspired to treason 
 And sought to rule the state.
 
 272 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 He saved the state, 
 
 And sought but to reform what he revived- 
 But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 
 
 FIRST SIGNOR. 
 
 Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove you 
 Into an inner chamber. 
 
 BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 
 
 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. 
 
 'ITie Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the 
 additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Con- 
 spirators for the Treason of MA.RISO FALIERO, com- 
 posed what was called the Giunta. Guards, Offi- 
 cers, etc., etc ISRAEL BERTUCCIO and PHILIP 
 C ALENDARO as Prisoners. BERTRAM, LIONI, and 
 Witnesses, etc. 
 
 The Chief of the Ten, BENUTTENDI:. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 There now rests, after such conviction of 
 Their manifold and manifest offences, 
 But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
 The sentence of the law : a grievous task 
 To those who hear and those who speak. Alas ' 
 That it should fall to me, and that my days 
 Of office should be stigmatized through all 
 The years of coming time, as bearing record 
 To this most foul and complicated treason 
 Against a just and free state, known to all 
 The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
 The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
 The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
 A city which has open'd India's wealth 
 To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
 O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 
 Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'T is to sap 
 The throne of such a city, these lost men 
 Jlave risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives 
 So let them die the death. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 We are prepared ; 
 \ our racks have done that for us. Let us die. 
 
 BEMNTENDE. 
 
 it ye have that to say which would obtain 
 Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
 Will hear you ; i. you have aught to confess, 
 Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Vc stand to hear, and not to speak. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Your crimes 
 
 Are fully proved by jour accomplices, 
 And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
 Y we would hear from vour own lips complete 
 
 Avowal of your treason : on ihe verge 
 Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
 Alone can profit you on earth or heaven 
 Say, then, what was your motive ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Justice ; 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 What 
 Your object? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 
 
 Freedom ! 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 You are brief, s. 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 So my life grows : I 
 Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Perhaps you. think by this blunt brevity 
 
 To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Do you be brief as I am, and, believe me, 
 I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Go, ask your racks what they 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 limb : 
 
 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 ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Say, who were your accomplices ? 
 
 ISRAEL BEKTUCCIO. 
 
 The senate ! 
 
 BEFINTENDE. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Ask of the suffering people, 
 Whom your patrician crimes have d iven to crime. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 You know the Doge ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I served with him at Zara 
 In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
 To present office ; 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 insulte ! 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 You have held conference with him ? 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I am weary- 
 Even wearier of your questions than your torture* 
 I pray you pass to judgment. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 It is cfinw f . 
 And you, too, Philip Calendaro, wha*
 
 MARINO FALIERO 
 
 27.1 
 
 Have you to say why you should not be doom'd ? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 1 never was a man of many words, 
 
 And now have few left worth the utterance. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 A. ftrthT 1 implication of yon engin. 
 Mav change your tone. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Most true, it will do so ; 
 A former application did so ; but 
 It will not change my words, or, if ii did 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 What then ? 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Will my avowal on yon rack 
 Stand good in law ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Assuredly. 
 
 CALENDARO. ' 
 
 Whoe'er 
 The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Without doubt, he will be brought up to trial. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 And on this testimony would he per jsh ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 So your confession be detail'd and full, 
 He will stand here in peri! of his life. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Then look well to thy proud self, President ! 
 For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
 I swear that thou, and- only thou, shall be 
 The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 
 If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 
 
 ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 
 
 Lord President, 't were best to proceed to judgment , 
 There is no more to be drawn from these men. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Dnnappy 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 mofcy on their souls ! 
 
 THE GIUNTA. 
 
 Amen! 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Signers, farewell ! we shall not all again 
 Meet in one place. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 And lest they should essay 
 To stir up the distracted multitude 
 Guards ! let tli*ir mouths be gagg'd,* even in the act 
 Of execution. Lead them hence ! 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 What ! must we 
 
 Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
 Not leave a last word with our confessor ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 \ priest is waiting in the ante-chamber ; 
 But, '" cur friends, such interviews would bo 
 Painful to them, and useless all to you. 
 2 B 40 
 
 , CALENDARO. 
 
 [ knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least, 
 All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
 Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
 That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
 Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
 Would not now be denied to us ; but since 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Even let them have their way, brave Calendarc 
 
 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. 
 
 CALENDARO. 
 
 Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me, 
 
 It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
 
 The coward Bertram, would 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 Peace, Calendarol 
 What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
 I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon me : ' 
 Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
 Retrieve my own forgiveness frown not thus ! 
 
 ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 
 
 I die and pardon thee ! 
 
 CALENDARO (spitting at him). 
 
 I die and scorn ihee ! 
 
 [Exeunt ISRAEL BERTUCCIO and PHILIP CALK* 
 DARO, Guards, etc. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 
 
 'T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
 
 Upon the greatest traitor upon fecord 
 
 In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
 
 The proofs and pror jss are complete ; the time 
 
 And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
 
 He now be call'd in to receive the award ? 
 
 THE GIUNTA. 
 
 Ay, ay. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Avogadon, order that the Doge 
 Be brought before the council. 
 
 ONE OF THE GI0NTA. 
 
 And the rest, 
 When shall they be brought up ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 When all the chieta 
 
 Have been disposed of. Some have fled tc 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 treason 'gainst the senate. 
 Enter the DOGE as Prisoner, with Guards, etc. nt 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Doge for such still you are, and by the la-. 
 Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
 When you must doff the ducal bonnet from
 
 271 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 That head wb ich could not wear a crown more noble 
 
 Than emp n,s can confer, in quiet honour, 
 
 But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 
 
 Whi made you what you are, and quench in blood 
 
 A cit y's glory- we have laid already 
 
 Before you in your chamber at full length, 
 
 By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
 
 Whiclt have uppear'd against you ; and more ample 
 
 Ne'er i-ear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
 
 Confront a traitor. VVhat 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. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Your chief accomplices 
 Raring confess'd, there is no hope for you. 
 
 DOGE. 
 And who be they ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 In number many ; but 
 The first now stands before you in the court, 
 Bertram, of Bergamo, would you question him ? 
 
 DOGE (looking at him contemptuously). 
 No. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 
 And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
 Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 And where are they ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Gone to their place, and now 
 Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
 And the quic* Cassius of the arsenal ? 
 How did they meet their doom ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Think of your own ; 
 It it approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
 Can recognise your legal power to try me : 
 Show me the law ! 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 On great emergencies, 
 The law must be remodell'd o' amended : 
 Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
 Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
 The sentence against parricide was left 
 In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
 That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
 In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
 That nature oouU be filed to such a crime 
 As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms V 
 You' sin hath made us make a law which will 
 Become, a precedent 'gainst such naught traitors, 
 As wou.d with treason mount to tyranny ; 
 No* even contented with a sceptre, till 
 They can convert .1 to a two-edged sword ! 
 Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
 What 's nobler tnaa the signory of Venice ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 The signory of Venice ! You betray'd me 
 
 You you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
 
 From my equality with you in birth, 
 
 And my superiority in action, 
 
 You drew me from my honourable toils 
 
 In distant lands on flood in field in cities 
 
 You singled me out like a victim, to 
 
 Stand r.rown'd, but bound and helpless, at the a.tai 
 
 Where you alone could minister. I knew not 
 
 I sought not wish'd not dream'd not the election, 
 
 Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd; ' 
 
 But found, on my arrival, that besides 
 
 The jealous vigilance which always led you 
 
 To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
 
 You had, even in the interregnum of 
 
 My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
 
 And mutilated the few privileges 
 
 Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
 
 Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
 
 By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
 
 And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you 
 
 Fit judge in such tribunal ! 
 
 BENINTENDE (interrupting him). 
 
 * Michel Steno 
 
 Is here in virtue of his office, as 
 One of the Forty ; " The Ten " having craved 
 A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
 To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
 And novel as the present, he was set 
 Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
 Because the Doge, who should protect the law 
 Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
 No punishment of others by the statutes 
 Which he himself denies and violates ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 His PUNISHMENT ! I rather see hin 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. 
 
 BEXINTENDE. 
 
 And can it be, that the great Doge of VenLco, 
 With three parts of a century of years 
 And honours on his head, could thus allow 
 His fury, like an angry boy's, tq master 
 All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on Mich 
 A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 A spark creates the flame ; 't is the last drop 
 Which makes the cii[> run o'er, and mine was frJL 
 Already : you oppress'd the prince and peopla ; 
 I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both: 
 The price of such success would have been glory, 
 Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
 As would have made Venetian history 
 Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse, 
 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 th future 
 Will judge, when Venice is no more, or tree ; 
 Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
 I would have shown no mercy, and I seek wone . 
 My life was staked upon a mighty hazard.
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 27 i 
 
 And b iing lost, lane 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. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 You do cc^fess then, and admit the justice 
 Of our tribunal ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I confess to havd 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. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 You do not then in aught arraign our equity 7 
 
 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 : 
 'T is 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 yjur graves 
 What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
 The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
 Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
 A danger which would double that you escape. 
 Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
 To make it famous ; for true words are things, 
 And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
 And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine, 
 If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
 And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
 Let me die calmly ; you nay grant me this ; 
 I deny nothing defend nothing nothing 
 I ask of you, but silence for myself, 
 And sentence from the court 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 This full admission 
 
 Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
 The torture to elicit the whole truth. 
 
 DOCE. 
 
 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 OFFICER. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
 Requests admission to the G Junta's presence. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Say, conscript fathers,* shall she be admitted ? 
 
 ONE OF THE OIUNTA. 
 
 She may have revelations of importance 
 (Jr.to the state, to justify compliance 
 With her request. 
 
 BENINTENDF. 
 
 Is this the general will ? 
 
 ft is. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Oh, admirable laws of Venice . 
 Which would admit the wife, in the full hop* 
 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 '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
 The DUCHESS enters. 
 
 BE.NINTENDE. 
 
 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 virtue! 
 But you turn pale ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
 Place a chair instantly. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 A moment's faintness 
 'T is past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
 In presence of my prince, and of my husband, 
 While he is on his feet. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Your pleasure, lady ? 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
 And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
 To know the worst ; even at the worst ; forgive 
 The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 
 
 Is it 1 cannot speak I cannot shape 
 
 The question but you answer it ere spoken, 
 With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows 
 Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 
 BENINTENDE ( after a pause ) . 
 Spare us, and spare thyself the repetition 
 Of our most awful, but inexorable 
 Duty to Heaven and man ! 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Yet speak ; I cannot 
 
 I cannot no even now believe these things ; 
 Is he condemn'd ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 And was he guilty 7 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Lady ! the natural distraction of 
 
 Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
 
 Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
 
 j Against a just and paramount tribunal 
 
 i Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, 
 
 I And if he can deny the proofs, believe h=ni 
 
 | Guiltless as thy own bosom. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Is it so ? 
 
 My lord my sovereign my poor father's tnenc 
 The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
 Unsay the words of this man ' Thou art si.ent 
 
 B.^NINTENIE. 
 
 He hath already own'd to his own guilt. 
 Nor, as thou seest, doth he deny it iww.
 
 276 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. x 
 
 \y, but h> must not die ! Spare his few years, 
 Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
 < )ne day of baffled crime must not efface 
 Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 His doom must be fulfill'd without remission 
 Of time or penalty 't is a decree. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Not in this case with justice. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Alas! signor, 
 
 He who is only just is cruel ; who 
 Upon the earth would live, were all judged justly ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 His punishment is safety to the state. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 He was a subject, and hath served the state : 
 He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
 He is your sovereign, and hath rc'ed the state. 
 
 ONE OF THE COUNCIL. 
 
 He is a traitor, and betray'd the state. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 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, 
 Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
 Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 
 
 ONE OF THE COUNCIL. 
 
 No, lady, there are others who would die 
 Rather than breathe in slavery ! 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 If there are so 
 
 Within these walls, thou art not one of the number : 
 The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! 
 Is there no hope ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Lady, it cannot be. 
 ANGIOLINA (turning to the DOGE). 
 Then die, Faliero ! since it must be so ; 
 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. 
 I would have sued to them have pray'd to them 
 Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread- 
 Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
 For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer 
 Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, 
 Ami if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
 Hail not announced the heartless wrath within. 
 Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 [ have li/ed too long not to know how to die! 
 
 Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
 
 Of (he larnb to the butcher, or the cry 
 
 Of peamen to the surge : I would not take 
 
 A life eternal, granted at the hands 
 
 O r wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
 
 > sought to free the groaning nations ! 
 
 MICHEL STEVO. 
 
 Doge, 
 
 A woid with thee, and with this noble lady, 
 Whom I liave grievously offended. Would 
 
 Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
 Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
 But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
 Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
 I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
 And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
 
 I speak to thee in answer to yon signor, 
 
 Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
 
 Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daugh'^i 
 
 Further than to create a moment's pity 
 
 For such as he is ; would that others had 
 
 Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
 
 My honour to a thousand lives, could such 
 
 Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
 
 A single life of others lost for that 
 
 Which nothing human can impugn the sense 
 
 Of virtue, looking not to what is called 
 
 A good name for reward, but to itself. 
 
 To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
 
 Unto the rock : but as there arc alas ! 
 
 Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
 
 Light as ihe whirlwind on the waters ; souls 
 
 To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 
 
 More terrible than death here and hereafter ; 
 
 Men whose vice is, to start at vice's scoffing, 
 
 And who, though proof against all blandishments 
 
 Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 
 
 When the proud name on which they pinnacled 
 
 Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 
 
 Of her high aiery ; let what we now 
 
 Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
 
 To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
 
 With beings of a higher order. Insects 
 
 Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
 
 I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave , 
 
 A wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy ; 
 
 A wife's dishonour unkmg'd Rome for ever ; 
 
 An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 
 
 And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 
 
 An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
 
 His life, while earth yet hore his cruelties ; 
 
 A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish provirce / 
 
 And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 
 
 Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
 
 A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
 
 Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head, 
 
 And forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 
 
 Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 
 
 Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 
 
 If it so please him 't were a pride fit for him ! 
 
 But let him not insult the last hours of 
 
 Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 
 
 By 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 suffer ; 't is the charter 
 
 Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fan 
 
 May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no ar.qe 
 
 'T was the worm's nature ; and some : en aro worM 
 
 In soul, more titan the living things of tow's
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 DOOE (to BENJXTENDE). 
 Signer, complete that which you deem your duty. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
 
 We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
 
 T wi3 move her too much to be witness to it. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 I know it will, and yet I must endure it ; 
 For 't is a part of mine I will not quit, 
 Except by force, my husband's side. Proceed! 
 Nay, fear not either shriek, or s'gh, or tear ! 
 Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. Speak ! 
 I have that within which shall o'ermaster alL 
 
 BEXINTENDE. 
 
 M arino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
 
 Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
 
 And sometime General of the Fleet and Army, 
 
 Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
 
 Entru:d by the state with high employments, 
 
 Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
 
 Convict by mar.y 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 matching 
 
 Our li ves 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. 
 
 IVhat 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. 
 
 BENIXTENDE. 
 
 Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
 Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
 As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
 Thou shaH be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
 Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
 And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
 Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
 Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven have mercy 
 Upon thy soul ' 
 
 DOGE. 
 Is this the Giunta's sentence 7 
 
 BENINTEJfDE. 
 
 ft IS. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I can endure it. And the time ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Must be immediate. Make thy peace with Gf d ; 
 Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 
 2s 2 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 [ am already ; and my blood will rise 
 
 To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it.- 
 
 Are all my lands confiscated ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 They are : 
 
 And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure. 
 Except two thousand ducats these dispose of. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That 's harsh I would have fain reserved the land* 
 Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
 From Laurence, the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
 In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 
 To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
 My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
 Between my consort and my kinsmen. 
 
 BENIWTENDE. 
 
 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. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Signers, 
 
 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 't will end. 
 Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 You have nought to do except confess and die 
 The priest is robed, the scimitar is hare, 
 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 are 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 ! 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shall 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 dieu 
 The dog's death, and the wolf's ; hut thou shall fak 
 As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
 By those who feel a proud compassion for hee. 
 And mourn even the inevitable death 
 Provoked by thy wild wrath and regal fierceness 
 Now we remil thee to thy preparation : 
 Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
 Thy guides to the place where first we were 
 United to thee as thy subjects, and 
 Thy senate ; and must now be parted from me* 
 As such for ever on the selfsame spot. 
 Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his ch mbei . 
 
 ; I'.
 
 278 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Doge's Apartment. 
 The DOGE as prisoner, and the DUCHESS attending him. 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 Now that the priest is gone, 't were useless 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 falling I have done with Time. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 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 hi* death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
 Which shaped out for ilself some great reverse; 
 The marvel is, it came not until now 
 And vet it was foretold me. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 How foretold you ? 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 Long years ago so long, they are a doubt 
 [n memory, and yet they live in annals : 
 When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
 And signory as podesta and captain 
 Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
 Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
 Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 
 By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
 To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote him, 
 Until he reel'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 him, 
 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 lie pass'd on. That hour is come. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 And with this warning couldst thou not have striven 
 
 To avert the fatal moment, and atone 
 
 By penitence for that which thou hadst done? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 1 own the words went to my heart, so much 
 That I remember'd them amid the maze 
 Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
 Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
 AnH 1 repented ; but 't was not for me 
 Jv (Hill in resolution: what must be 
 i could not change, and would not fear. Nay, more 
 l*h"U cans', not have forgot what all remember, 
 /'hat on mv day of landing hore as Doge, 
 
 On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
 Unwonted density went on before 
 The bucentaur, like the columnal cloud 
 Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
 The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
 Between the pillars ot Saint Mark's, wheie 'ti 
 The custom of the state to put to dea* 
 Its criminals, instead of touching at 
 The Riva della Paglia, as the wont n , 
 So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
 Such things. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 And yet I find a comfort in 
 
 The thought that these things are the woric of Fate ; 
 For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
 Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
 Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
 I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
 And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
 Of an o'er-ruling power ; they in themselves 
 Were all incapable they could not be 
 Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them! 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
 
 Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
 
 Even with these wretches take thy flight to hearen. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
 That a sure hour will come, when their sons' son*, 
 And this proud city, and these azure waters, 
 And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
 Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
 A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
 A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean-Babel ! 
 
 ANGIOLINA. 
 
 Speak not thus now : the surge of passion still 
 Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
 Thyself and canst not injure them be calmer. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I stand within eternity, and see 
 Into eternity, and I behold 
 Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
 For the last time the days which I denounce 
 Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
 And they who arc indweKers. 
 
 GUARD (coming forward). 
 
 Doge of Venice, 
 The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Then farewell, Angiolina ! one embrace 
 Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
 A fond but fatal husband love my memory 
 I would not ask so much for me still living, 
 But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
 Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
 Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 
 Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and rama. 
 Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
 Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, nol e.\eq 
 A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 
 No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
 From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one Knur 
 I have uprooted all my former life 
 And outlived every thin?, except thy heart.
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 279 
 
 The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
 With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 
 
 Still keep Thou turn's! so pale Alas ! she faints, 
 
 She hath no breath, no pulse ! Guards ! lend your aid 
 I cannot leave her thus, and yet 't is better, 
 Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
 When she shakes off this temporary death, 
 I shall be with the Eternal Call her women 
 One look ! how cold her hand ! as cold as mine 
 Shall be ere she recovers. Gently tend her, 
 And take my last thanks. I am ready now. 
 
 [The attendants qfANGiOLiNA enter and sur- 
 round their mistress, who has fainted. 
 Exsunl the DOG/:, Guards, etc., etc. 
 
 SCENE IH. 
 
 The Court of the Ducal Palace : the outer gates are 
 shut against the people. The DOGE enters in his 
 ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten 
 and nther Patricians, attended by the Guards, till 
 they arrive at the top of the " Giant's Staircase" 
 (where the Doges took tJie oaths)^ the Executioner is 
 .tntioned 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 : 
 
 'T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 
 
 Here was I r rown'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. 
 'T is with age, then.' 
 
 BENISTENDE. 
 
 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 methinks 
 My death, and such a death, might settle all 
 Between the state and me. 
 
 BENINTENDE. 
 
 They shall be cared for ; 
 Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Unheard-of! ay, there's not a history 
 But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
 Against the people ; but to set them free 
 One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 
 
 BENISTENDE. 
 
 And who are they who fell in such a cause? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice 
 Agis and Faliero ! 
 
 BENIN'TENDE. 
 
 Hast thou more 
 To utter or to do ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 May I speak? 
 
 BF.NIXTENDE. 
 
 Thou may'st ; 
 
 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 spir* 
 
 Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner ! 
 
 Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, 
 
 And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
 
 To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
 
 Which I 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 
 
 Reek 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 Altila a bulwark, 
 
 Shall yield, and bloodiessly and basely yield 
 
 Unto a bastard Attila, without 
 
 Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
 
 As these old veins, oil drain'd in shielding her, 
 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought 
 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 
 Who shall despise her ! She shall stoop to be 
 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 
 In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people! 1 * 
 
 Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, 11 
 
 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'd as sovereigns. 
 
 Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 
 
 Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprui^ 
 
 From an adultress 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 vanquished by the victors, 
 
 Despised by cowards fur 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 Cyprus, 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 cfmg thce 
 
 Vice without splendour, sin without relief 
 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
 
 But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, 
 
 Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdnu
 
 280 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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 x^ilt not strive, and dar'stnot murmur, 
 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts ; 
 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 
 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine ! 
 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes !'* 
 
 Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
 
 Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
 
 Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
 
 [Here the DOGE turn*, and addresses the Exe- 
 cutioner. 
 
 Slave, do thine office ; 
 
 Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
 Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
 Strike and but once ! 
 
 [The DOGE throws himself upon his knees, 
 
 and as the Executioner raises his sword 
 
 the scene closes. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The PtWa and Piatzetta of Saint Mark's. The Peo- 
 ple in crowds gathered round the grated gates of the 
 Ducal Palace, which are shut. 
 
 FIRST CITIZEN. 
 
 I have gain'd the gate, and can discern the Ten, 
 Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 
 
 SECOND CITIZEN. 
 
 cannot reach thee with mine utmost effort. 
 How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
 la thus prohibited unto the people, 
 Except the occupiers of those bars. 
 
 FIRST CITIZEN. 
 
 One has approach'd the Doge, and now they strip 
 
 The ducal bonnet from his head and now 
 
 He raises his keen eye to heaven. I see 
 
 Them glitter, and his lips move Hush ! hush ! No, 
 
 T was but a murmur Curse upon the distance ! 
 
 His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
 
 Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 
 
 B-it gather a sole sentence ! 
 
 SECOND CITIZEN. 
 
 Hush! we perhaps may catch the sound. 
 
 FIRST CITIZEN. 
 
 'Tis vain. 
 
 cannot hear him. How his hoary hair 
 feu cams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
 Now now he kneels and now they form a circle 
 Round him, and all is hidden but I see 
 
 The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it falls ! 
 
 [The people murmur. 
 
 THIRD CITIZEN. 
 
 Then they have murder'd him who would have freed us. 
 
 FOCRTH CITIZEN. 
 
 He was a kind man to the commons ever. 
 
 FIFTH CITIZEN. 
 
 Wisely tney did to keep their portals barr'd. 
 W ould we had known the work they were preparing 
 Eio we were summon' d here ; we would have brought 
 VV.ia.oons. and forced them! 
 
 SIXTH CITIZEN. 
 
 Are you sure he '* dead ? 
 
 FIRST CITIZEN. 
 
 I saw the sword fall Lo ! what have we here ? 
 [Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts Saint 
 Mark's Place a CHIEF OF THE TEN, 13 with a bloody 
 sword. He waves it thrice before the people, and 
 exclaims, 
 "Justice hath dealt upon the mighty traitor!" 
 
 [ The gates are opened ; the populace rush in towanlt 
 the " Giant's Staircase," where the execution hat 
 taken place. The foremost of them exclaims to 
 those behind, 
 The gory head rolls down the " Giant's steps !" 
 
 [The curtain fall*. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 248, line 59. 
 I smote the tardy bishop at TrevUo. 
 A historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
 Doges. 
 
 Note 2. Page 251, line 69. 
 A gondola with one oar only. 
 
 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. 
 
 Note 3. Page 260, line 65. 
 
 They think themselves 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory. 
 A historical fact. 
 
 Note 4. Page 269, line 8. 
 Within our palace precincts at San Polo. 
 The Doge's private family palace. 
 
 Note 5. Page 270, line 105. 
 
 " Signor of the Night." 
 
 "I Signori di Notte" held an important charge \* 
 the old Republic. 
 
 Note 6. Page 273, line 43. 
 
 Festal Thursday. 
 
 " Giovedi Grasso," "fat or greasy Thursday," which 
 I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 
 
 Note 7. Page 273, line 57. 
 Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act. 
 Historical fact. See Sanuto, in the appendix to this 
 tragedy. 
 
 Note 8. Page 275, line 59. 
 Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted ? 
 The Venetian senate took the same title as the Ro- 
 man, of " Conscript Fathers." 
 
 Note 9. Page 279, line 36. 
 
 'T is with age, then. 
 
 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 similar reply on a different occasion by 
 Renault, and other coincidences arising from the sub- 
 ject. I need hardly remind the gentlest reader, that 
 such coincidences must be accidental, from the very 
 facility of their detection by reference to so popular
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 28i 
 
 p.ay on me stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
 4 ceuvre. 
 
 Note 10. Page 279, line 35. 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people 
 
 Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
 rea/ler look to the historical, of the period prophesied, 
 or rather of the few years preceding that period. Vol- 
 taire calculated their " nostre benemerite Meretrici," 
 at twelve thousand of regulars, without including vol- 
 unteers and local militia, on what authority I know not ; 
 but it is perhaps the only part of the population not 
 decreased. Venice once contained two hundred thou- 
 sand inhabitant; there are now about ninety thou- 
 sand, and THEST ! ! Few individuals can conceive, and 
 none could des 'ibe the actual state into which the 
 more than infernal tyranny of Austria has plunged this 
 unhappy city. 
 
 Note 11. Page 279, line 36. 
 Then, when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces. 
 
 The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
 Jews ; who, in the earlier times of the Republic, were 
 
 only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the 1 Ducato finche sara eletto 1' altro Doge. E cosi a dl 11 
 
 city of Venice. The whole commerce is in the hands 
 of the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns form the gar- 
 rison. 
 
 Note 12. Page 280, line 10. 
 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
 Of the first fifty Doges, Jive abdicated -Jive were 
 banished with their eyes put out -Jive 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 Mar '.no 
 Faliero. One of his more immediate predecessors An- 
 drea Dandolo, died of vexation. Marino Faliero him- 
 self perished as related. Amongst his successors, Fos- 
 eari, after seeing his son repeatedly tortured and ban- 
 sshed, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
 vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's loll for the 
 election of his successor. Morosini was impeached for 
 lie loss of Candia ; but this was previous to his duke- 
 dom, during which he conquered the Morea, and was 
 styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 
 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
 
 'Note 13. Page 280, line 70. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. 
 
 "Un Capo de' Dieci" are the words ef Sanuto's 
 Chronicle. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 I. 
 
 MCCCLIV. 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
 
 "Fu eletto da quarantuno Elettori, il quale era Cav- 
 tiere e conte di Valdemarino in Trivigiana, ed era 
 ncco, e si trovava ambasciadore a Roma. E a dl 9, di 
 feti-imbre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore, fu chiamato 
 il gran Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge giusta il so- 
 lito. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, Ser Bernardo 
 Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo Loredano, Ser Fi- 
 lippo Aurio, Ser Pietro Trivisano, e Ser Tommaso 
 Viadro. I quali a di 10, misero queste correzioni alia 
 promozione del Doge : che i Consiglieri non odano gli 
 Jratori e Nunzi de' Signori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, 
 41 
 
 ne possano rispondere ad alcuno, se non saranno quattr? 
 Consiglieri e due Capi de' Quaranta. E che osservino 
 la forma del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo Doge 
 si metta nella miglior parte, quando i giudici tra lore 
 non fossero d'accordo. E ch' egli non possa far ven- 
 dere i suoi imprestiti, salvo con legittima causa, e co 
 voler di cinque Consiglieri, di due Capi de' Quaranta, 
 e delle due parti del Consiglio de' Pregali. Item. ch 
 in luogo di tre mila pelli di Conigli, che debbon dare 
 Zaratini per regalia al Doge, non trovandosi tante pelli 
 gli diano Ducati ottanta 1'anno. E poi a dl 11, detto, 
 misero eliam altre correzioni, che se il Doge, che sara 
 eletto, fosse fuori di Venezia, i savj possano provvedere 
 del suo ritorno. E quando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia 
 Vicedoge uno de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. 
 E che il detto sia nominato Viceluogotenente di Messer 
 lo Doge, quando i giudici faranno i suoi attl. E not a. 
 perche fu fatto Doge uno, ch'era assente, che fu Vice- 
 doge Ser Marino Badoero piu vecchio de' Consiglieri. 
 Item, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' Con- 
 siglieri, e a' Capi de' Quaranta, quando vachera il 
 
 di Settembre fu creato il prefato Marino Faliero Doge. 
 E fu preso, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' 
 Consiglieri e a' Capi de' Quaranta. I quali stiano in 
 Palazzo di continue, fino che verra il Doge. Sicch di 
 continue stiano in Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo 
 de' Quaranta. E subito furono spedite lettere al detto 
 Doge, il quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa 
 Innocenzo VI. ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
 Consiglio d'eleggere dodici ambasciadori incontro a 
 Marino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. E gi- 
 unto a Chioggia, il Podesta mandb Taddeo Giustiniani 
 suo figliuolo incontro, con quindici Ganzaruoli. E poi 
 venuto a S. Clemente nel Bucintoro, venne un gran 
 caligo, adeo che il Bucintoro non si pot6 levare. Laonde 
 il Doge co' gentiluomini nelle piatte vennero di lungo 
 in questa Terra a' 5 d'Ottobre del 1354. E dovendo 
 smontare alia riva della Paglia per lo caligo andaronq 
 ad ismontare alia riva dclla Piazza in mezzo alle due co- 
 lonne dove si fa la Giustizia, che fu un malissimo au- 
 gurio. E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San 
 Marco alia laudazione di quello. Era in questo tempo 
 Canceilier Grande Messer Benintende. I quarantuno 
 Elettori furono, Ser Giovanni Contarini, Ser' Andrea 
 Giustiniani, Ser Michele Morossini, Ser Simone Dan- 
 dolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Ser Marino Gradenigo, Ser 
 Marco Dolfino, Ser Nicolo Faliero, Ser Giovanni Qm- 
 rini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser Marco Bembo, Sere 
 Stefano Belegno, Ser Francesco Loredano, Ser Ma- 
 rino Veniero, Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, Ser Andrea 
 Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, Ser Bettino da Mol- 
 lino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procuratore, Ser Marco Celsi, 
 Ser Paolo Donato, Ser Bertucci Grimani, Ser Pietro 
 Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, Ser' Andrea Pisani, Ser Fran- 
 cesco Caravello, Ser Jacopo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo 
 Marcello, Ser Maffeo Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Sei 
 Pancrazio Giorgio, Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Tom- 
 maso Viadro, Sere Schiava Polani, Ser Marco Polo, 
 Ser Marino Sagredo, Sere Stefano Mariani, Ser Fran- 
 cesco Suriano, Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea 
 Gritti, Ser Buono da Mosto. 
 
 " Tratiato di Messer Marino Fdifro Doge, tiattn da 
 una Cronica antica. Essendo Tenuto il Gioredl della 
 Caccia, fu fatta giusta il solito la Caccia. a' ww' 
 
 j
 
 282 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 tempi dopo fallals < -accia s'andava in Palazzo del Doge 
 ID una di quelle sale, e con donne facevasi una festic- 
 ciuola, dove si ballava fino alia prima campana, e ve- 
 n\va una coiazione ; la quale spesa faceva Messcr lo 
 Doge, quando v' era la Dogarcssa. E poscia Uitti anda- 
 vano a rasa sua. Sopra la qual festa, pare, che Ser Mi- 
 ch<\e Steno, molto giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma 
 ardito e astuU,, il quale era innamorato in certadonzella 
 delta Degaressa, essendo sul Solajo appresso le donne, 
 faci-sse cert' alto non convenicnte, adeo che il Doge cc- 
 mandb ch' e' fosse buttato giu dal Solajo. E cosi quegli 
 scudieri del Doge lo spinsero giu di quel Solajo. Laonde 
 a Ser Michele parve, che fossegli stata fatta troppo 
 prande ignominia. E non consirlerando altramente il 
 fine, ma sopra quella passione fornita la festa, e andati 
 tutu via, quella notte egli andb, e sulla cadrega, dove 
 sedcva il Doge nella Sala dell' Udienza (perch allora i 
 Dogi non tenevano panno di seta sopra la cadrega, ma 
 sedevano in una cadrega di legno) scrisse alcune parole 
 disoneste del Doge e della Dogaressa, cioe : 3/orin Fa- 
 liero dalla bella moglie : jiltri la gode, td egli la man- 
 dene. E la mattina furono vedute tali parole scritte. 
 E parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria fu com- 
 messa la cosa agli Avvogadori del Comune con grande 
 efficacia. I quali Avvogadori subito diedero taglia grande 
 per venire in chiaro della verita di chi avea scritto tal 
 lettera. E tandem si seppe, che Michele Steno aveale 
 scritte. E fu per li Quaranta preso di ritenerlo ; e ri- 
 tenuto confess?), che in quella passione d' essere stato 
 spinto giu dal Solajo, presente la sua amante, egli aveale 
 scritte. Onde poi fu placitato nel detto Consiglio, e 
 parve al Consiglio si per rispetto all' eth, come per la 
 caklezza d'amore, di condannarlo a compiere due mesi 
 in prigione serrato, e poi ch' e' fosse bandit o di Venezia 
 e dal distretto per un' anno. Per la qual condennagione 
 tanto piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
 dogli che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazione della 
 cosa, che ricercava la sua dignilh del Ducato. E diceva, 
 ch' eglino doveano averlo fatto appiccare per la gola, o 
 taltem bandirlo in perpetuo da Venezia. E nerch<> 
 (quando dee succedere un' effetto e necessario che vi 
 concorra la cangione a fare tal' effetto) era dcstinato, che 
 a Messer Marino Doge fosse tagliata la testa, percib oc- 
 corse, che entrata la Quaresima il giorno dopo che fu 
 condannato il detto Ser Michcle Steno, un gentiluomo 
 da Ca Barbaro, di nature collerico, andasse all' Arsenaie. 
 domandasse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia presenza 
 de' Signori 1'Ammiraglio dell' Arsenaie. II quale intesa 
 la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare. Quel gen- 
 tiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammiraglio, e diedegli un 
 pugno su un'occhio. E perch avea un'anello in dito, 
 coll' anello gli ruppe la pelle, e lece sangue. E 1'Ammi- 
 raglio cosi battuto e insanguinato andb al Doge a lamen- 
 tarsi, acciocche il Doge facesse fare gran punizione con- 
 tra il detto da Ca Barbaro : II Doge disse : Che moi cht 
 tificcia ? Guards. It ignominiose parole srritte di me, e 
 it modo cVl stato pvnito fuel ribaldo di Mifhele Steno, 
 cht le fcnsse. E quale ttirna hanno i Quaranta fatto 
 delta persona nnstra ? Laonde 1' Ammiraglio gli disse : 
 Messer lo Doge, se voi volete farvi Signore, e fare tt- 
 ^iiore. tutti aitesti hccrhi gentilunmini a pezri, mi baxta 
 "animo, dandomi voi ajutn. di farvi Signorr di questa 
 Terri. F. ullora voi pntrcle castigare tutti cosioro. In- 
 l'o quests, il Doge disse, Come si pud fare una simile 
 vital E cosi entrarona in ragionamento. 
 Jl II Uoge manAl a chiamere Ser Bertuccio Faliero uo 
 
 nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e entrarono 
 in questa macchinazione. Ne si partirono di li, che man- 
 darono per Filippo Calendaro, uomo marittimo e di gran 
 seguito, e per Bertuccio Israello, ingegnere e uomo astu- 
 tissimo. E consigliatisi insieme diede ordine di chia- 
 mare alcuni altri. E cosi per alcuni giomi la nolle si 
 riducevano insieme in Palazzo in casa del Doge. Echia- 
 marono a pane a parte altri, videlicet Nice-old Fa- 
 giuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolb 
 dalle Bende, Niccolb Biondo, e Stefano Trivisano. E 
 ordinb di fare sedici o diciassette Capi in diversi luoghi 
 della Terra, i quali avessero cadaun di loro quarant' uo- 
 mini prowigionati, preparati, non dicendo a' detti suoi 
 quaranta quello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
 stabilito si mostrasse di far quistione tra loro in diversi 
 luoghi, acciocche il Doge facesse sonare a San Marco le 
 campane, le quali non si possono suonare, s' egli nol 
 comanda. E al suono delle campane questi sedici o 
 lieias?< ite co' suoi uomini venissero a San Marco alle 
 strade, che buttano in Piazza. E cosi i nobili e primarj 
 citiadini,che venissero in Piazza, per sapere del romore 
 cib ch'era, li tagliassero a pezzi. E seguito questo, che 
 fosse chiamato per Signore Messer Marino Faliero Doge. 
 E fermate le cose tra loro, srnbilito fu, che questo do- 
 vess' essere a' 15 d'Aprilc del 1355 in giorno di Merco- 
 ledl. La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra loro tanto 
 scgretamente, che mai ne pure se r.e sospettf), non che 
 se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor' Iddio, che ha 
 sempre ajutato questa gloriosissima citta, e che per le 
 santimonie e giustizie sue mai non 1'ha abbandonata, 
 ispiro a un Beltramo Bergamasco, il quale fu messo 
 Capo di quarant' uomini per uno de' detti congnirati 
 (il quale intese qualche parola, sicche comprese TeiTeto, 
 che doveva succedere, e il qual era di casa di Ser Nic- 
 coliiLionidi Santo Stefano) diandare adi ****d'Aprile 
 a casa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni. E gli disse ogni 
 cosa del!' ordin dato. II quale intese le cose, rimase 
 come morto ; e intese moke particolarita, il detto Bel- 
 tramo il precb che lo tenesse segreto, e glielo disse, 
 arciocch il detto Ser Niccolb non si partisse di casa'a 
 dl 15, acciocch^ egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo 
 partirsi, il fece ritenere a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in una 
 camera. Ed esso andb a casa di M. Giovanni Gradenigp 
 Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava anch' egli a 
 Santo Slefano ; e dissegli la cosa. La quale paren- 
 dogli, com'era. d'una grandissima importanza, tutti e 
 due andarono a rasa di Ser Marco Cornaro, che stava 
 a San Felice. E dettogli il tutto, tutti e tre delibera- 
 rono di venire a casa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni, ed 
 esaminare il detto Beltramo. E quello esaminato, in- 
 lese le cose, il fecero stare serrato. E andarono tutti e 
 tre a San Salvatore in sacristia, e mandorono i loro fa- 
 mioli a chiamare i Consiglieri, gli Avvogadori, i Capi 
 de' Dieci, e que' del Consiglio. E ridolti insieme dissero 
 loro le cose. I qnali rimasero morti. E deliberarono di 
 mandare pel detto Beltramo, e fattolo venire catita- 
 mente, ed esaminatolo, e verificate le cose, ancorcW ne 
 sentissero gran passione, pure pensarono la provvisione. 
 E mandarono pe' Capi de' Quaranta, pe' Signon di 
 notte, pe Capi de' Seslieri, e p Cinque della Pace. E 
 ordmato, ch' eglino co' loro uomini trovassero deglt 
 altri buoni uomini, e mandas^ero a casa de' capi de' 
 congi-.irati, ut supra mettessero loro le mani addosso. 
 E tolsero ; . detti le Maestrerie dell 1 Arsenaie, accioche 
 provvisicnati de' congiurati non potusero offenderlu 
 E si ridussero in Palazzo v^rso la sera. Dove ridotu
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 28 3 
 
 fecero serrare le porte dclla cortc del Palazzo. E man- 
 darono a ordmare al campanaro, che non sonasse le 
 campane. E cos) fu eseguito, e messe le mani addosso 
 a tutti i nominati di sopra, furono que' condotti al 
 Palazzo. E vedcndo il Consiglio de' Dieci, che il Doge 
 era nella cospirazione, presero di eleg^cre venti de' 
 primarj della Terra, di giunta al detto Consiglio a con- 
 gigliare, non pert) che potessero mettere pallotta. 
 
 "I Consiglieri furono quesii: Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, 
 del Sestiero di San Marco ; Ser Alrnorb Veniero da Sanla 
 Marina, del Sestiero di Castello ; Ser Tommaso Viadro, 
 del Sestiero di Caneregio ; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, del 
 Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Trivisano, del Se- 
 stiero di San Paolo, Ser Panlalione Barbo il Grande, del 
 Sestiero d'Ossoduro. Gli Avvogadori del Comune fu- 
 rono Ser Zufredo Morosini, e Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e 
 questi non ballottarono. Que' del Consiglio de' Dieci ; 
 furono : Ser Giovanni Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, 
 e Ser Micheletto Dolfino, Capi del detto Consiglio de' 
 Dieci ; Ser Luca da Legge, e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inqui- 
 sitori del detto Consiglio : Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino 
 
 verso il Canale. E altri presi furono lasciati, perch' 
 sentirono il fatto, ma non vi furono tal che fu dato Ion 
 ad intendere per quesii capi, che venissero coll' arme. 
 per prendere alcuni maJallori in servigio della Signoria, 
 nfc altro sapeano. Fu encora liberate Nicolelto Alberto, 
 il Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e suo figliuolo 
 e molti altri, che non erano in cclpa, 
 
 E a di 16 d' Aprile, giorno di Venerdl, fu sentenziat* 
 nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, di tagliare la testa a Met 
 ser Marino Faliero Doge sul pato della scala di pietra, 
 dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagramento, quando mon- 
 tano prima in Palazzo. E cosl serrato il Palazzo, la 
 mattina seguente a ora di terza, fu tagliata la testa al 
 detto Doge ad) 17 d' Aprile. E prima la berretta fu 
 tolta di testa al detto Doge, avanti cne venisse giu dalla 
 scala. E compiuta la giustizia, pare che un Capo de' 
 Dieci andasse alle Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza, 
 e mostrasse la spada insanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E 
 stata fatta la. gran giustizia. del Traditore. E aperta la 
 porta, tutti entrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere i! 
 Doge, ch' era stato giustiziato. E' da sapere, che a fare 
 
 Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto Trivisano j la delta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni Sanudo il Consi- 
 da Sant' Angiolo. Questi elessero tra loro una Giunta, ' gliere, perchS era andato a casa per difetto della persona, 
 nella notte ridotti quasi sul romper del giomo, di ver.ti sieche furono quattordici soli, che ballottarono, cio6 
 nobili di Venezia de' migliori, de' piii savj, e de' piu an- cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consiglio de' Dieci. E fu 
 tichi, per consultare, non pero che mettessero pallot- preso, che tutti i beni del Doge fossero coi.fiscati nel 
 tola. E non vi vollero alcuno da Ca Faliero. E cac- Comune, e cosl degli altri traditori. E fu conceduto 
 ciarono fuori del Consiglio NiccoI6 Faliero, e un' altro al detto Doge pel detto Consiglio de Dieci, ch' egli oo- 
 Niccolb Faliero da San Tommaso, per essere della ca- tesse ordinare del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu 
 *ala del Doge. E questa provigione di chiamare i venti preso, che tutti i Consiglieri, e Avvogadori del Comune, 
 della Giunta fu molto commendata per tutta la Terra. |que' del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giunta, ch' erano 
 Questi furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giusti- : stati a fare la delta sentenza del Doge, e d'altri, avessero 
 niani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser licenza di portar' arme di dl e di notte in Venezia e da 
 Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Conta- Grado fino a Gavarzere, ch' e sotto il Dogato, con due 
 
 rini, Ser Sirnone Dandolo, Ser Niccolb Volpe, Ser Gio- 
 vanni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gra- 
 denigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco So- 
 ranzo, Ser Rinieri da Moslo, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser 
 Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccol6 
 Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Ja- 
 copo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarini. E chiamali 
 quesii venti nel Consiglio de' Dieci, fu mandate per 
 Messer Marino Faliero Doge, il quale andava pel Pa- 
 lazzo con gran gente, gentiluomini, e altra buona genie, 
 che non sapeano ancora come il fatto slava. In queslo 
 tempo fu condolto, preso, e legalo, Bertuccio Israello, 
 uno de' Capi del Irattato per que' di Santa Croce, e an- 
 cora fu preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, e 
 Nicoletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e allri uomini da mare, 
 e ff allre condizioni. I quali furono esaminali, e Irovala 
 a verita del Iradimento. A dl 16 d' Aprile fu senten- 
 zialo pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, che Filippo Calan- 
 dario. e Berlucci Israello fossero appiccati alle colonne 
 ros? del balconale del Palazzo, nelle quali sta a vedere 
 il Doge la festa della Caccia. E cosl furono appiccati 
 con spranghe in bocca. E nel giomo seguente' questi 
 furono condannati, Niccolb Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
 Nicoletto Doro, Marco Geuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Ni- 
 colello Fedele figliuolo di Filippo Calendaro, Marco To- 
 ello, delto Israello, Slefano Trivisano, cambiatore di 
 ejar.ta Margherila, Antonio dalle Bende. Furono tutti 
 presi a Chiogsia, che fu^givano, e dipoi in diversi giorni 
 a due a due, ed a uno a uno, per sentenza fatta nel detto 
 Consiglio de' Dieci. furono appiccati per la go!a alle co- 
 e, continue n- lo dalic rosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin 
 
 fanti in vita loro, stando i fanti con essi in casa al suo 
 pane e al suo vino. E chi non avesse fanti, polesse dar 
 tal licenza a' suoi figliuoli ovvero fratelli, due perd e non 
 piu . Eziandio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Notaj 
 della Cancelleria, cio della Corte Maggiore, che furono 
 a prendere le deposizioni e inquisizioni, in perpetuo a 
 loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicolelto di Lorono, 
 Stefianello, e Pielro de' Compostelli, Scrivani de' Si- 
 gnori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i traditori, c 
 tagliala la lesla al Doge, rimase la Terra in gran riposo 
 e quiete. E come in una cronica ho Irovato, fu por- 
 lalo il corpo del Doge in una barca con olio doppieri 
 a seppelire nella sua area a San Giovanni e Paolo, la 
 quale al presente e in quell' andito per mezzo la Chie- 
 suola di Santa Maria della Pace, fatta fare pel Vescovo 
 Gabriello di Bergamo, e un cassone di pietra con quesle 
 leltere : Hicjactt Dominui Marinus Faletro Dux, E 
 nel gran Consiglio n6n gli 6 stato fatto alcun brieve, ma 
 il luogo vacuo con letlere, che dicono cosi : Hie ett locut 
 3/arini Faletro, decapiiati pro criminibwt. E pare, che 
 la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesa di Sant' Apostolo, la 
 qual era quella grande sul ponte. Tcanen vedo il con- 
 trario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i Fallen la ricu- 
 perassero con danari dalia Chiesa. N6 voglio restar di 
 scrivere alcuni, che volevano, che fosse messo nel suo 
 breve, cioe : Marmus Faletro Dux. Temeritai me cepi,. 
 Poenas MI decapitatus pro criminibus. Altri vi feceio 
 un distico assai degno al suo merito, il quale e que*! 1 .. 
 da cessere posto su la sua sepoltura : 
 
 "Dux Venetum jacet hie, palriam qui procure tenuw 
 Sceptra. derm, cvotum, p*ydirfit, atquc caput *
 
 281 
 
 BYRON'S WOR 
 
 Non t glio restar di scrivere quello che ho letto in 
 na croron, cioe, che Marino Faliero trovandosi Po- 
 desti e C'upitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una pro- 
 cessione, il vescovo stctte troppo a far venire il Corpo 
 di Cristo. II detto Faliero era di tanta superbia e ar- 
 roganza, die diede un buffetto al prefato Vescovo, per 
 modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. Perb fu permesso, 
 che il Faliero perdette Pintelletto, e fece la mala morte, 
 come ho scritto di sopra." 
 
 Cranica di Sanuto Muratori S. S. Rerum Italicarum 
 vol. xxii. 68 639. 
 
 II. 
 
 MCCCLIV. 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
 
 ON the eleventh day of September, in the year of our 
 Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was electe-i and chosen to be 
 the Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. He was 
 Count of Valdemarino, 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 the Great 
 Council, that a deputation of twelve should be des- 
 patched to Marino Faliero, the Duke, who was then on 
 his way from Rome ; for, when he was chosen, he was 
 ambassador at the court of the Holy Father, at Rome, 
 the Holy Father himself held his court at Avignon. 
 When Messer Marino Faliero, the Duke, was about to 
 land in this city, on the fifth day of October, 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 where evil doers are put 
 to death ; and all thought that this was the worst of 
 tokens. Nor must I forget to write that which I have 
 read in a chronicle. When Messer Marino Faliero was 
 podesta and Captain of Treviso, the bishop delayed 
 Doming in with the holy sacrament, on a day when a 
 procession was to take place. Now the said Marino Fa- 
 Sero was so very proud and wrathful, that he buffeted 
 the bishop, and almost struck him to the ground. And 
 therefore, Heaven allowed Marino Faliero to go out ol 
 his right senses, in order that he might bring himself to 
 an evil death. 
 
 When this Duke had held the dukedom during nine 
 months and six days, he being wicked and ambitious, 
 ought to make himself lord of Venice, in the manner 
 which I have read in an ancient chronicle. When the 
 Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hum 
 the bull, the bull-hunt took place as usual ; and, accord- 
 ing to the usage of those times, after the bull-hunt had 
 ended, they all proceeded unto the palace of the Duke, 
 and assembled together in one of his halls ; and they 
 disported themselves with the women. And until the 
 first bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet was 
 served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses there- 
 of, provided he nad a Duciicss, and after the banquet 
 tney all 'eturned to tneir homes. 
 
 Now to this (east there came a certain Ser Michele 
 Sietio, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, but 
 r.raflv ai.a daring, and who loved one of the damsels ol 
 the Ducliess. Srr Michele stood amongst the woiren 
 ipon the solajo ; and lie behaved indiscreetly, so that 
 my J .ord tne Duke ordered that he snould be kicked off 
 we so'ajo; and the esquires of the Duke flung him 
 '(own fron '.he solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought 
 
 that such an affront was beyond all beaiing; and when 
 the feast was over, and all other persons had left th 
 palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
 hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words re- 
 lating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the chair in 
 which the Duke was used to sit ; for in those days the 
 Duke did not cover his chair with cloth of sendal, but 
 he sat in a chair of wood. Ser Michele wrote thereon: 
 " Marin Falier, the husband of the fair wife ; others 
 kiss her, but he keeps her. 1 ' In the morning the words 
 were seen, and the matter was considered to be very 
 scandalous ; and the Senate commanded the Awogadori 
 of the Commonwealth to proceed therein with the 
 greatest diligence. A largess of great amount was im- 
 mediately proffered by the Awogadori, in order to dis- 
 cover who had written these words. And at length it 
 was known that Michele Steno had written them. It 
 was resolved in the Council of Forty that he should be 
 arrested ; and he then confessed, that in a fit of vexa- 
 tion and spite, occasioned by his being thrust off the 
 solajo in the presence of his mistress, he had written 
 the words. Therefore the Council debated thereon. 
 And the Council took his youth into consideration, and 
 that he was a lover, and therefore they adjudged that 
 he, should be kept in close confinement during two 
 months, and that afterwards he should be banished from 
 Venice and the state during one year. In consequence 
 of this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
 wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
 acted in such a manner as was required by the respect 
 due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that they ought 
 to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
 neck, or at least to be banished for life. 
 
 Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was to 
 have his head cut off. And as it is necessary, when any 
 effect is to be brought about, that the cause of such ef 
 feet must happen, it therefore came to pass, that on the 
 very day after sentence had been pronounced on Ser 
 Michele Steno, being the first day of Lent, a gentleman 
 of the house of Barbara, a choleric gentleman, went 
 to the arsenal and required certain things of the mas- 
 ters of the galleys. This he did in the presence of the 
 admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, 
 answered, No, it cannot be done. High words arose 
 between the gentleman and the admiral, and the gen- 
 tleman struck him with his fist just above the eye ; and 
 as he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
 cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
 bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to com- 
 plain, and with the intent of praying him to inflict 
 some heavy punishment upon the gentleman of Ca Bar- 
 baro. " What wouldst thou have me do for thee ?" 
 answered the Duke; "think upon the shameful gibe 
 which hath been written concerning me ; and think on 
 the manner in which they have punished 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 those cuckoldy gentle* 
 men to pieces, I have the heart, if you do but help me, 
 to make you prince of all this state ; and then you may 
 punish them all." Hearing this, the Duke said ; " How 
 can such a matter be brought about?" and so they 
 discoursed thereon. 
 
 The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Faliero, 
 who lived with him in the palace, and they oomriuned
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 about this plot. And, without leaving the place, they 
 Bent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman of great repute, and 
 'or Bertuccio Israello, who was exceedingly wily and 
 tunning. Then, taking counsel amongst themselves, 
 ihey agreed to call in some others ; and so for several 
 nights successively, they met with the Duke at home in 
 his palace. And the following men were called in singly ; 
 to wit; Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano 
 Fagiano, Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo, and Ste- 
 fano Trivisano. It was concerted that sixteen or seven- 
 teen leaders should be stationed in various parts of the 
 city, each being at the head of forty men, armed and 
 prepared ; but the followers were not to know their des- 
 tination. On the 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 arc never rung but by the order 
 of the Duke. And at the sound of the bells, these six- 
 teen or seventeen, with their followers, were to come 
 to San Marco, through the streets which 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 conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; and this 
 work being finished, my Lord Marino Faliero the Duke 
 was to be proclaimed the Lord of Venice. Things 
 having been thus settled, they agreed to fulfil their in- 
 tent on Wednesday, the fifteenth 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 
 glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
 holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo 
 Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the plot to light 
 in the following manner. This Beltramo, who belonged 
 to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo Stefano, had heard a word 
 or two of what was to take place ; and so, in the before- 
 mentioned month of April, he went to the house of the 
 aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and told him all the partic- 
 ulars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, when he heard all 
 these things, 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 Niccolo, 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 servants to lay hands 
 upon him and lock him up. Ser Niccolo then went to 
 the house -of Messer Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who 
 afterwards became Duke, and who also lived at Santo 
 Stefano, and told him all. The matter seemed to him 
 jo be of the very greatest importance, as indeed it was ; 
 and they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, 
 who lived at San Felice ; and, having spoken with him, 
 <hey 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 
 nay, they left him in confinement. And then they all 
 ihree went into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent 
 ^heir men to summon the Councillors, the Avvogadori, 
 he Capi de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 
 
 When all were assembled, the whole story was told 
 to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with 
 affright. They determined to send for Beltramo. He 
 was brought in before them. They examined him, and 
 ascertained that the matter was true ; and, although 
 hey were exceedingly troubled, yet they determined 
 \\pon their measures. And they sent for the Capi de' 
 2 C 
 
 Quaranta, the Signori di Nolle, the Capi de' Sestieri 
 and the Cinque della Pace ; and they were ordered it- 
 associate to their men other good men and true, who 
 were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the 
 conspiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
 foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
 might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assem- 
 bled in the palace. When they were assembled in the 
 palace, they caused the gates of the quadrangle of the 
 palace to be shut. And they sent to thfc keeper of th* 1 
 bell-tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. All th 
 was carried into effect. The before-mentioned con- 
 spirators were secured, and they were brought to ih 
 palace; and as the Council of Ten saw that the Duke 
 was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the lead- 
 ing men of the state should be associated to them, for 
 the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but that 
 they should not be allowed to ballot. 
 
 The counsellors were the following: Ser Giovanni 
 Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Almoro 
 Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello; 
 Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero of Caneregio; Ser 
 Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of Santa Croce ; Ser 
 Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero of San Paolo ; Ser 
 Pantalione Barbo il Grande, of the Sestiero of Ossoduro. 
 The Avvogadori of the Commonwealth were Zufredo 
 Morosini, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo ; and these did not 
 ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser Giovanni 
 Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto 
 Dolfmo, the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. 
 Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisi- 
 tors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco Polani, 
 Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, and Ser 
 Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 
 
 Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
 chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
 amongst the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
 They were to give counsel, but not to ballot. And they 
 would not admit any one of Ca Faliero. And Niccolo 
 Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San Tommaso 
 were expelled from the Council, because they belongec 
 to the family of the Doge. And this resolution of 
 creating the junta of twenty was much praised through- 
 out the state. The following were the members of the 
 junta of twenty : Ser Marco Giustiniani, Procurators, 
 Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lionardo Guis 
 tiniani, Procuratore, Ser'AndreaContarini, SereSimone 
 Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovanni Loredano, 
 Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser Andrea 
 Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, Ser Rinieri 
 da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser Marino Morosini, 
 Ser Stefano Belenno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo 
 Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser 
 Giovanni Foscarini. 
 
 These twenty were accordingly called in to the 
 Council o'f Ten; and they sent for my Lord Marine 
 Faliero the Duke ; and my Lord Marino was then 
 consorting in the palace with 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 ef 
 the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa 
 Croce, was arrested and bound, and Drought before .nf 
 Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Micoleno 
 Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were also taken togetner 
 with several seamen, and people of various 'amu.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 These verb etam.-wci, and the truth of the plot was 
 ascerta ned. 
 
 On toe itixticnth of April, judgment was given in the 
 Councn of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and Bertuccio 
 Israello should be hanged upon the red pillars of the 
 balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
 look at the bull-hunt : and they were nanged with gags 
 in their mouth.*. 
 
 The next day the following were condemned : Nic- 
 colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco 
 Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the son of 
 Philip Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Isracllo, Stefano 
 Trivisano, the money-changer of Santa Margherita, and 
 Antonio dalle Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, 
 for they were endeavouring to escape. Afterwards, by 
 virtue of the sentence which was passed upon them in 
 the Council of Ten, they were hanged on successive 
 days, some singly and some in couples, upon the col- 
 umns of Ine palace, beginning from the red columns, 
 nd so going onwards towards the canal. And other 
 prisoners were discharged, because, although they had 
 been involved in the conspiracy, yet they had not assist- 
 ed in it : for they were given to understand by some of 
 the heads of the plot, that they were to come armed 
 and prepared for the service of the state, and in order 
 to secure certain criminals, and they knew nothing else. 
 Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and Bartolommeo 
 Ciriuola and his son, and several others, who were not 
 guilty, were discharged. 
 
 On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment was 
 also given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that my 
 Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his head 
 cut off, and that the execution should be done on the 
 landing-place of the stone staircase, where the Dukes 
 take their oath when they first enter the palace. On 
 the following day. the seventeenth of April, the doors 
 of the palace being shut, the Duke had his head cut off, 
 about the hour 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 
 oloody sword unto the people, crying out with a loud 
 voice " The terrible doom hath fallen upon the trai- 
 tor!" and the doors were opened, and the people all 
 rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke who had been 
 beheaded. 
 
 It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
 i ouncillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence 
 was pronounced ; because he was unwell and remained 
 at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; that is to 
 say, five councillors, and nine of the Council of Ten. 
 And it was adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of 
 the Duke, as well as of the other traitors, should be 
 forfeited to the state. And, as a grace to the> Duke, it 
 was resolved in the Council of Ten, that he should be 
 allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats out of his 
 own property. And it was resolved, that all the coun- 
 cilors and all the Avvogadori of the commonwealth, 
 liiose of tho Council of Ten, and the members of the 
 lunta who had assisted in passing sentence on the Duke 
 aitd tne other traitors, should have the privilege of car- 
 ivmg arms Doth by day and by night in Venice, and 
 Irom Grarto to Cavazere. And they were also to be 
 i"ows! two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid foot- 
 
 men living and boarding with them in their own houses. 
 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 lit 
 the four Notaries of the Chancery, that is to say, ol'the 
 Supreme Court, who took the depositions ; and they 
 were Amedio, Nicoletto di Lorino, Steffanello, and 
 Pietro de Compostelli, the secretaries of the Signori di 
 Notte. 
 
 After die traitors had been hanged, and the Duke had 
 had his head cut off, the state remained in great tran- 
 quillity 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 churcli of San Giovanni 
 e Paolo, where it was buried. Tho tomb is now in 
 that aisle in the middle of the little church of Santa 
 Maria della Paco, which was built by Bishop Gabriel of 
 Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these words en- 
 gtaved thereon : " Heicjacet Dominus Marinus Faletro 
 Dux." And they did not paint his portrait in the hall 
 of the Great Council : But in the place where it ought 
 to have been, you see these words: "Hie est locut 
 Marini Faletro decapitati pro criminibus" and it is 
 thought that his house was granted to the church of 
 S^it' 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 ; for it still belongs to Ck Fa- 
 liero. I must not refrain from noting, that some wished 
 to write the following words in the place where his 
 portrait ought to have been, as aforesaid : " Marinu* 
 Faletro Dux, temerilas me cepit, ptenas lui, decapitatus 
 procriminiLus." Others, also, indited a couplet, worthy 
 of being inscribed upon his tomb. 
 
 " Diuc Venetum jacet heic, patriam qui prodere tentaot, 
 
 Sceptra, decui, cei.ium, peiiDdil, alque caput-* 
 
 [I am obliged for this excellent translation of the old chronicle to Mr. 
 F. Cohen, to whom the reader will find himself indebted for a version 
 Itat I could not myself (though after many years' intercourse with Italian,) 
 have given bv any mean> to purely and to fai'hfuUy.] 
 
 III. 
 
 " AL giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette un 
 vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della repubblica, 
 ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d' uopo a lui, ed alia 
 patria: egli 6 Marino Faliero personnaggio a me noto 
 per antica dimestichezza. Falsa era 1' opinione intorno 
 a lui, giacche egli si mostrb fornito piu di coraggio 
 che di senno. Non pago della prima dignita, entro con 
 sinistro piede nel pubblico Palazzo: imperciocchfe 
 queslo Doge dei Veneti, magistrate sacro in tutti i se- 
 coli, che dagli antichi fu sempre venerato qual mime in 
 quella citth 1' altr' jeri fu decollate nel vestibolo dell' 
 istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause 
 di un tale evento, se cosi vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
 fosse il grido. Nessurio peri) lo scusa, tutti arTermano, 
 che egli abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa nell' ordine 
 della repubblica a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
 desiderava egli di piu ? lo son d'avviso, che egli abbia 
 ottenuto cib, che non si concedette a nessun altro: 
 mentre adempiva gli ufficj di legato presso il Pontefice, 
 e sulle rive del Rodano trattava la pace, che io prima 
 di lui avevo indarno tentato di conchiudere, gli fu con- 
 fcrito 1' onore del Ducato, che nfe chiedevt, n6 s' aspet- 
 tava. Tomato in patria, pensb a quel'o, cui nessuno 
 non pose mente giammai, e sofl'rl quel.o che a niuni 
 accade mai de soffrire : giacche n quel "uogo celeber
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 281 
 
 nmo, e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, che 
 
 10 v:di, ove i suoi antenati avevano ricevuti grandissinn 
 onori in mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egh fu trasci- 
 nato in modo servile, e spogliato delle insegne ducali, 
 perdette la testa, e macchib col proprio sangue le soglie 
 del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le scale marmoree ren- 
 dute spesse volte illustri o dalle solenni festivita, o dalle 
 osti'i spoglie. Ho notato il luogo, ora noto il tempo : 
 k 1' anno del Natale di Cristo 1355, fu il giorno 18 d'A- 
 prile. Si alto 6 il grido sparso, che se alcuno esaminera 
 la disciplina, e le costumanze di quella citia, e quanto 
 mutamento di cose venga minacciato dalla morte di un 
 sol uomo (quantunque molti altri, come narrano, es- 
 Bendo complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o lo 
 aspettano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grande awenne 
 ai nostri tempi nell' Italia. Tu forse qui attendi il mio 
 giudizio ; assolvo il popolo, se credere alia fama, benche 
 abbia potuto e castigare piu mitamente, e con maggior 
 dolcezza vendicare il suo dolore : ma non cosi facil- 
 raente, si modera un' ira giusta insieme, e grande in 
 un numeroso popolo principalmente, nel quale il pre- 
 cipitoso, ed instabile volgo aguzza gli stimoli dell' ira- 
 condia con rapidi, e sconsigliati clamori. Compatisco, 
 e nell' istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice uomo, 
 
 11 quale adorno di un' insolito onore, non so che cosa 
 si volesse negli estremi anni della sua vita : la eala- 
 
 a hero ; and that his passions were too violent. The 
 paltry and ignorant account of Dr. Moore tans to tm 
 ground. Petrarch says, " that there had been no 
 greater event in his times " (our times literally), " nostn 
 tempi," in Italy. He also differs from the historian ir 
 saying that Faliero was " on the banks of the R!u>ne,' 
 instead of at Rome, when elected ; the other account} 
 say, that the deputation of the Venetian senate mt- 
 him at Ravenna. How this may have been, it is no 
 for me to decide, and is of no great importance. Hac 
 the man succeeded, he would have changed the face ol 
 Venice, and perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they 
 both? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Extrait de Couvrage. Histoire de la Rtpuhlique dt 
 Venise, par P. Dam, de FAcadtmie Francaise, 
 torn. v. liv. xxxv. p. 95, etc. Edition de Paris, 
 MDCCCXIX. 
 
 " A CES attaques si fr^quentes que le gouvernement 
 dirigeait contre le clerge, k ces luttes etablies entre les 
 differens corps constitues, a ces entreprises de la masse 
 de la noblesse contre les depositaires du pouvoir, a 
 toutes ces propositions d'innovation qui se terminaient 
 toujours par des coups d'etat ; il faut ajouter une autre 
 
 mita di lui diviene sempre piu grave, perchfe dalla i cause, non moins propre & propager le mepris des an- 
 
 sentenza contra di esso promulgata apparira, che egli fu 
 non solo misero, ma insano, e demente, e che con vane 
 arti si usurp6 per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
 Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che questo 
 6 un esempio posto innanzi ai loro occhi, quale specchio 
 nel quale veggano di essere non Signori, ma Duci, anzi 
 nemmeno Duci, ma onorati servi della Repubblica. 
 Tu sta sano ; e giacche fluttuano le publicche cose, sfor- 
 ziamoci di governar modestissimamente i privati nostri 
 affan." 
 
 Levati. Viaggi di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 
 
 Tne above Italian translation from the Latin epistles 
 of Petrarch, proves 
 
 Istlv, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend of 
 Petrarch's : " antica dimestichezza," old intimacy, is the 
 phrase of the poet. 
 
 2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more courage 
 than conduct, " piu di coraggio che di senno.' 1 
 
 Sdly, That there was ome jealousy on the part of 
 Petrarch ; for he says that Marino Faliero was treating 
 of the peace which he himself had " vainly attempted 
 to conclude." 
 
 4thly, That the honour of the dukedom was con- 
 ferred upon him, which he neither sought nor expected, 
 " che ne chiedeva nes' asptttava," and which had never 
 been granted to any other in like circumstances, " ci6 
 che non si concedette a nessun altro;" "proof of the 
 high esteem in which he must have been held." 
 
 othly, That he had a reputation for wisdom, only 
 
 ciennes doctrines, c'etait Cexcls de la corruption. 
 
 " Cette liberte de mceurs, qu'on avail long-temps van- 
 tee comme le charme principal de la societe de Venise, 
 etait devenue un desordre scandaleux ; le lien du manage 
 etait moins sacre dans ce pays catholique que dans ceuz 
 ou les lois civiles et religieuses permettent de le dis- 
 soudre. Faute de pouvoir rompre le contrat, on sup- 
 posait qu'il n'avait jamais existe, et les moyens de nul- 
 lite, aliegues avec impudeur par les epoux, etaient 
 admis avec la mSme facilite par des magistrals et par 
 des prfitres egalement corrompus. Ces divorces Dolores 
 d'un autre nom devinrent si frequents, quf I'acte >e plus 
 important de la societe civile se trouva de la competence 
 d'un tribunal d'exceptkm, et que ce fut a la police dc 
 reprimer le scandale. Le conseil des dix ordonna, en 
 1762, que toute femme qui intentcrait une demande en 
 dissolution de mariage serait obligee d'en attendre le 
 jugement dans un couvent que le tribunal designerail. ' 
 Bientot apres il evoqua devant lui tomes les causes de 
 cette nature. 2 Cet empietement sur la jurisdiction 
 ecclesiastique ayant occasionne des reclamations de la 
 part de la cour de Rome, le conseil se reserva le droil 
 de debouter les epoux de leur demande ; et consentit a 
 la renvoyer devant 1'officialite, toutes les foies qu'il ne 
 1'aurait pas rejetee. 3 " 
 
 " II y cut un moment ou sans doute le renversement 
 des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
 mestiques, determinerent ie gouvernement a s'ei-arter 
 des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la liberte de mcsura 
 
 forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, "si surpuj qu'il permettait a sessujets: on cnassa de V enise toutes 
 per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." "He had j les courtisanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisait pas pom 
 usurped for so many years a false fame of wisdom ;" | ramener aux bonnes ntceurs toule une population eievet 
 
 atber a difficult task, I should think. People are gene- 
 rally found out before eighty years of age, at least in a 
 epublic. 
 
 From these, and the other historical notes which I 
 have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Faliero i 
 
 dans la plus hotileuse licence. Le desordre uenCua 
 dans I'inteVieur des families, lians les cloitres ; et 1'on 
 
 1 Corregpondance de M. Schlic> chaig6 tl'aflaut* 
 France, dcpeche du 24 Aout, 178i!. 
 
 2 Ibid. Dopeche du 3l Aout. 
 
 uossessed many of the qualities, but not the success ofl 3 ibid. Depche du 3 &Diemhre. J785
 
 288 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 crut obligi oe raope.er, d'indemniser mSme ' des femmes 
 qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, et 
 qu'on pouvait employer ulilement a miner des hommes 
 que leur fortune aurait pu rsndre dangereux. Depais, 
 fa licence est toujours allee croissant, et 1'on a vu non 
 settlement des meres trafiquer de la virginite de leurs 
 flies, mais la vendre par un central, dont 1'authenticite 
 etait garantie par la signature d'un oflicier public, et 
 ('execution mise sous la protection des lois. 2 
 
 " Les parloirs des couvents ou e'taient renferme'es les 
 filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoique la 
 police y entretint soigneusement un grand nombre de 
 surveillans, etaient les seuls points de reunion de la so- 
 ciete de Venise, et dans ces deux endroits si divers on 
 etait egalement libre. La musique, les collations, la 
 galanterie, n'etaient pas plus interdites dans les parloirs 
 que dans les casins. II y avail un grand nombre de 
 casins destines aux reunions publiques, ou le jeu 6tait 
 la principale occupation de la societe. C 'etait un sin- 
 gulier spectacle de voir autour d'une table des personnes 
 des deux sexes en masque, et de graves personnages en 
 robe de magistrature, implorant le hasard, passant des 
 angoisses du desespoir aux illusions de 1'esperance, et 
 ceki sans proferer une parole. 
 
 " Les riches avaient des casins particuliers ; mais ils 
 y vivaient avec mystere ; leurs femmes delaissees trou- 
 vaient un dedommagement dans la liberte dont elles 
 jouissaient ; la corruption des moeurs les avail privees 
 de tout leur empire ; on vient de parcourir toute 1'his- 
 toire de Venise, et on ne les a pas vues une seule fois 
 exercer la moindre influence." 
 
 V. 
 
 Extract from the History of the Republic of Venice, by 
 P. Dam, Member of the French Academy, vol. v. 
 b. xxxv. p. 95, etc. Paris Edit. 1819. 
 
 "To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
 governr.wnt against the clergy, to the continual strug- 
 gles between the different constituted bodies, to these 
 enterprises, carried on by the mass of the nobles against 
 the depositaries of power, to all those projects of inno- 
 vation, which always ended by a stroke of state policy, 
 we must add a cause not less fitted to spread contempt 
 (or ancient doctrines ; this was the ezcfss of corruption. 
 
 "That freedom of manners, which had been long 
 boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian society, 
 had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness; the tie 
 of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic country, 
 than among those nations where the laws and religion 
 admit of its being dissolved. Because they could not 
 break the contract, they feigned that it had not existed ; 
 and the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
 narried pair, was admitted with equal facility by priests 
 nnu magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, veiled 
 under another name, became so frequent, that the most 
 important act of civil society was discovered to be 
 amenable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain 
 ihe upen scandal of such proceedings became the office 
 of the police. In 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, that 
 
 1 Le itecret de rappel les desienait sous le nom do rtostre 
 kenemerite mcrttrif.i. On leur nssie IIH un fonds et des maisons 
 UMMMet Case rampant, d'oii vient la denomination injurieuse 
 ie Corampa* 
 
 9 Mayer. T/rscription de. Vmist. toih. ii. et M. Archenholtz 
 Tableau de t' Italic, torn. i. chap. ~ 
 
 every woman who should sue for a dissolution of her 
 marriage should be compelled to await the decision o 
 the judges in some convent, to be named by the cout. 
 Soon afterwards the same council summoned all cause* 
 of that nature before itself. 2 This infringement on 
 ecclesiastical jurisdiction having occasioned some re- 
 monstrance from Rome, the council retained only the 
 right of rejecting the petition of the married persons, 
 and consented to refer such causes to the holy office as 
 it should not previously have rejected. 3 
 
 " There was a moment in which, doubtless, the de- 
 struction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the do- 
 mestic discord, occasioned by these abuses, determined 
 the government to depart from its established maxims 
 concerning the freedom of manners allowed the subject. 
 All the courtesans were banished from Venice, but their 
 absence was not enough to reclaim and bring back 
 good morals to a whole people brought up in the most 
 scandalous licentiousness. Depravity reached the very 
 bosoms of private families, and even into the cloister ; 
 and they found themselves obliged to recall, and even 
 to indemnify 4 women who sometimes gained posses- 
 sion of important secrets, and who might be usefully 
 employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes might 
 have rendered them dangerous. Since that time licen- 
 tiousness has gone on increasing, and we have seen 
 mothers, not only selling the innocence of their daugh- 
 ters, but selling it by a contract, authenticated by the 
 signature of a public officer, and the performance of 
 which was secured by the protection of the laws.' 
 
 " The parlours of the convents of noble ladies, and 
 the houses of the courtesans, though the police carefully 
 kept up a number of spies about them, were the only 
 assemblies for society in Venice ; and in these two 
 places, so different from each other, there was equal free- 
 dom. Music, collations, gallantry, were not more forbid- 
 dsn in the parlours than at the casinos. There were * 
 number of casinos for the purpose of public assemblies, 
 where gaming was the principal pursuit of the company. 
 It was a strange sight to see persons of either sex, mask- 
 ed, or grave personages in their magisterial robes, round 
 a table, invoking chance, and giving way at one instant 
 to the agonies of despair, at the next to the illusions of 
 hope, and that without uttering a single word. 
 
 " The rich had private casinos, but they lived incog' 
 nito in them ; and the wives whom they abandoned 
 found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. The 
 corruption of morals had deprived them of their em- 
 pire. We have just reviewed the whole history of 
 Venice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
 slightest influence." 
 
 From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
 under the barbarians, there are some honourable indi- 
 vidual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the last, and, 
 alas ! posthumous son of the marriage of the Doges with 
 the Adriatic, who fought his frigate with far greater 
 gallantry than any of his French coadjutors in the me 
 
 1 Correspondence of Mr. Schlick. French chars* d'affaires 
 Despatch of 24th August, 17S2. 
 
 2 Ibid. Despatch. 31st August. 
 
 3 Ibid. Despatch. 3d September, 1785. 
 
 4 The decree for their recall designates them ns *ostre lent 
 rritr merttrici. A fund and some houses calle.i Case ram 
 
 pane were assigned to them : hence the opMobriotta appellatiot 
 of" Carampane. 
 
 5 Mayer, Description of Venire vol.ii sndll. /.rchc.ho.B 
 Picture of hall/, vol. i. ^. ; .iap. "..
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 23f 
 
 morable action off Lissa. I came home in the squadron 
 vnth 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 Pasqua- 
 ligo's behaviour. There is the Abbate Morelli. There 
 is Alvise Querini, who, after a long and honourable 
 diplomatic career, finds some consolation 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 Gondoletla." There are 
 the patrician poet Morosini, and the poet Lamberti, the 
 author of the " Biondina," etc. and many other estima- 
 te productions ; and, not least in an Englishman's esti- 
 mation, Madame Michelii, the translator of Shakspeare. 
 There are the young Dandolo, and the improwisatore 
 Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accomplished son 
 of an accomplished mother. There is Aglietti, and, 
 were there nothing else, there is the immortality of 
 Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxithi, Bucati, etc., etc. I do 
 not reckon, because tne one is a Greek, and the others 
 were born at least a hundred miles off, which, through- 
 out Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner, at leatt a 
 Granger (farestiere). 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ertrait de rouvrage Hutaire Uttsraxre (Tltalie, par 
 P. L. Gingvene, torn. ix. chap, xxxvi. p. 144. Edi- 
 tion de Pans, MDCCCX1X. 
 
 " I :. y a une prediction fort singuliere sur Venise : 'Si 
 tu ne changes pas,' dit-elie a cette republique altiere, ' ta 
 liberte, qui deja s'enfuit, ne comptera pas un siecle apres 
 2. millicme annee.' 
 
 " En faisant remonter I'e'poque de la liberte Veni- 
 tienne jusqu'a 1'etablissement du gouvernement sous le- 
 quel la republique a fleuri, on trouvera que I'electioo 
 du premier Doge date de 697, et si 1'on y ajoute un 
 siecle apres mille, c'est-a-dire onze cents ans, on trou- 
 vera encore que le sens de la prediction est litterale- 
 ment celui-ci : ' Ta liberte ne comptera pas jusqu'a 1'an 
 1797.' Rappelez-vous maintenant que Venise a cesse 
 d'etre libre en 1'an cinq de la Republique francaise, ou 
 en 1799 ; vous verrez qu'il n'y cut jamais de prediction 
 plus precise et plus ponctuellement suivie de 1'efFet. 
 Vous noterez done comme Ires remarquables ces trois 
 vers de 1'Alamani, adresses a Venise, que personne 
 XHirtant n'a remarques : 
 
 ' Se non cangi pensier. 1'an gecol 10)0 
 Non conlera sopra 'I millesioio anno 
 Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 
 
 8ien des propheties ont passe pour telles, et bien des 
 ^ens ont etc appeles prophetes a meilleur marche." 
 
 vn. 
 
 Extract from the Literary History of Itcuy, by P. L. 
 Ginguint, vol. ix. p. 1~44. Paris'Edit- 1819. 
 
 " THERE is one very singular prophecy concerning 
 \ enice : ' If thou dost not change,' it says to that proud 
 republic, ' thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will 
 no reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 
 
 " If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to 
 the establishment of the government under which the re- 
 public flourished, we shall find that the date of the elec- 
 
 liberty will not last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice 
 ceased to be free in the year 1796, the fifth year of ths 
 French republic ; and you will perceive that there never 
 was prediction more pointed, or more exactly fallowed 
 by the event. You wiH, therefore, note as very remark' 
 able the three lines of Alamann'u addressed tc Venice, 
 which, however, no one has pointed out: 
 
 'Be mm eanci peoiier. Tun weol solo 
 Non eootera copra, 'I oiillerimo anno 
 Tua liberti. che ra fuggeodo a rolo.' 
 
 Many prophecies have passed for such, and many me 
 have been called prophets for much less." 
 
 If the Doge'i prophecy Kern remarkable, look totheabor* 
 made by Alamanni two hundred and evenly yean ajo. 
 
 THE author of "Sketches Descriptive of Italy," etc 
 one of the hundred tours lately published, is extremeN 
 anxious to disclaim a possible charge of plagiarism 
 from " Childe Harold" and " Beppo." He adds, tha 
 still less could this presumed coincidence arise fron> 
 " my conversation," as he had repeatedly declined an 
 introduction to me while in Italy. 
 
 Who this person may be, I know not ; but Le must 
 have been deceived by all or any of those who " repeat- 
 edly offered to introduce" him, as I have invariably 
 refused to receive any English with whom I was not 
 previously acquainted, even when they had letters 
 from England. If the whole assertion is not an inven- 
 tion, I request this person not to sit down with the 
 notion that he COULD have been introduced, since there 
 has been nothing I have so carefully avoided as any 
 kind of intercourse with. his countrymen, excepting 
 the very few who were a considerable time resident 
 in Venice, or had been of my previous acquaintance. 
 Whoever made him any such offer was possessed of 
 impudence equal to that of making such an assertion 
 without having had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter 
 abhorrence any contact with the travelling English, as 
 my friend the Consul-General Hoppner, and the Coun- 
 tess Benzoni (in whose house the Conversazione most- 
 ly frequented by them is held), could amply testify, 
 were it worth while. I was persecuted by these tourists 
 even to my riding-ground at Lido, and reduced to the 
 'most disagreeable circuits to avoid them. At Madame 
 Benzoni's I repeatedly refused to be introduced to 
 them ; of a thousand 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 repeatedly declined an introduc- 
 tion," even had it been true, which, for the reasons 1 
 have above given, is scarcely possible. Except Lords 
 Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale; Messrs. Scott, 
 Hammond, Sir Humphry Davy, the late M. Lewis, W. 
 Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kinnaiic, 
 his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not re 
 collect to have exchanged a word with another English 
 man since I left their country ; and almost all these 1 
 had known before. The others and God knows then 
 
 rion of the first Doge is 697 ; and if we add one century j *'ere some hundreds who hored roe with letters or n- 
 n a thousand, that is, eleven hundred years, we shall ''*> I refused to have any communication with, and riia* 
 e sense of the prediction to be literally this : ' Thy | be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutti. 
 2 C 2 42
 
 ( 290 ) 
 
 A HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ifr publishing the Tragedies of Sardanapalus, and of 
 Thf. Ti>.o Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were 
 lot Composed with the most remote view to the stage. 
 
 Oi il.e attempt made by the managers in a former 
 instant, the public opinion has been already expressed. 
 
 W ith regard to my own private feelings, as it seems 
 tnat they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothing. 
 
 For the historical foundation of the compositions in 
 question, the reader is referred to the Notes. 
 
 The author has in one instance attempted to pre- 
 serve, and in the other to approach the " unities ;" con- 
 ceiving that, with any very distant departure from 
 them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He 
 is aware of the unpopularity of this notion, in pre- 
 sent 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 con- 
 ceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal pre- 
 cept 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. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Ii this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
 account of Diodorus Siculus, reducing it, however, to 
 such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
 approach the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion 
 to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden con- 
 spiracy, instead of the long war of the history. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 MEN. 
 
 SAKDANAPALUS, King of Nineveh and Assyria, etc. 
 
 ARBACES, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 
 
 BELESES, a Chalrlean and Soothsayer. 
 
 SA J,E.MEXES, the King's Brother-in-law. 
 
 ALTAUA, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
 
 PAHIA. 
 
 ZAMES. 
 
 SFERO. 
 
 BALEA 
 
 WOMEN. 
 /ARINA tne Queen. 
 MYHKHA, an Ionian female slave, and the favourite 
 
 of SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Women composing the Harem of SARDANAPALUS, 
 
 G u unlit, Attendants, Chalilean Priests, 
 
 Medea, etc., etc. 
 
 Scene a Hall in t'ne Roval Palace of Nineveh. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hail in the Palace. 
 
 SALEMENES (solus). 
 
 HE hath wrong'd his queen, but still he is her lord ; 
 
 He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
 
 He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign. 
 
 And I must be his friend as well as subject ; 
 
 He must not perish thus. I will not see 
 
 The blood of Nirnrod and Semiramis 
 
 Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
 
 Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
 
 He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
 
 There is a careless courage, which corruption 
 
 Has not all 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 
 
 To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire born, 
 
 He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
 
 Which his sons will not prize in heritage : 
 
 Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
 
 His sloth and shame, by only being that 
 
 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 7 
 
 To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
 
 He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
 
 And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not 
 
 Health like the 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 ! the lute, 
 The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
 Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
 Of women, and of beings less than women, 
 Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
 While the 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, flash 
 Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
 As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
 The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen, 
 He comes ! Shall I await him? yes, and front him, 
 And tell him what all good men tell each other, 
 Speaking of him and his. They come, the sla' feSj 
 Led by the monarch subject to his slaves.
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 -291 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter SARDANAPALUS, effeminately dressed, his Heaa 
 crowned wilh Flowers, and Itis Robe negligently flout- 
 ing, attended by a Train of Women and ytsung 
 Slant. 
 
 s A R D A > A P A L v s ( speaking to some of fas attendants) . 
 \f\ 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, 
 \nd hid 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 '11 meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
 When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
 And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs j 
 Till then, let each be mistress of her time, 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, choose, 
 Wilt thou along with them or me '/ 
 
 31VRRHA. 
 
 My lord 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so coldly! 
 t is the curse of kings to be so answered. 
 lJule thy own hours, thou rulest mine say, wouldst thou 
 Accompany our guests, or charm away 
 . Che moments from me ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 The king's choice is mine. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I pray ihee say not so : my chiefest joy 
 
 Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
 
 I do not dare to breath 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 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Yet! what VET? 
 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES (comes forward, and says). 
 The Ionian slave says well ; let her retire. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Who answers ? How now, brother ? 
 
 SALEMESES. 
 
 The queen's brother, 
 And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (addressing his train). 
 As I have said, let all dispose their hours 
 Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 
 
 [The court retiring. 
 ( ro MVRRHA, who is going.) 
 Mirha! I thought thou wouldst remain. 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Great king, 
 fhoj didst not say so. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 But thou lookedst it ; 
 know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
 ' ' i wouldst not leave me. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Sire ! your brother 
 
 SAI.EMENES. 
 
 His consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
 How darest thou name me and not blush ? 
 
 SARDANA PALUS. 
 
 Not blush 
 
 Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimscr 
 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 Mynha? 
 
 SALEMENTS. 
 
 Let them flow on ; s!ie weeps for more than one, 
 And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Curse not thyself millions do that already. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Thou dost forget thee : make me not remember 
 I am a monarch. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Would thou couldst ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 My sovereign. 
 I pray, and thou too, prince, permit my absence 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
 
 Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
 
 That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
 
 An empire than thy presence. [Exit MYRRH.*, 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 It may be, 
 Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Brother, 
 
 I can at least command myself, who listen 
 To language such as this ; yet urge me not 
 Beyond my easy nature. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 'Tis be3'ond 
 
 That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
 Which I would urge thee. Oh that<4 could rouse the* 
 Though 't were against myself. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 By the god Baal ! 
 The man would make me tyrant. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 So thou art. 
 
 Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that g 
 Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice- 
 The weakness and the wickedness of luxury 
 The negligence the apathy the evils 
 Of sensual sloth produce ten' thousand tyrants, 
 Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
 The worst acts of one energetic master, 
 However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
 The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
 Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
 In the same moment all thy pageant power, 
 And those who should sustain it ; so that wiictnei 
 A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
 Distract within, both will alike prove fata' . 
 The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer , 
 The last they rather would assist than vanauLsu.
 
 29S 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SARCANAPALUS. 
 
 Why, \vhat makes tliee the moulh-piece of the people? 
 
 SAI.EMENES. 
 
 Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
 A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
 Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
 In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
 Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What's that? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 To thee an unknown word. 
 
 8ARBANAPALUS. 
 
 Yet speak it, 
 I love to learn. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Not know the word! 
 
 Never was word yet rung so in my ears 
 Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet; 
 I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 To change the irksome theme, then, hear of vice. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 From whom ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
 Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Come, / 'm indulgent as thou knowest, patient 
 
 As thou hast often proved speak out, what moves thee ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Thy peril. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Say on. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Thus, then : all the nations, 
 For they are many, whom thy father left 
 la heritage, are loud a\ wrath against thee. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'Gair.3t me ! What would the slaves? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 A king. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And what 
 Am I then? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 In their eyes a nothing ; but 
 In mine a man who might be something still. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 The railing drunkards ! why, what would they have ? 
 Have they not peace and plenty ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Of the first, 
 
 More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
 Than the king recks of. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Whose then is the crime, 
 But iht: false satraps, who provide no better ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And oomewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
 Beyond nis palace walls, or if he stirs 
 Beyond them, 't is but to some mountain palace, 
 Till summer ncats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 
 
 Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
 A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
 Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
 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 1 
 For what ? to furnish him imposts for a revc/ 
 Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Wherefore not 7 
 Semiramis a woman only led 
 These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
 Of Ganges. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'T is most true. And how return'd ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Whv, like a man a hero ; baffled, but 
 
 Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she madb 
 
 Good her retreat to Bactria. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And how many 
 Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Our annals say not. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 glory ? 
 Then let me live in ignominy ever. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I sway them- 
 She but subdued them. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 It may be ere long 
 That they will need her sword more than your sceptre 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 pratest of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I have heard of such a man ; and thou perceivest 
 That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And in his godship I will honour him 
 
 Not much as man. What, ho ! my cuDb**ei . 
 
 SALEMENE*. 
 
 What means the king ?
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 29? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 To worship your new god 
 And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
 
 Enter Cupbearer. 
 
 SARDANAI ALUS (addressing the Cupbearer'). 
 Bring me the golden goblet thick with gems, 
 Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
 Fill full, and hear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Is this moment 
 
 A fitting one for the resumption of 
 Thy yet unslept-off revels 1 
 
 Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 
 SARDANAPALUS (taking the cup from him). 
 
 Noble kinsman, 
 
 'f these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
 And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
 Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 He did, and thence was deem'd a deity 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Not so : of all his conquests h few columns, 
 
 Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
 
 Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
 
 The landmarks of tht seas of gore he shed, 
 
 The realms he wasted, an3 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 ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 For all thy realms 
 I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ITiat is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
 
 rhat he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
 
 Because he tum'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
 
 Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
 
 The youn?, 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And if I did, 't were better than a trophy, 
 
 Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
 
 Yly present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
 
 Continue what thou pleasest. 
 
 (To the Cupbearer). Boy, retire. 
 
 [Exit Cupbearer. 
 
 8ALEMENES. 
 
 would but have recafl'd thee from thy dream : 
 Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Who should rebel ? or why ? what cause ? pretext * 
 
 I am 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 ihouldst rail, or they rise up against irie I 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 
 
 8ARDANAPALU8. 
 
 But 
 
 Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is 't net if 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Think ! Thou hast wrong'd her ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Patience, prince, and hear m* 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I pray thee, change the theme ; my blood disda-m 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And why not her brother 7 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
 
 Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! they murmu 
 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Or for my trophies I have founded cities : 
 
 There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
 
 In one day what could that blood-loving beldams 
 
 My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
 
 Do more, except destroy them ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 'T is 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 ag 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though weil built. 
 Are not more goodly than the verse ! -Say what 
 Thou wilt 'gainst me, mv mode of life or ruin 
 But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief recoro. 
 Why, those few lines contain the historv
 
 204 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Of all things human; hear " Sardanapalus 
 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 
 In on" 3ay built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
 
 Eat, arink, and love ; the rest's not worth a fillip." 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
 For a king co put up before his subjects ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up edicts 
 " 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 weight of human misery less, and glide 
 Ungroaning to the tomb ; I take no license 
 Which I deny to them. We all are men. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Thy sires have been revered as gods 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 In dust 
 
 And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
 Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
 A* 'cast they banqueted upon your gods, 
 And died for lack of farther nutriment. 
 Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue 
 I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
 But nothing godlike, unless it may be 
 The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
 To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
 The follies of my species, and (that's human) 
 To be indulgent to my own. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 The doom o r Nineveh is seal'd. Woe woe 
 To the unrivall'd city ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What dost dread? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What must we dread ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Ambitious treachery, 
 
 Winch has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
 There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
 To quell the machinations, ami I lay 
 Tho heads of thy chief foes oefore thy feet. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 fhr. heads how many ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Must I stay to number 
 
 When even (nine own 's in peril ? Let me go ; 
 Give me thy signet trust me with the rest. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I will trust n<> man with unlimited lives. 
 
 Wh<>n we take those from others, we nor know 
 
 Whai we have taken, nor the thing we give. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 *Voiii'is' thou not take their lives who seek for thine ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That 's a hard question. But, I answer Yes. 
 Cannot the thing be done without? Who are they 
 Whom thou suspectest ? Let them be arrestod. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the next moment 
 Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
 Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
 Even to the city, and so baffle all 
 Trust me. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
 Take thou the signet. [Gives the Signet. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I have one more request. 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Name it. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 That thou this night forbear the banquet 
 In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
 That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
 And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
 Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
 Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
 Nor lose one joyous hour I fear them not. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if needful J 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 
 
 A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
 
 And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth : 
 
 A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
 
 And now I think on 't, 't is long since I 've used them, 
 
 Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? 
 If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Will I not ? 
 
 Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
 Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
 Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 They say, thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 Lydian queen : thou seest 
 
 The populace of all the nations seize 
 
 Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 > T o; 
 
 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 license 
 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 the rank tonsil' * 
 Of this vile herd grown insolent with feeding,
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That I should prize their noisy piaise, or dread 
 Their noisome clamour ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You have said they are men ; 
 As such their hearts are something. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 So my dogs' are ; 
 
 And better, as more faithful : but, proceed ; 
 Thou hast my signet : since they are tumultuous, 
 Let them be temper'd ; yet not roughly, till 
 Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain, 
 Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
 The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
 Not to add to each other's natural burthen 
 Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
 By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
 The fatal penalties imposed on life ; 
 But this they know not, or they will not know. 
 I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them : 
 I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
 I interfered not with their civic lives, 
 I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
 Passing my own as suited me. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Thou stopp'st 
 
 Short of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
 They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 They lie. Unhappily, I am unfit 
 
 To be aught save a monarch ; else for me, 
 
 The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What mean'st thou ? 't is thy secret ; thou desirest 
 Few questions, and I 'm not of curious nature. 
 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, they belie ; that which 
 They yet may find me shall defy their wish 
 To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Then thou at last canst feel ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Feel ! who feels not 
 Ingratitude ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I will not pause to answer 
 
 With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
 Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
 And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign, 
 As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exit SALEMENES. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (solus). 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 He J s gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
 Which iu lo him a sceptre. He is stern 
 As I am heedless , and the slaves deserve 
 To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
 I know not he hath found it, let him quell it. 
 
 Must I consume my life this little life 
 
 In guarding against all may make it less ? 
 
 It is not worth so much ' It were to die 
 
 Before my hour, t; live in dread of death, 
 
 Tracing revolts : suspecting all about me, 
 
 Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 
 
 Because they are afar. But if it should be so 
 
 If they should sweep me off from earth and empire 
 
 Why, what is earth or empire of the earth '{ 
 
 I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 
 
 To die is no less natural than those 
 
 Acts of this clay ! 'T is 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 shed blood, it shall be by force. 
 
 Till now no drop from an Assyrian vein 
 
 Hath flowed 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, 't is because I hate not ; 
 
 If they rebel, it is because I oppress not. 
 
 Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptre* 
 
 And mow'd down like grass, else all we reap 
 
 Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
 
 Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 
 
 Making a desert of fertility. 
 
 I'll think no more. Within there, ho! 
 
 Enter an ATTENDANT. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Slave, tel' 
 The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence; 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 King, she is here. 
 
 MFRRHA enters. 
 SARDANAPALUS (apart to Attendant"). 
 
 Away! 
 
 (Adtlressing MYRRHA.) Beautiful 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. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 There doth. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I know there doth ; but not its name ; 
 What is it 7 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 In my native land a god, 
 And in my heart a feeling like a god's, 
 Exalted ; yet I own 't is only mortal, 
 For what I feel is humble, and yet happy 
 
 That is, it would be happy : but 
 
 [MvRRHA pauset 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 There some* 
 
 For ever something between us and what 
 We deem our happiness : let me remove 
 The barrier which that hesitating accent 
 Proclaims to thine, ana mil s seal'd. 
 MYRI . 
 
 My lord 
 
 SARDANA .US. 
 
 My lord my king sire sov - ign ! thus it
 
 296 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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 ( have quaff'd me down to their abasement. 
 
 Myirha, I can hear all these things, these names, 
 
 Lord king sire monarch nay, time was I prized 
 
 them, 
 
 That is, I suffer' d them from slaves and nobles ; 
 But when they falter from the lips I love, 
 The 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. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Would that we could ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And dost tfutu feel this? Why? 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Then thou wouldst know what thou canst never know. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And that is 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 The true value of a heart j 
 At least a woman's. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I have proved a thousand 
 A thousand, and a thousand. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Hearts? 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I think so. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Not tne ! the time may come thou may'st. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 It will. 
 
 Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared 
 Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
 Who founded our great realm, knows more than I 
 But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
 In peril. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 He did well. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And say'st them so 1 
 
 Thou *vhom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
 Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
 And made thee weep and blush ? 
 
 MYBHHA. 
 
 I should do both 
 
 Moie frequently, and he did well to call me 
 Back to my duty. But thou speak'st of peril 
 Peril to thee 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Ay, from dark plots and snares 
 From Medes and discontented troops and nations. 
 
 know not what- a labyrinth of things 
 A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
 Thou anow'st the man it is his usual custom. 
 But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on't 
 Hut of the midnight festival. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 'T is time 
 
 To think of aught save festivals. Thou hasi not 
 Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What! and dost thou fear* 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Fear ! I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear death ? 
 A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom' 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 I love. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And do not I ? I love thee far far more 
 Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
 Which, it may be, are menaced : yet I blench not 
 
 MYRRHA.. 
 
 That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me ; 
 For he who loves another loves himself, 
 Even for that other's sake. Tliis is too rash : 
 Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. - 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 
 Forgets himself, will they remember him? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Myrrha ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Frown not upon me : you have smiled 
 Too often on me not to make those frowns 
 Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
 Which they may augur. King, I am your subject I 
 Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you I- 
 Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
 Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs 
 A slave, and hating fetters an Ionian, 
 And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
 Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
 Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
 Enough to overcome all former nature, 
 Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
 And what I seek of thee is love not safety. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And without love where dwells security? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I speak of woman's love. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 The very first 
 
 Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
 Your first small words a^e taught you from her lips, 
 Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
 Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
 When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
 Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music, 
 
 The very chorus of the tragic song 
 
 I have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 
 
 Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not calm then. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 I weep not. But I pray thee, do not speak 
 About my fathers or their .'and.
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 29? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Yet oft 
 Thov speakest of them. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 True true : constant thought 
 Will overflow in words unconsciously : 
 But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds roe. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Well, then, how wouldst thou *ave me, as thou saidst? 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 By teaching thee to rave thyself, and not 
 Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
 The rage of the worst war the war of brethren. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors : 
 I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
 Do more 1 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 Alas ! my lord, with common men 
 There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
 The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
 'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And I have never sought but for the last. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And now art neither. 
 
 SARDANAPAL0S. 
 
 Dost thou say so, Myrrha? 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 I speak of civic popular love, *e{/Move, 
 
 Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
 
 Vet not oppressed at least they must not think BO ; 
 
 Or if they think so, deem it necessary 
 
 To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 
 
 A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
 
 And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Glory: what's that? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Ask of the gods thy fathers. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 They cannot answer ; when the priests speak for them, 
 T is for some small addition to the temple. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
 
 But what wouldst have ? the empire hat been founded, 
 
 I cannot go on multiplying empires. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Preserve thine own. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 At least I will enjoy rt. 
 Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates ; 
 The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
 And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
 [n 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 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 Victims. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, like fovereigM, 
 
 The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 
 2D <J 
 
 Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreathe 
 And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 
 
 Enter PAICIA. 
 
 PAITIA. 
 
 May the king live for over ! 
 
 IARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Not an hour 
 
 Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
 This language, which makes life itself a lie, 
 Flattering dust whh eternity. Well, Pania ! 
 Be brief. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 I am charged by Salemenes to 
 Reiterate his prayer unto the 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 
 His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
 Of his presumption. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What! am I then coop'd? 
 Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
 The breath of heaven 7 Tell prince Salemenes, 
 Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
 In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 I must obey, and yet 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 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 thv subjects' eyes ungratified, 
 The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'n, 
 And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
 Till all, save evil, slurnber'd through the realm ! 
 And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
 A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
 Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
 For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race, 
 And for thy sons' inheritance ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 'T is true ! 
 
 From the deep urgenc> 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, it must not be. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 For the sake of thy realm ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Away! 
 PANIA. 
 
 For that 
 
 Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
 Round thee and thine. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 These are mere phantasies 
 There is no peril : 't is a sullen scheme 
 Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal, 
 And show himself more necessary to us. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 By all that ' good and glorious, take thu counw
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SARD4 NAPALUS. 
 
 Business to-morrow. 
 
 MYRRIIA. 
 
 Ay, or death to-night. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 IVhy, let it come, tnen, 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. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Then thou wilt not yield, 
 Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
 A monarch into action, to forego 
 A trifling revel. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS.. 
 
 No. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Then yield for mine ; 
 For my sake ! 
 
 BARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Thine, my Myrrha ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'T is the first 
 Boon which I e'er ask'd Assyria's king. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That 's true ; and, wer 't my kingdom, must be granted. 
 Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
 fhou hear'st me. 
 
 PANIA. 
 And obey. [Exit PANIA. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I marvel at thee. 
 \\ hat is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'J"hy safety ; and the certainty that nought 
 < !ould urge the prince, thy kinsman, to require 
 Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou? 
 
 HYRHHA. 
 
 ISecause thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 To-morrow thou wiit smile at these vain fancies. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 It' the worst come, I shall be where none weep, 
 And that is better than the power to smile. 
 
 And thou V 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 1 shall be king, as heretofore. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 fV&ere 7 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 
 S*e in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
 Fate made me what I am may make me nothing- 
 Hut either that or nothing must I be : 
 I w ill not live degraded. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Hadst thou felt 
 Tliii a'way, none would ever dare degrade thee. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 A no who will do so now? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Dost thou suspect none ? 
 
 HARDANAPALUS. 
 
 SiMpect ! 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 '11 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 ! 
 
 [Exit SARD ANA PALI;*,. 
 
 MYRRHA (solus). 
 
 Why do I love this man ? My country's daughters 
 
 Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
 
 The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
 
 And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain 
 
 To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
 
 The hour is coming when he '11 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 down the barbarous crowds, and triumph, 
 
 He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
 
 Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
 
 If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
 
 And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
 
 May show him how alone a king can leave 
 
 H:s throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 
 
 [Ex*. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Portal of the game Hall of the Palace. 
 
 SELESES (solus). 
 
 The sun goes down ; methinks he sets more slowly, 
 
 Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
 
 How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 
 
 Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain, 
 
 Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
 
 I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
 
 The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 
 
 For what he brings the nations, 't is the furthest 
 
 Hour of Assyria's years.* And yet how calm ! 
 
 An earthquake should announce so great a fall 
 
 A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 
 
 To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
 
 Its everlasting page the end of what 
 
 Seem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou true sun ! 
 
 The burning oracle of all that live, 
 
 As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
 
 Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
 
 Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
 
 Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
 
 All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 
 
 A beam of hope athwart the future' years
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh ! hear rae ! 
 I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant 
 [ have gazed on thee at thy rise and full, 
 And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
 When my eye dared not meet thee. I ha /e watch'd 
 For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
 And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
 And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd but 
 Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks- 
 Is gone and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
 To the delighted west, which revels in 
 Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
 Death, so it be but glorious ? T is a sunset ; 
 And mortals may be happy to resemble 
 The gods but in decay. 
 
 Enter ARBACES, by an inner door, 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Beleses, why 
 
 So wrapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
 Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
 Into some realm of undiscover'd day 7 
 Our business is with night 't is come. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 But not 
 
 Gone. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Let it roll on we are ready. 
 BELESES. 
 
 Yes. 
 Vould it were over ! 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Does the prophet doubt, 
 To whom th-; very stars shine victory 7 
 
 BELESES. 
 I do not doubt of victory but the victor. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Well, let thy science settle lhat. 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. 
 
 'T was a brave one. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 And is a weak one 't is worn out we '11 mend it. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Art sure of that 7 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Its founderwas a hunter 
 t am a soldier what is there to fear ? 
 
 BELESES. 
 I"he soldier. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 And the priest, it may be ; but 
 If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
 Vour king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
 Why spur me to this enterprise 7 your own 
 No los/ than mine? 
 
 BELESES. 
 Look to the sky ! 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 I took. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 What seest thou 7 
 
 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. 
 
 T is thy natal ruler thy birth planet. 
 ARBACES (touching 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 an 1 tliov 
 Shalt be the pontiff of what gods thou wilt ; 
 For I observe that they are ever just, 
 And own the bravest for the most devout. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Ay, and the most devout for brave thou hast not 
 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 7 
 
 BELESES. 
 Why not both 7 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 The better; 
 
 And yet it almost shames me, we shall 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 i\ 
 
 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. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 They '11 not resist. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Why not ? they are soldiers. 
 
 ARCAttS. 
 
 TlUD. 
 
 And therefore need a soldier to command them. 
 
 BELESES. 
 That Salemenes is. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 But not their king. 
 
 Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that govern* 
 For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you aot 
 He keeps aloof from all the revels 7 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 ,iut 
 Not from the council there he is ever constant.
 
 300 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ABBACES. 
 
 And vrf tf /esrted ; what would you have more 
 To nake a -ebel out of? A fool reigning, 
 His Llood dishonour'd, and himself disdain'd ; 
 Why, it is hit 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 BALEA. 
 
 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 thus order'd. 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 It is so order'd now. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 And why ? 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 I know not. 
 May I retire ? 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Stay. 
 BELESES (to ARBACES aside 1 ). 
 
 Hush ! let him go his way. 
 (A'ternately to BALEA.) 
 Yes, Balca, thank the monarch, kiss the hem 
 Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
 Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
 His royal table at the hour was 't midnight ? 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 I' 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 7 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 He loved that gay pavilion it was ever 
 His summer dotage. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 And he loved his queen 
 And thrice a thousand harlotry besides 
 A nd he has loved all t lings by turns, except 
 Wisdom and giory. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 Still I like it not. 
 
 If i.e has changed why so must we ! the attack 
 ^V ere easy in the isolated bower, 
 Be*et with drowsy guards and drunken courtier* ; 
 Bii in the 3d! 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 comtd, 
 Thou shall 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 7 
 Enter SALEMENES. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Satraps ! 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 My prince ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Well met I sought ye both, 
 But elsewhere than the palace. 
 
 ARBACE8. 
 
 Wherefore so ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 'T is not the hour. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 The hour what hour 7 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Of midnight 
 
 BELEIES. 
 
 Midnight, my lord ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 What, are you not invited 7 
 
 BELESES. 
 Oh ! yes we htd forgotten. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Is it usual 
 Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation 7 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Wny we but now received it, 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Then why her* 7 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 On duty. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 On what duty 7 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 On the state's. 
 
 We have the privilege to approach the presence, 
 But (bund the monarch absent. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And I too 
 Am upon duty. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 May we crave its purport 7 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 To arrest two traitors. Guards ! within there 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 ALEMENES (continuing). 
 
 Your swords. 
 
 Satrap*
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 SELESES (ilflti'tring his). 
 My lord, behold my scimitar. 
 ARBACES (drawing his sword). 
 Take mine. 
 
 SALEMENES (advancing:). 
 IwilL 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 But in your heart the blade 
 The hilt quits nbt this hand. 
 
 SALEMENES (drawing). 
 
 How ! dost thou brave me ? 
 T i* well this saves a trial and false mercy. 
 Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 
 
 ARBACE8. 
 
 Soldiers! Ay 
 Alone you dare not. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Alone ! foolish slave- 
 What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
 Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
 Thy strength : thy tooth is nought without its venom 
 The serpent's not the lion's. Cut him down. 
 
 SELESES (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 of, 
 And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
 Of my own breath and body so far that 
 None else shall chain them. 
 
 SALEMENES (to the Guirds). 
 
 You hear Aim, and me. 
 Take him not kill. 
 
 [The Guards attack ARBACES, who defends him- 
 self valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Is it even so ; and must 
 I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
 How you should fell a traitor. 
 
 [SALEMENES attacks ARBACES. 
 Enter SARDANAPALUS ami Train. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Hold your hands- 
 Upon your lives, 1 say. What, deaf or drunken? 
 My sword ! oh fool, I wear no sword : here, fellow, 
 Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 
 
 [SARDANAPALUS matches a sward from one of the 
 soldiers, and makes between the combatants they 
 separate. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 In my very palace ! 
 
 <Vhat hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
 Audacious brawlers ? 
 
 BELESE8. 
 
 Sire, your justice. 
 
 fALEMENES. 
 
 Or 
 Your weakness. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (raising the sword). 
 How? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 
 Cpon yon traitor whom you spare a moment, 
 Uust, for torture I 'm content. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What him! 
 
 Who dares assai. Arbaces ? 
 2D 2 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 I! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrat T 
 
 SALEMENES (allowing the signet). 
 Thine. 
 
 ARBACES (confused). 
 The king's ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 
 
 SARDANAPA LUE. 
 
 I parted not from this for such a purpose. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You parted with it for your safety I 
 Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
 Here I am but your slave a moment past 
 I was your representative. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Then sheathe 
 Your swords. 
 
 [ARBACES and SALEMENES return their sworas t 
 the scabbards. 
 
 EALEMENES. 
 
 Mine 's sheath'd : I pray you sheathe not yours ; 
 'T is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
 
 (To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon nack. 
 
 Well, sirs, 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 The prince must answer that. 
 
 SALEMENES. . 
 
 Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Treason Arbaces ! treachery and Belcses ! 
 That were an union I will not believe. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Where is the proof? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I'll answer that, if once 
 The king demands your fellow traitor's sword. 
 
 ARBACES (to SALEMENES). 
 A sword which hath been drawn as oft as thine 
 Against his foes. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And now against his brother, 
 And in an hour or so against himself. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That is not possible : he dared not ; no 
 No I '11 not hear of such things. These vain bicnennjp 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 First 
 
 Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
 Proclaim himself your subject by that duty. 
 And I will answer all. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Why, if I thought so 
 But no, it cannot be ; the Mede Arbace* 
 The trusty, rough, true soldier the best cantata 
 
 Of all who discipline our nations ISo, 
 
 I 'Q not insult him thus, tc bid him rentier
 
 302 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Tlie sc-milar to me he never yielded 
 
 Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 
 
 SALEMr NES (delivering back the signet). 
 Monarch, take jack your signet. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, retain it ; 
 But use it with more moderation. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Sire, 
 
 1 tiaed it for your honour, and restore it 
 Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
 Bestow it on Arbaces. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 So I should : 
 He never ask'd it. 
 
 8ALEMENES. 
 
 Doubt not, he will have it 
 Without that hollow semblance of respect. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 I know noV what hath prejudiced the prince 
 
 So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
 
 Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Peace, factious priest and faithless soldier ! thou 
 Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
 Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
 Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
 Tor those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
 te, 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 arc with the stars, 
 And 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
 It you preach further. Why, this is rank treason. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 My lord ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 To school me in the worship of 
 Assyria's idols ! Let him be released 
 Give him his sword. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 My lord, and king, and brother, 
 I pray ye, pause. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Yes, and be sermonized, 
 
 And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
 And aU Chaldea's starry mysteries. 
 
 BELESES. 
 Monarch ! respect them. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Oh ! for that I love them ; 
 love 10 watch them in the deep blue vault, 
 Ana to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes : 
 
 [ love to see their rays redoubled in 
 
 The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave, 
 
 As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
 
 And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
 
 Which fringe his banks : but whether they may b 
 
 Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 
 
 As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
 
 Worlds or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
 
 There 's something sweet in my uncertainty 
 
 I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
 
 Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
 
 Of aught above it or below it nothing. 
 
 I sec their brilliancy and feel their beauty 
 
 When they shine on my grave, I shall know neither 
 
 BELESES. 
 For neither, sire, say better. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I will wait, 
 
 If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
 In the meantime receive your sword, and know 
 That I prefer your service militant 
 Unto your ministry not loving either. 
 
 SALEMENES (osi'lf). 
 
 His lusts have made him mad. Then must I save hi* 
 Spite of himself. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Please you to hear me, Satraps ! 
 And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
 More than the soldier, and \voula doubt thee all 
 Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
 In peace I '11 not say pardon which must be 
 Earn'd by the guilty ; this I '11 not pronounce ye, 
 Although upon this breath of mine depends 
 Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
 But fear not for that I am soft, not fearful 
 And so live on. Were I the thing some think me, 
 Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
 Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
 Of this our palace into the dry dust, 
 Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
 They would be crown'd to reign o'er let that pass. 
 As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty, 
 Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit, better men 
 Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
 And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
 And proofs of all kinds, 1 might sacrifice 
 Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
 Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Sire, this clemency 
 BELESES (interrupting him). 
 Is worthy of yourself ; and, although innocent, 
 We thank- 
 
 SARDAMAPALUS. 
 
 Priest ! keep your thanksgiving for Beluj j 
 His offspring needs none. 
 
 BELKSE8. 
 
 But, being innocent 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Be silent Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 
 
 Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not gratr Sal. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 So we should be, were justice always done 
 By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
 Mut oft receive her right as a mere favtu."
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That 's a good sentence for a homily, 
 Fhough not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
 To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 
 
 SELESES. 
 1 trust there is no cause. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No cause, perhaps ; 
 
 But many causers : If ye meet with such 
 In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
 On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
 In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
 Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
 That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
 That him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
 And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
 Enough to spare even those who would not spare him, 
 Were they once masters but that 's doubtful. Satraps ! 
 Your swords and persons are at liberty 
 To use them as ye will but from this hour 
 I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
 Follow me. 
 
 [Exeunt SARDANAPALUS, SALEMENES, and fa 
 7Voin, etc., leaving AKBACES and BELESES. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 Beleses ! 
 
 SELESES. 
 
 Now, what think you? 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 That we are lost. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 That we have won the kingdom. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Whit ! thus suspected with the sword slung o'er us 
 But by a single hair, and that still wavering 
 To be blown down by his imperious breath, 
 Which spared us why, I know not. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Seek not why ; 
 
 But let us profit by the interval. 
 '1 he hour is still our own our power the same- 
 The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
 Nothing, except our ignorance of all 
 Suspicion into such a certainty 
 As must make madness of delay. 
 ARBACES. 
 
 And yet 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 What, doubting still ! 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 He spared our lives nay, more, 
 Saved them from Salemenes. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 And how long 
 Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 
 
 AR- ' IBS. 
 
 Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
 GVR royally what we had forfeited 
 flaseiv 
 
 BELESES. 
 Say, bravely. 
 
 ARBACES. % 
 
 Somewhat of both, perhaps, 
 But it has touch'd me, and whate'er betide, 
 J will no further on. 
 
 BELESES. 
 . And lose the world 7 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Lose any thing, except my own esteem. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
 A king of distaffs ! 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 But no less we owe them ; 
 And I should blush far more to take the granter'a 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wilt, the star* 
 Have written otherwise. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Though they came down, 
 And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
 I would not follow. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 This is weakness worse 
 Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
 And waking in the dark. Go to go to. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he spoke, 
 Even as the proud imperial statue stands, 
 Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
 And sways, while they but ornament, the tempi*. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 I told you that you had too much despised hint, 
 And that there was some royalty within him. 
 What then ? he is the nobler foe. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 But we 
 The meaner : would he had not spared us ! 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 So- 
 Wouldst thbu be sacrificed thus readily ? 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 No but it had been better to have died * 
 Than live ungrateful. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Oh, the souls of some men 
 Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
 Fools treachery and, behold, upon the sudden, 
 Because, for something or for nothing, this 
 Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
 'T wixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
 Into what shall I say ? Sardanapalus 
 I know no name more ignominious. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 But 
 
 An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
 Had held his life but lightly as it is, 
 I must forgive you, even as he forgave us 
 Semiramis herself would not have done it. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 No the queen liked no sharers of the kingdom, 
 Not even a husband. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 I must serve him truly- 
 
 BELESES. 
 And humbly 7 
 
 ARBACKB. 
 
 No, sir, proudly being hone*u 
 I shall be nearer thrones than you to heave ; 
 And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty.
 
 304 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 You may do your own deeming you have codes, 
 And mysteries, and corollaries of 
 Right and wrong, which I lack for m^ direction, 
 And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
 And now you know me. 
 
 SELESES. 
 
 Have you finish'd ? 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Yes 
 
 With you. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 And would, perhaps, betray at well 
 As quit me ? 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 That 's a sacerdotal thought, 
 And not a soldier's. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Be it what you will- 
 Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 No- 
 There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
 Than in a phalanx. 
 
 BF.LESES. 
 If it must be BO 
 I '11 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 ; 
 Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
 To serve ami save Assyria. Heaven itself 
 Seern'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, 
 Uf one or both, for sometimes both are one : 
 And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Four senrant ! 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 . Why not ? better than be slave, 
 The parilarfd slave of she Sardanapalus. 
 
 Enter PAWIA. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 My lords, I bear an order from the king. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 It is ooey'd e-e spoken. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Notwithstanding, 
 I.iet 's hear it. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Forthwith, on this very night, 
 Repair to your respective satrapies 
 Uf Kabv'or. and Media. 
 
 SELESES. 
 
 With our Irooos ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 My order is unto the satraps and 
 Their household train. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 But 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 It must be obey 'v , 
 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 PANIJ 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Now 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. 
 How many satraps in his father's time 
 For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 But will not, can nut be so now. 
 ARBACES. 
 
 I doubt it. 
 
 How many satraps have I seen set out 
 In his sire's day for mighty vice-royaltfes, 
 Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not hen 
 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 '11 shorten 
 The journey. _ 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 It raav be. 
 
 'T will be shorten'd a*, the gaiM
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 305 
 
 BELESES. . 
 
 No : they hardly will risk that. 
 They mean us to die privately, but not 
 Within the palace or the city walls, 
 Where we are known and may have partisans : 
 If they had meant to slay us here, we wore 
 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 alartn'd 
 Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 Towards our provinces 7 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 No ; towards your kingdom. 
 There 's time, there 's heart and hope, and power, and 
 
 means 
 
 Which their half measures leave us in full scope. 
 Away! 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 And I, even yet repenting, must 
 Relapse to guilt ! 
 
 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 follows reluctantly. 
 Enter SARDANAPALUS and SALEMENES. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 
 That worst o f mockeries of a remedy ; 
 We are now secure by ihese men's exile. 
 
 8 iLEMENES. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
 Twined round their roots. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Why, what wouldst hare me do ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Undo what you have done. 
 
 SARDANAPAI.US. 
 
 Revoke my pardon ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Replace ths crown, now tottering on your temples. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That were tyrannical. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 But sure. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 We are so. 
 fVhat danger can they work iroon the frontier 7 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Fhey are not there yet never should they be so, 
 Were I well listen'd to. 
 
 SAKDANAPALUS. 
 
 Nay , I have listen'd 
 Imps.tiallv to thee why not to them? 
 44 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
 I take my leave, to order forth the guard 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And you will join us at the banquet 7 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Sire, 
 
 Dispense with me I am no wassailer : 
 Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Nay, but 't .s fit to revel now and then. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And fit that some should watch for those who revel 
 Too oil. Am I permitted to depart ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Yes stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 
 
 My brother, my best subject, better prince 
 
 Than I am king. You should have been the monai so 
 
 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, sufferance 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 t\j 
 
 Cavil about their lives so let them mend them. 
 
 Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
 
 Which their death had not left me. 
 
 ALCMENES. 
 
 Thus you ran 
 
 The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors 
 A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
 Still let them be made quiet. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Tempt me not : 
 My word it past. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 But it may be recall'd. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'T is royal. 
 
 ALEMENE8. 
 
 And should therefore be decisive. 
 This half indulgence of an exile serves 
 But to provoke a pardon should be full, 
 Or it is none. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And who persuaded me 
 After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
 Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
 Urged me to send them to their satrapies 7 . 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
 If they e'er reach their satrapies why, then, 
 Reprove me more for my advice. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And if 
 
 They do not reach them look to it ! in safety. 
 In safety, mark me and security 
 Look to thine own. 
 
 SALEMENES, 
 
 Permit me to depart , 
 Their safety shall be cared for. 
 
 SAKDANAPALUS. 
 
 Get thee hence, then . 
 And, prithee think more gently of thy brother.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SALEMEXES. 
 
 Sire., I s ;a. tver dc!y sene mv sovereign. 
 
 I SALEMKSES. 
 ARDAXAPALrs. (SORT*). 
 "nut. av is of a temper too severe : 
 Hud but AS lofty as the rock, and free 
 iYoih *n the tuote of common earth wtife I 
 AJB softer dftjfy MH|M cffi stco wiui Bowers. 
 But as oar mould is, must the produce be. 
 If I have errM this time, 'tis on the side 
 Whete error sits most fight)? on that sense, 
 I Htow not what to call it ; bulk reckons 
 With on eft-times fcr pain, and sometimes pleasure ; 
 A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
 To court its throbs, not quieten them, and ask 
 Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
 Nor Bui, thoojh an oracular deity 
 A tmt his marble face majestica] 
 Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
 Hit brows to changed expression, tiB at tones 
 I tiunt the statue looks in act to speak. 
 Away with these vam thoughts, I wfll be joyous 
 AM! here comes Joy's true heraVL 
 JEWfcr MTKRKA. 
 
 King! the sky 
 Is overcast, and musters muttering tnunder, 
 In clouds Uut seem approaching fast, and show 
 In forked I 
 
 vTi3 you then quk the palace? 
 
 t A R D A S A P A L C S. 
 
 Tempest, say'st tbou? 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 Ay, mj good lord. 
 
 For my own part, I should be 
 Not ffl content to vary the smooth scene, 
 And watch the warring elements; but tins 
 Would Jttk suit the silken garments and 
 
 Sruooth face* of our les'.ive tnerxis. Say, "yrua, 
 Art thou of those who dread the roar of douds 7 
 MYRJLHA. 
 I 
 of Jove. 
 
 S A F. D A 5 A P A L V J . 
 
 Jove ay, your Baal 
 Oars abo has a property in thunder, 
 And ever and anon some fating hot 
 
 nm_ - i^;_ w* .-_. i -- 
 
 rro^es .,1* i~;..i..\. lulu \t" SGrhriimes 
 Strikes his own altars. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 That were a dread COM*. 
 
 SARDAXAPALCS. 
 
 Yes for the priests. Wei, we wiB not go forth 
 Beyond the palace wafts to-night, hot make 
 Our fust within. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 Now, Jove be praised! that be 
 Hath heard the prayer thou wonldst not hear. The god* 
 Are kinder to tbee than thou to thyself; 
 And flash this storm between tbee and thy foes, 
 Tu thiB.i tbee irom them. 
 
 SARDAXAPALC5. 
 
 Chi.d, if there be peril, 
 &1etmnu n the same within these walk 
 
 on the m er's brmn. 
 
 Not so ; these walls 
 
 Are high and strong, and guarded. Ti eason hai 
 To penetrate through many a winding way, 
 And massy portal ! but in the pavilion 
 There is no bulwark. 
 
 SARDAXAPALVS. 
 
 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. 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 They five, then? 
 
 SARDAJCAPALCS. 
 
 So sanguinary? TAOX .' 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 I would not shrink 
 
 From just infliction of due punishment 
 O* thosa who seek your life : wer 't otherwise 
 I should not merit mine. Besides, you beard 
 
 SARDAXAPALUS. 
 
 This is strange ; 
 
 UK gentle and the austere are both against roe, 
 And urge me to revenge. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 T is a Greek virtue. 
 
 SARDA.tAPALUS. 
 
 But not a kingly one I '11 none on 't ; or, 
 If ever I indulge in*t, it shall be 
 With lings my equals. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 These men sought to be M 
 
 SARDAXAPALl'S. 
 
 Myrrha, this b too feminine, and springs 
 From fear 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 For yon. 
 
 SARDAXAPALO8. 
 
 No matter still *t is fear. 
 I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
 Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
 Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
 I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
 The childish helplessness of Asian women. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 My lord, I am no boaster of my love, 
 Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendour, 
 And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
 To find one clave more true than subject myriads ; 
 But this the gods avert ! I am content 
 To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
 Bather than prove it to you in your griefs, 
 Which might not field to any cares of mine. 
 
 SARDAXAPALUS. 
 
 Griefs 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,
 
 SARDANA 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 TV Hall of lite Palace UUeamated. SARDAVAPALUS 
 and hu Guats at Table. A Harm, 
 
 SARDAXAPALCS. 
 
 Why this is as ft should be: here 
 b my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
 Happy as Cur! Here sorrow . 
 
 tier elsewhere where the long is, pleasure Tur^ft. 
 
 SARDAVAPA LWS. 
 
 b not this better now than Xknrod's huntings, 
 
 Or my wild grandara's chase in search of kiugduum 
 
 She could not keep when eooanerM? 
 
 ALTADA. 
 
 Migb-.v though 
 
 They were, as afl thy royal fine have been, 
 Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
 The acme of Sardanapjuus, who 
 Has placed bis joy in peace the sole true glory. 
 
 (ARDAVAPALtrt. 
 
 And pleasure, good Ahada, to which glory 
 b but the path. What is it that we seek 7 
 Enjoyment! We have cut the way short to k, 
 And not gone tracking it through 
 Makmg a grave with every footstep. 
 
 No; 
 
 AD hearts are happy, and aB voices hies* 
 The king of peace, who holds a world 
 
 SARJDAXAFAL0S. 
 
 Art sore of that? 1 hare beard otherwise ; 
 Some say that there be trakors. 
 
 Traitors they 
 
 Who dare to say so ! T is t 
 
 What cause? 
 
 S ARDAJt AFA LCS. 
 
 What cause? true, fl 
 We win not dunk of them: there are none such, 
 Or if there be, they are gone. 
 ALTADA. 
 
 Guests, to my pledge! 
 
 Down on jour knees, and drmk a measure to 
 The safety of the king die monarch, say I! 
 The god Sardanapaius ! 
 
 [ZA*EJaUfc G*e*t* Joed, ami eseUm- 
 
 Mightier than 
 His nner Baal, the god Sardanapalns ! 
 
 [It Ifandcn a* tJtey land; Sfe turf * at 
 
 Why do re rise, my friends? In that strong peal 
 
 H-S alb^r z r jtls ccr-s^ni^i. 
 
 Menaced, rather. 
 Smg, wBt tbon bear this mad impiety? 
 
 SAKDAXAPALC*. 
 
 ! nay, if the sire* who reien'd 
 Kefore me can be gods, II not disgrace 
 "i Vir Imea*e. But amc, my pkiM fceods, 
 Hoard yoor devotkm far the thundcter there : 
 I seek bat to be l*ved, Mt wmhmpU 
 
 ALTADA. 
 
 BotV- 
 Bodi ywi mnst evtr be by U tne sdbjeet*. 
 
 SAKOAXAPALC&. 
 
 Methmiattethimderscblkicrease: m 
 Anawfalnjght 
 
 MTKKBA. 
 
 Oh ye, far those who have 
 
 SAKDAJTAPALrS. 
 
 Thrt'true,myMyrrha; and couU I convert 
 My realm to 
 I'd do k. 
 
 Tboa'nnogod, then, nottobe 
 Able to work a wd so good and general, 
 As thy wish wodd npiy. 
 
 SAX D AH A P A L C . 
 
 Who can, and do not] 
 
 Were there no 
 
 Do not speak of that, 
 
 SAKPAAPA1.C. 
 
 True, they love oat censor 
 Friends, a tboogte has struck i 
 ld ihere, think ye, be 
 
 pray. 
 
 SAmOAVAPALCf. 
 
 Yes, when the * 
 
 AmA I womd adk if th yow pabce were 
 UnrooTd and desolate, how many faneren 
 WooUBek the dost in which the king tay low? 
 
 ALTAOA. 
 
 The ^** Ionian is ton sarcastic 
 
 Upon a nation whom she knows not wd ; 
 
 And homage is Ibev pride. 
 
 AJLDAXAFALCS. 
 
 Nay, | 
 The &k Greek's! 
 
 ALTADA. 
 
 We honoor her of aB dsBBgt Mat to thce. 
 
 Hark! what was that? 
 
 Of 
 
 It 
 The l^ 
 
 That? 
 portab shaken by the wmd. 
 
 ALTABA. 
 
 Be the dash of-hark agam! 
 
 pattering on the rooC 
 
 SARDAXAPALUk. 
 
 Myrrha, my lore, hast thou thy sheB m oroer! 
 Sng me a song of Sappho, her, tbou know**^ 
 Whoinihy< 
 
 E'J*r PASTA,
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 PANIA (to the guards). 
 
 Look to the portals ; 
 
 And with your best speed to the wall without. 
 Your arms ! To arms ! The king's in danger. Monarch ! 
 Excuse this haste, 't is faith. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Speak on. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 It 18 
 
 As Salemenes fear'd : the faithless satraps 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 You are wounded give some wine. Take breath, good 
 Pania. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 T is 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 7 ' 
 
 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. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 AH 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Too many. 
 
 SARLiANAPALUS. 
 
 Spare not of thy free speech 
 To spare mine ears the truth. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 My own slight guard 
 Were faithful and what's left of it is still so. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And are these all the force still faithful ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 No 
 
 The Bactnans, now led on by Salemenes, 
 Who even then was on his way, still urged 
 By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
 Are numerous, and make strong head against 
 The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
 An orb around the palace, where they mean 
 To centre all their force, and save the king. 
 (He hesitates) . I am charged to 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'T is no time for hesitation. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Pnnce Salamenes doth implore the king 
 1 o arm himself, although but for a moment, 
 And show himself unto the soldiers: his 
 Sole presence in this instant might do more 
 Than hosts can do in his behalf 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What, ho! 
 My armour there. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And wilt thou? 
 
 KARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Will I IKH7 
 
 Mo, thbie' But seek not for the buckler; 'tii 
 Too n/tivy : a light cuirass and mv sword. 
 WHete are the rebels? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Scarce a furlong's length 
 From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 
 Order my horse out There is space enough 
 Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
 To marshal half the horserrien of Arabia. 
 
 [Exit SFERO/OT t)> armut*. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 How I do love thee ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I ne'er doubled it. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 But now I know thce. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (to his attendant). 
 
 Bring down my spear, too. 
 Where's Salemenes? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Where a soldier should be, 
 In the thick of the fight. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Then hasten to him Is 
 
 The path still open, and communication 
 Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 'Twas 
 
 When I late left him, and I have no fear : 
 Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 PAKIA 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Altada Zames forth and arm ye ! There 
 Is all in readiness in the armory. 
 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, Zunes. 
 Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
 Your post is near our person. 
 [Exeunt ZAMES, ALTADA, and all save MYRRHA. 
 
 Enter SFERO and ethers, with the King's arms, ete. 
 SFERO. 
 
 King ! your armour. 
 BARDANAPALCS (arming- himself). 
 Give me the cuirass so : my baldric ; now 
 My sword : I had forgot the helm, where is it ? 
 That's well no, 'tis too heavy: you mistake, too 
 It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
 A diadem around it. 
 
 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, though less rich. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebf 1 ? Fll-m ' 
 Your part is to obey : return, and no- - 
 It is too late I will go forth without it.
 
 SARDAXAPALUb. 
 
 309 
 
 SFERO. 
 
 At least wear this. 
 
 SARl>ASAPALt7S. 
 
 Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 
 A mountain on my temples. 
 
 BFERO. 
 
 Sire, the meanest 
 
 Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to uattle. 
 All men will recognise you for the storm 
 Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her brightness. 
 
 8ARDASAPALOS. 
 
 I go forth to be recognised, and thus 
 
 Shall be so sooner. Now my spear ! I'm arm'd. 
 
 [In going stops short, and turns to SFERO. 
 gfero I had forgotten bring the mirror. 1 
 
 SFERO. 
 The mirror, sire ? 
 
 8ABDAlTAPAI.es. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And when I am gone 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 I follow. 
 
 SARDAlfAPALUS. 
 
 You ! to battle ? 
 
 MYRRRA. 
 
 If it were so, 
 
 T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
 [ will await here your return. 
 
 SARDAKAPALUS. 
 
 The place 
 
 U 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. 
 
 SARDAJfAPALUS. 
 
 How? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 In the spot where all must meet at last 
 In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
 A shore beyond the Styx ; and if there be not, 
 In ashes. 
 
 SARDASAPALCS. 
 
 Dar'st thou so much ? 
 
 KYRRHA 
 
 I dare all things, 
 
 Except survive what I have loved, to be 
 A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 
 
 Re-enter SFERO with the mirror. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (looking at himself]. 
 This cuirass fits me well, the baldric better, 
 And the helm not at all. Methinks, I seem 
 
 [Flings away the helmet, after trying it again. 
 Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
 \ltada! Where 's Altada ? 
 
 1 " S ich the mirror Otho held 
 In ibe Illjrriuj field "See Juvenai. 
 
 Waiting, sire, 
 Vlthout : he has your shield in readiness. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 True I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
 
 Jy right of blood, derived from age to age. 
 
 Myrrha, embrace me ; yet once more once more- 
 -iove me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
 
 Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Jo forth, and conquer ! 
 
 [Exit SARDAWAPALUB tma SFERC 
 
 Now, I am alone. 
 All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
 
 'erhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
 
 Vie perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
 
 Tor. I win not outlive him. He has wound 
 About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
 for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
 
 tacks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
 To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
 And yet I love htm 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 smalt itaL 
 This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
 
 Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught DM 
 
 How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
 
 Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
 
 [ 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 
 
 [n the degree of bondage, we 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! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 He is not here ; what wouldst thou with him ? Haw 
 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 bareheaded, and by far 
 Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
 And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
 His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
 Make him a mark too royaL Every arrow 
 Is pointed at the fair hair and fair featinta, 
 And the broad fillet which crowns botli. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 7e gods, 
 
 Who fulmine o'er my fathers' land, protect him! 
 Were you sent by the kig ? 
 
 ALTADA. 
 
 By Salemenes, 
 Who sent me privily upon this charge
 
 310 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
 The king! the king fight* as he revels ! ho ! 
 What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory 
 He must be there. [Exit ALTADA. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'T is no dishonour no 
 T is 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'a 
 She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff; surely 
 He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
 Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
 And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
 As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
 That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
 And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
 His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 
 
 Enter an OFFICER. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Lost, 
 
 Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
 l Zames? 
 
 MYRRRA. 
 
 Posted with the guard, appointed 
 To watch before the apartment of the women. 
 
 [Exit OFFICER. 
 MTRRHA (solus). 
 
 He 'a gone ; and told no more than that all's lost! 
 What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
 Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
 A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
 Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
 With life, all 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. 
 
 PAKIA. 
 
 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 fives r 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 And charged me to secure your life, 
 And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
 He can rejoin yru. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Will he then give way? 
 
 PANtA. 
 
 Not till the iasr. Still, still he does whate'er 
 Despair can do and step by step disputes 
 The ypry palact 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 They are here, then : ay, 
 Then shon'* oonie ringing through the ancient hall*, 
 
 Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
 This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
 Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
 Is now no more. 
 
 PANIA. 
 Away with me away . 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 No ; I '11 die here ! Away, and tell your king 
 I loved him to the last. 
 
 ' [Enter SARDANAPALUS onrf SALEMENES, wit* 
 
 Soldiers. PANIA quits MYRRHA, and ranget 
 himself with them. 
 
 IARDANAPAL17S. 
 
 Since it is thus, 
 
 We '11 die where we were born in our own halls. 
 Sorry your ranks stand firm. I have despatch'd 
 A trustry satrap for the guard of Zames, 
 All fresh and faithful ; they '11 be here anon. 
 All is not over. Pania, look to Myrrha. 
 
 [PANIA returns towards MYRRHA. 
 
 8ALEMENES. 
 
 We have breathing time: yet one more charge, my 
 
 friends 
 One for Assyria ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Rather say, for Bactria ! 
 My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
 King of your nation, and we 'II hold together 
 This realm as province. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Hark ' they come they coma 
 Enter BELESES and ARB ACES with the Rebtls. 
 
 ARBACES. 
 
 Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! Charge ! 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 On ! on ! Heaven fights for us and with us On ! 
 
 [They charge the If ing and SALEMENFS ui'tA 
 their Troops, who defend themselves till the 
 Arrival of ZAMES with the Guard brfnrt 
 mentioned. The Rebels are then driven qff", 
 and pursued by SALEMENES, etc. As the 
 King is going to join the pursuit, BLLE/E* 
 crosses him. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 Ho ! tyrant / will end this war. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Even so, 
 
 My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
 Grateful and trusty subject: yield, I pray thee. 
 I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
 Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
 
 BELESES. 
 Thine hour is come. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, thine. I 've lately read 
 Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
 And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
 In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
 That thou wilt now be crush'u. 
 
 BELESES. 
 
 But not by thee. 
 [They Jight : BELESES it wmtndtd ivul dt
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (raising hit sword to despatch him, 
 
 exclaims) 
 
 Now call upon thy planets ; will they shoot 
 From 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. 
 The villain was a prophet after all. 
 Dpon them ho ! there victory is ours. 
 
 [Exit in pursuit. 
 MYRRHA (to PAKIA). 
 
 Pursue ! Why stand's! thou here, and leav'st the ranKs 
 Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 The king's command was not to quit thee. 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Me! 
 
 Think not of me a single soldier's arm 
 Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
 I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
 Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, 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 MYRRHA. 
 
 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 him, 
 Who never flash'd a scimetar till now ? 
 Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
 In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit FANIA. 
 
 Enter ALTADA and SFERO, by an opposite door. 
 
 ALTADA 
 
 Myrrha ! 
 
 What, gone ! yet she was here when the fight raged, 
 And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them? 
 
 SFEKO. 
 
 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 
 Than his recover'd kingdom. 
 
 ALTADA. 
 
 Baal himself 
 
 Ne'er fought 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. 
 n. man 's inscrutable. 
 
 SFERO. 
 
 Not more than others. 
 
 All are the sons of circumstance: away 
 
 Let 's seek the slave out, or prepare 10 be 
 Tortured for his infatuation, and 
 Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter SALEMENES and Soldiers, etc. 
 
 SALEMF JES. 
 
 The triumph is 
 
 Flattering : they are beaten backward from the pa.aee 
 And wt, 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, etc. and MYRRHA 
 
 SAHDANAPALUS. 
 
 Here, brother. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Unhurt, I hope. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Not quite ; but let it pass. 
 We Ve clear'd the palace 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And, I trust, the city. 
 
 Our numbers gather ; and I have order'd onward 
 A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
 All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
 In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 It is already, or at 'east they march'd 
 
 Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
 
 Who spared no speed. I am spent ; give me a seat. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 There stands the throne, sire. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'T is no place to res: OB, 
 For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 
 
 [They place a teal. 
 
 A peasant's stool, I care not what: so now 
 I breathe more freely. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 This great hour has proved 
 The brightest and most glorious of your life. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And the most tiresome. Where 's my cup-bearer 7 
 Bring me some water. 
 
 SALEMENES (smiling). 
 
 'T is the first time he 
 Ever had such an order : even I, 
 Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
 Suggest a purpler beverage. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Blood doubtless. 
 But there 's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
 I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure clemeni 
 Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd, 
 With greater strength than the grape ever gavp m*. 
 My charge upon the rebels. Where 's the soldior 
 Who gave me water in his hemlet ? 
 
 ONE OF THE GUARDS. 
 
 Slain, sire* 
 
 An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
 The last drops from his helm, he stood in ac 
 To place it on his brows.
 
 312 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 
 '("he pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
 As 1 am now. [They bring water he drinki. 
 
 I live again from henceforth 
 The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
 But war on water. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And that bandage, sire, 
 Which girds your arm 7 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 A scratch from brave Seleses. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Oh ! he is wounded ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 Not too much of that ; 
 And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
 Now I am cooler. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 You have bound it with 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
 That ornament was ever aught to m 
 Save an encumbrance. 
 
 MYRRHA (to the attendant!). 
 Summon speedily 
 
 A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 
 [ will unbind your wound and tend it. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Do so, 
 
 For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
 Know'st thou of wounds ! yet wherefore do I ask ? 
 Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
 Th.s minion ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Herding with the other females, 
 
 Like Irighten'd antelopes. 
 
 8AKDANAPALU8. 
 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Indeed! 
 
 ARDANAPALU8. 
 
 You see, this night 
 
 M.'de 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 most transparent brow ; her nostril 
 Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
 Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 
 As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
 Jarra but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 
 Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born white- 
 ness 
 
 Than the steel ht nand held, which she caught up 
 t'-oni 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. 
 
 SALEMENES (aside). 
 
 This is too much ; 
 Again the love-fit 's on him, and all 's lost, 
 Unless we turn his thoughts. 
 
 (Aloud) But, pray thee, sip 
 Think of your wound you said even now 't was painnti. 
 
 SARDANAPAIUS. 
 
 That 's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS 
 
 Be it so. 
 
 SALEMENES (in retiring-). 
 Myrrha! 
 
 MYRRHA, 
 Prince. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You have shown a soul to-mn s 
 
 Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 
 
 I have no time : thou lov'st the king ? 
 M'YRRHA. 
 
 I love 
 Sardanapalua, 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 But wouldst have him king still 7 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 I would not have him less than what he should b. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Well, then, to have him king, and yours, ard all 
 He should, or should not be ; to have him /I'D*. 
 Let him not sink back into luxury. 
 You have more power upon his spirit than 
 Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
 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 woman's weakness can 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Is power 
 
 Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; 
 Exert it wisely. [Exit SALEMEHEI 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Myrrha ! what, at whispers 
 With my stem brother 7 I shall soon be jealous. 
 
 MYRRHA (smiling). 
 
 You have cause, sire ; for on the earth there breathes i* 
 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 ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ?Praise him, but not so warmly. 1 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Yes, love ! but not from pain. 
 
 (Exeunt twin.
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 SI. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ft RDAHAPALUS discovered sleeping upon a couch, and 
 occasionally disttirbtd'in his slumbert, with MYRRH A 
 watching. 
 
 HYRRHA (sola, gazing). 
 I have stolen upon his rest, if rest it be, 
 Which thus convulses slumber: 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 
 Are happiest of all within the realm 
 Of thy stern, silent, and unawakening 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 
 Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
 Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
 Fa ; ntly 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 
 I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
 Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
 His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and shake 
 Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
 Let Nature use her own maternal means, 
 And I await to second not disturb her. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (awakening). 
 Not so although ye multiplied the stars, 
 And 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 
 Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
 Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes, 
 Once bloody mortals and now bloodier idols, 
 If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
 Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
 The carcasses of Inde away ! away ! 
 Where am I ? Where the spectres ? Where No that 
 Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
 All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
 From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the drops 
 Gather like night-dew. My beloved, hush 
 Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
 And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer ; 
 All will go well. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Thy hand so 't is thy hand ; 
 T is flesh ; grasp clasp vet closer, till I feel 
 Myself that which I was. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 At least know me 
 For what I am, and ever must be thine. 
 
 SARDAXAPALCS. 
 
 I know it now. I know this life again. 
 
 ih, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 My lord ! 
 
 SARDAJTAPALUS. 
 
 I've been i' the grave where worm* are lords, 
 45 
 
 And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 
 
 I thought 't was nothing. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 So it is ; except 
 Unto the timid, who anticipate 
 That which may never be. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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, 
 
 AH unincoi porate : 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. 
 
 SARDARAPALCS. 
 
 I fear it not ; but I have felt have seen 
 A legion of the dead. 
 
 MYRRH/ 
 
 And so have I. 
 
 The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
 And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
 Speak it, 't will lighten thy dimm'd mind. 
 
 EARDAHAPAMJS. 
 
 Methought 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Yet pause, thou art tired in pain exhausted ; all 
 Which can impair both strength and spirit: seek 
 Rather to sleep again. 
 
 SARDANAPALt'S. 
 
 Not now I would not 
 
 Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
 What 1 have dreamt : und 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. 
 
 SARDAXAPALUS. 
 
 And this look'd real, 
 
 I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
 I saw them in their flight for then they fled. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 Say on. 
 
 SARDARAPALUS. 
 
 I saw, that is, I drcam'd myself 
 Here here even where we are, guests as we were, 
 Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
 Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
 But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
 Of thce and Zames, and our accustom'd meeting, 
 Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
 And deadly face I could not recognise 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' 
 On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
 With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
 That peep'd up bristling through his sn>ent hair. 
 I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
 Between us, but he answer'd not I fill'd iv 
 He took it not but stared upon me, till 
 I trembled at the fix'd glare o r HJJ ey ;
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 [ frown'd .ipon him as a king should Frown 
 Ho frown'd not ir his turn, but look'd upon me 
 With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
 Be< > .ause it changed not, and 1 turn'd for refuge 
 To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 
 Where tnou wert wont to be. But 
 
 [He pauses. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 What instead .' 
 
 SARDANAPALCS. 
 
 In thy own chair thy own place in the banquet 
 ( 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, 
 hate ; my veins curdled. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Is this all 7 
 
 SARD A MA HAL US. 
 
 Upon 
 
 Her n^'ht 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 7 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 1 saw theirs ; but no all turn'd upon me, 
 And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared, 
 rill I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
 Vet 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 U, come to me, 
 And I the half of life to sit by them. 
 We were in an existence all apart 
 
 From heaven or earth And rather let me see 
 
 Death all than such j. being ! 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 And the end? 
 
 SARDANAPAHJ8. 
 
 At last I sate marble as they, when rose 
 The hunter and the crew ; 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 
 Merc 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, 
 Ann grasp'd it but it melted from my own, 
 While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
 Thn memory of a hero, for he look'd BO. 
 
 MYRRHA 
 
 And was ; the ancestors of heroes, too, 
 And thine no less. 
 
 SARTJASAPAI.US. 
 
 Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 
 The female who remain'd, she Hew upon me, 
 And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
 And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
 Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
 Each form'd a hideous river. Still she 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. 
 Thep then a chaos of all loathsome things 
 Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feelings- 
 Buried, and raised again consumed by worms, 
 Purged by the flan?es, and wither'd in the a..': 
 I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
 Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thea, 
 In all these agonies, and woke and found thec. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 So shall thou find me ever at thy side, 
 
 Here and hereafter, if the last may bo. 
 
 But think not of these things the m?ro ereatio 
 
 Of late events acting upon a fram<5 
 
 Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toi', 
 
 Such as might try the sternest. 
 
 SARDANAPAI.US. 
 
 Now that I see thee once more, what wv su 
 Seems nothing. 
 
 Enter SALEMENES. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Is the king so soon awake 7 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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, loo ; but he, 
 I know not why, kepi from me, leaving me 
 Belween the hunter founder of our race 
 And her, Ihc homicide and husband-killer, 
 Whom you call glorious. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 So I term you also, 
 
 Now yon have shown a spirit like to hers. 
 By day-break I propose that we set forth, 
 And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
 Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 
 
 SARD A NAP ALL'S. 
 
 How wears the night 7 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 There yet remain some hours 
 Of darkness : use them for your further rest. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, not to-night, if 't is not gone : mothought 
 I pass'd hours in that vision. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Scarcely one ; 
 
 I watch' d by you : it was a heavy hour, 
 But an hour only. 
 
 SARDAWAPAI.US. 
 
 Let us then hold eoui>tiJ 
 To-morrow we set forth.
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 315 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 But ere that time, 
 ? had a grace to seek. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'Tis granted. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Hear it, 
 
 Ere you reply too readily ; and 't is 
 For your ear only. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Prince, I take my leave. 
 
 [Exit MYRRHA. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 That slave deserves her freedom. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Freedom only ! 
 That slave deserves to share a throne. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Your patience 
 
 'T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
 I come to speak with you. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 How! of the queen? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety, 
 That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
 For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
 Governs ; and there at all events secure 
 My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
 Their just pretensions to the crown, in case 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I perish as is probable : well thought 
 Let them set forth with a sure escort. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 That 
 
 Is all provided, and the galley ready 
 To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
 Depart, will you not see 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 My sons ? It may 
 
 Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
 And what can I reply to comfort them, 
 Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles 7 
 You know I cannot feign. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 But you can feel ; 
 
 At least, I hust so: in a word, the queen 
 Requests to see you ere you part for ever. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
 Aught all that she can ask but such a meeting. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
 Since you have studied them so steadily, 
 That what they ask in aught that touches on 
 The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
 Their fancy than the whole external world. 
 [ think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
 But 't was her wish she is my sister you 
 Her husband will you grant it 1 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'Twill be useless: 
 But let her come. 
 
 SALfcMENES. 
 
 . go. [Exit SALEMFKCS. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 We have lived asunder 
 Too long to meet again and now to meet ! 
 Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
 To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
 Who have ceased to mingle love ? 
 
 Re-enter SALEMENES and ZARINA. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Since you ask it. 
 [Exit SALEMENES. 
 
 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 wa soft of voice and aspect, 
 Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Zarina ' 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 No, not Zarina do not say Zarina, 
 
 That lone that word annihilate long years, 
 
 And things which make them longer. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'Tis too late 
 To think of these past dreams. Let 's not reproach- 
 
 That is, reproach me not for the last time 
 
 ZARINA. 
 And Jirst. I ne'er reproach'd you. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'T is 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 both. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Your brother said; 
 It was your will to see me, ere you went 
 
 From Nineveh with (He hesitates), 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Our children : it n tru, 
 I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
 My heart from all that 's left it now to love 
 Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
 And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
 ce^ But they have not changed. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Nor ever witt. 
 I fain would have them dutiful. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 I cherish 
 
 Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
 Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
 They are now the only tie between us. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Deem o<*> 
 I have not done you justice : rather maxe thnro
 
 316 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Resemble /o-ir owi. line, than their own sire. 
 1 trust them with yen to you : fit them for 
 
 A throne, or, if thut 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. 
 
 SJRDANAPALUS. 
 
 The throne I say it not in fear but 't is 
 In peril ; they perhaps may never mount it r 
 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. 
 
 S.VRDAt!APALUS. 
 
 Rather let them hear 
 
 The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
 If they be in adversity, they '11 learn 
 Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
 And find that 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 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'T -s lost, al) earth will cry out, thank your father ! 
 A; id they will swell the echo with a curse. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 That they shall never do ; but rather 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
 But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
 Shall be like their beginning memorable. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 tfei, be not rash be careful of your Ufe, 
 I-ive but for those who love. 
 
 RARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And who are they? 
 
 A sla\e, who loves from passion I '11 not say 
 Ambition she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
 A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
 An one, for they are nothing if I fall , 
 A brother 1 have injured children whom 
 I 'lave neglected, and a spouse 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Who loves. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And pardons . 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 I have never thought of this, 
 Ana cannot pardon ti'.l I have condemnM. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Mv wite 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Now blessings on thee for that word ' 
 [ never thought to hear it more from thee. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes 
 The slaves, whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, fed, 
 And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
 They reign themselves all monarchs in their mju 
 
 sions 
 
 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. . 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And good ones make 
 Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
 Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Then reap 
 
 The honey, nor inquire whence 't is derived. 
 Be satisfied you are not all abandon'd. 
 
 RDANAPALUS. 
 
 My life insures me tnat. How long, bethink you, 
 
 Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ? 
 
 That is, where mortals are, not where they must be 7 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 I know not. But yet live for my that is, 
 Your children's sake ! 
 
 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 
 Ere valued more thy virtues, though he knew rot 
 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 lengLi 
 Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
 I ask no more but let us hence together, 
 And / let me say we shall yet be happy. 
 Assyria is not all the earth we '11 find 
 A world out of our own and be more ble~t 
 Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
 An empire to indulge thee.
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 311 
 
 Enter S.\ UKMENES. 
 
 (ALEMENES. 
 
 I must part ye 
 The moments, wmch must not be lost, are passing. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 
 Instants so high and blest ? 
 
 IALEMENE8. 
 
 Blest! 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 He ha'b Ven 
 
 So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
 Of quitting. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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? 
 
 SALEMEMf. 
 
 Remain, and perish 
 
 ZAMINA. 
 
 With my husband 
 
 IALEMENES. 
 
 Vnd children. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 2ALEMENES. 
 
 Hear me, sister, like 
 
 Wy sister : all 's prepared to make your safety 
 Certain, ard of the boys too, our last hopes. 
 T is not a single question of mere feeling, 
 .Though that were much but 't is 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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 line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
 Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 But could not I remain, alone ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 What! leave 
 
 Four children, with two parents and yet orphans 
 In a strange land so young, so distant 7 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 No 
 My heart will break. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Now you know all decide. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 7arma, 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 
 r o both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
 A.S yet beat in these kingdoms. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 The time presses. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 (Uo, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps ' 
 
 I may be worthier of you and, if not, 
 Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
 Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
 Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 
 
 Which once were mightiest in Assyria than 
 
 But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
 I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
 Been of the softer order hide thy tears 
 I do not bid thee not to shed them 't were 
 Easier to stop Euphrates at hs source 
 Than one tear of a true and tender heart 
 But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
 Here when I had remann'd myself. My brolhe-. 
 Lead her away. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Oh, God ! I never shall 
 Behold him more ! 
 
 SALEMENES (striving to conduct her). 
 Nay, sister, I must be obey'd. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 I must remain away ! you shall not hold me. 
 What, shall he die alone? / live alone? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
 Have lived for years. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 That 's false ! I knew he iived. 
 And lived upon his image let me go ! 
 
 SALEMENES (conducting her off" the stage). 
 Nay, then, I must use some fraternal force, 
 Which you will pardon. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 Never. Help me ! Oh ' 
 Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
 Torn from thee ? 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Nay then all is lost again, 
 If that this moment is not gain'd. 
 
 ZARINA. 
 
 My brain turns 
 
 My eyes fail where is he? [She faints 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (advancing). 
 
 No set her down 
 She 's dead and you have slain her. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 'T is the mere 
 Faintness of o'er-wrought passion : in the air 
 She will recover. Pray, keep back. [Aside.] I mu* 
 Avail myself of this sole moment to 
 Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
 I' the royal galley on the nver. 
 
 [SALEMENES bears her of. 
 
 BARDANAPALUS (solus). 
 
 This too 
 And this too must I suffer I, who never 
 Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
 A voluntary pang ! But that is false 
 She loved me, and I loved her. Fatal passion ' 
 Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
 Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
 t must pay dearly for the desolation 
 Sow brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
 But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
 Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulf* 
 A single deviation from the track 
 Of human duties, leaas even those who claim
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 The han.ige of nunkind ,-.s their bom due, 
 And fiftJ it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 
 Enter MYRRH A. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Fbuhere! Who call'd you? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 No one but I heard 
 Far off* a voice of wail and lamentation, 
 And thought 
 
 SAR1)ANAPALUS. 
 
 It forms no portion of your duties 
 To enter here till sought for. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Though I might, 
 
 Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
 (Although they too were chiding), 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALU8. 
 
 Yet, stay being here. 
 
 I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
 TiB I wax peevish heed it not : I shall 
 Soon be myself again. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 I wait with patience, 
 What I shall see with pleasure. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Scarce a moment 
 
 Befoie your entrance in this ha!,, Zarina, 
 Queen cf Assyria, departed hence. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Ah' 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Wherefore do you start ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Did I do so 7 
 
 fcARDANAPALUS. 
 
 T was well you entsr'd by another portal, 
 
 Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her! 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 I know to feel for her. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 That is too much, 
 
 And beyond uature 't is nor mutual, 
 Nor possible. You canno: pity her, 
 
 Nor sl-e aught but 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Despise the favourite slave 7 
 N' * more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Scom'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 
 And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Were you the lord of twice ten thousand worlds 
 As you are like to lose the one you sway'd 
 I did abase myfslf as much in being 
 Your paramour, as though you were a peasant- 
 Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 
 
 A3DAHAPALUS, 
 
 You talk. U well 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And truly. 
 
 SARDAMAPAI-nS. 
 
 Ir. the hour 
 Of man's adversity, all things grow daring 
 Against the falling ; but as I am nut 
 Quite fallen, nor now disposed to bear reproechcn 
 Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
 Let us then part while peace is still between u 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 Part! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Have not all past human beings parted, 
 And must not all the present one day part ? 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Why? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 For your safety, which I will have look'a M, 
 With a strong escort to your native land ; 
 And such gifts as, if you have not been all 
 A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 
 
 MVHRHA. 
 
 [ pray you talk not thus. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 The queen is gone 
 You need not shame to follow. I would faL 
 Alone I seek no partners but in pleasure. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And I no pleasure but in parting not 
 You shall not force me trom you. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Think well of it 
 [t toon may be too late. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 So let it be ; 
 For then you cannot separate me from you. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And will not ; but I thought you wish'd iu 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 I? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 You spoke of your abasement. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 And I feel it 
 Deeply more deeply than all things but love. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Then fly from it. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 'T will not recall the past 
 'T will 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 different, I '11 not weep, but share it. 
 You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Your courage never nor your love till now ; 
 And none could make me doubt it, save yourself. 
 Those words 
 
 MVRRRA. 
 
 Were words. I pray you, let th proofi 
 Be in the past acts you were pleased to pra:sf 
 This very night, and in my further bearing, 
 Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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, 
 
 And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
 
 I took the rabble's shouts for love the breath 
 
 9f 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 my realm and life ! 
 They shall have both, but never thee ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 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 ! 'T is here now prove it. 
 
 Enter SALEMENES. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 J sought you. How ! the here again 7 
 
 SARDAMAPALUS. 
 
 Return not 
 
 Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
 Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 The only woman whom it much imports me 
 At such a moment now is safe in absence 
 The queen 's embark'd. 
 
 SARUANAPALUS. 
 
 And well ? say that much. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Would I felt no more 
 Than she has said. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 'Tis now 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, marshall'd 
 By their two leaders, are already up 
 In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
 Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
 Been join'd by other satraps. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What! more rebels 7 
 Let us be first, then. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 That were hardlv oruden 
 Now, though it was our first intention, i 
 By noon to-morrow we are join'd By those 
 I 've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
 In strength enough to venture an attack, 
 Ay, and pursuit too : but, till then, my voice 
 Is to await the onset. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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, slill I like it not 
 My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on then. 
 Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 
 A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! 
 Let me then charge ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You talk like a young soldier 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 You must spare 
 
 To expose your life too hastily ; 't is not 
 Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
 The whole war turns upon it with it ; this 
 Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it- 
 Prolong it end it. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Then let us end both! 
 
 'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong eithei , 
 I 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 
 
 [A. trumpet founds without. 
 
 SALEMENEI. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 SARDANAPALUb 
 
 Let us 
 Reply, not listen. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And your wound ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 'T is bound 
 
 'T is heal'd I had forgotten it. Away ! 
 A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper 
 The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
 To have struck so weakly. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Now may none this hour 
 Strike with a better aim ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Ay, if we conquer; 
 But if not, they will only leave to me 
 A task they might have spared their king. Upf n '.hen; 
 [Trumpet sounds ogam 
 
 SALEMF.NFR. 
 
 I am with you. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Ho, my arms ! again, mv arms
 
 320 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Fhe tame Hall of the Palace. 
 MYRRHA and BALEA. 
 MFRRHA (at a window). 
 The da y at last has broken. What a night 
 Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
 Though varied with a transitory storm, 
 More beautiful in that variety ! 
 How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
 And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
 By human passions to a human chaos, 
 Not yet resolved to separate elements. 
 'T is warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 
 So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
 Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
 With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
 And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
 In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
 So like, we almost deem it permanent ; 
 So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
 Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
 Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
 It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
 And blends itself info the soul, until 
 Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
 Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not 
 Know not the realms where those twin genii 
 (Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 
 So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
 For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
 The air with clamour) build the palaces 
 Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
 ){< icfly ; but in that brief cool calm inhale 
 Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
 The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
 And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
 Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
 Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
 Of paih or pleasure, two names for one feeling. 
 Which our internal, restless agony 
 Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
 Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 
 BALEA. 
 
 i'ou 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 look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
 Without the reverence and the rapture due 
 To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
 As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
 The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
 1 trrow almost a convert to your Baal. 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 48 now ne reigns .11 heaven, so once on earth 
 Ho sway'd. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 He sways it now far more, then ; never 
 lad crth!y monarch half the peace and glory 
 'Vhicn centres in a single ray of his. 
 
 BAI.EA. 
 
 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, 't was mere fany j 
 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 
 Beat back by valour ; now at once we have 
 Courage and vigilance to guard us. 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 May the* 
 Prosper ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 That is the prayer of many, and 
 The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
 I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
 How vainly ! 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 It is said the king's demeanour 
 In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
 The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 'T is easy to astonish or appal 
 The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slavoi 
 But tie did bravely. 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 Slew he not Beleses ? 
 I 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 
 In fight, as he had spared him in his peril, 
 And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 You are right ; some steps approach, Lit sU ly 
 Enter soldiers, bearing in SALEME.VES wounded, -* 
 a broken Javelin in his Side : tf.ty feat him winm* 
 of the Couches which furnish the Apwtment. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Oh, Jove ! 
 
 BALEA. 
 
 Ther all is over.
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 321 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 That is false. 
 Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Spare him he 's none : a mere court butterfly, 
 That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Let him live on, then. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 So wilt thou, I trust. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
 But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, 
 You fell and fainted ; 't was his strict command 
 To bear you to this hall. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 'T was not ill done : 
 
 For, seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
 The sight might shake our soldiers but 'tis vain. 
 I fed 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 ore nerved to look on such things. 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Best extract 
 The javelin. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 Hold ! in, no, it cannot be. 
 
 SALEMENEI. 
 
 I am sped, then ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 With the blood that fast must follow 
 The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And I not death. Where was the king when you 
 Convey'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 faltcr'd back. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Whom heard ye 
 Named next to the command? 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 I did not hear. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Fly, then, and tell him, 't was 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 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 
 \ woman, the best chamber company. 
 As you would not permit me to expire 
 Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
 About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 
 [Exeunt the Solttieri. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 ."Jallont and gloi ious epiril ! must the eartu 
 2 F 46 
 
 So soon resign thee ? 
 
 8ALEMKNES. 
 
 Gentle Myrrha, 't is 
 
 The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
 The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
 As 't is, I have not outlived them. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 You wax paler. 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 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 Soldier*. 
 
 IARDANAPALUS. 
 
 My best brother ! 
 
 SALEMENES. 
 
 And the battle 
 Is lost? 
 
 8ARDANAPALUS (despondingly). 
 You *ee me here. 
 
 IALEMENES. 
 
 I 'd rather see you thus ! 
 [He draws out the weapon from the wound, and diet 
 
 SARDANAPATUS. 
 
 And thus I will be soon, unless the" succour, 
 The last frail reed of our bcleagucr'd hopes, 
 Arrive with Ofratanes. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Did you not 
 
 Receive a token from your dying brother, 
 Appointing Zames chief? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I did. 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Where 's Zames 1 
 
 IARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Dead. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And Altada? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Dying. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Pania? Sfero? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled, or captive. 
 I am alone. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 And is all lost? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Our walls, 
 
 Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out agam{ 
 Their present force, or aught save treachery 
 But i' the field 
 
 MYRRRA. 
 
 I thought 't was the intent 
 Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
 Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succotn 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I overruled him. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Well, the fault 's a bra co nnn. 
 
 BAR DANA ['ALL'S. 
 
 But fatal. On, my brother ! I wouid give
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 These realms, of wliich thou wort the ornament, 
 1 he sword and shield, the sole redeeming honour, 
 
 To call back But I will not weep for thee ; 
 
 Thou shall be mourn'd for as thou vvouldst be mourn'd. 
 
 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 : thou 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? 
 
 SARDAWAPALUS. 
 
 To my proper chamber. 
 Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
 The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
 Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 
 
 [Exeunt Soldiers with the body of SALEMENES. 
 EMer PANIA. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Well, Pania ! you have placed the guards, and issued 
 The orders fix'd on ? 
 
 PANIA.. 
 Sire, I have obey'd. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Sire'/ 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and has 
 
 A question as an answer to hit question, 
 
 It is a portent. What, they are dishearten'd? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 The death of Saiemenes, and the shouts 
 Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
 Have made them 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Rage not droop it should have been. 
 We 'U find the means to rouse them. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Such a loss 
 Might sadden even a victory. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 will break their way through hosts, 
 To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was 
 A palace not a prison nor a fortress. 
 Enter an. officer hastily, 
 
 SAHDANAPALUS. 
 
 Thv face seems ominous. Speak ! 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 I dare not. 
 
 HARDANAPALU!. 
 
 Dare not 7 
 
 Wn-! millions darn revolt with sword in hand! 
 
 That 's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
 Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can heat 
 Worse than thou hast to tell. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Proceed, thou heartsl. 
 OFFICER. 
 
 The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
 Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
 Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
 From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
 By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
 O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the bulwark 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 That 's a black augury ! It has been said 
 For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
 To man, until the river grew its foe." 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
 How much is swept down of the wall ? 
 OFFICER. 
 
 About 
 Some twenty stadii. 
 
 SAllDANAPALUS. 
 
 And all this is left 
 Pervious to the assailants ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Fqr the present 
 
 The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
 But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
 And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
 The palace is their own. 
 
 SARDANAPALUB. 
 
 That shall be never. 
 
 Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
 Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
 My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
 For wolves to hoard 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 Qffict 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Thus the very waves rise up 
 Against you. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 They are not my subjects, girl, 
 And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punisl'd. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I am past the fear of portents : they can tell m 
 Nothing I have not told myself since midnight . 
 Despair anticipates such things. 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Despair . 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, not despair precisely. When we know 
 All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
 Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 323 
 
 Word than this is to g.ve it utterance. 
 
 But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 
 
 With them and all things. 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Save one deed the last 
 And gieatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
 Of all that was or is or is to be 
 The only thing common to all mankind, 
 So different 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. 
 
 SAHDANAPALUS. 
 
 Our clew being well nigh wound out, let 's be cheerful. 
 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 PAMA. 
 
 As was reported : I have ordtr'd there 
 A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
 Where it was strongest the required addition 
 To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 i'ou have done your duty faithfully, and as 
 My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
 Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 
 
 [ Give* a key. 
 
 It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
 Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
 **ress'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore- 
 Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
 Uong its golden frame as bearing for 
 \. time what late was Salemenes). Search 
 The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
 T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
 And your companions : there's enough to load ye, 
 Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
 And all the inmates of the palace, of 
 Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
 Thence launch the regal barks, once fortn'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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 No, Pania ! that must not be ; get tbee hence, 
 And leave me to my fate. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 T is the first time 
 I ever disobey'd : but now - 
 
 SARPANAPALUS. 
 
 So all men 
 
 Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
 Apes Treason from without. Question no further ; 
 'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
 Oppose it 1 thou ! 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 But vet not yel. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Well, then. 
 Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
 The signal. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 With a heavy but true heart, 
 [ promise. 
 
 SARDAN A PALUS. 
 
 'T is enough. Now order here 
 Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
 Things as catch fire and blaze with one scle 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 yon throne. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 My lord ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I have said K< 
 And you have room. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 And could keep my faith 
 Without a vow. [Exit PANI t 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 What mean you ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Let him speak. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 The King Arbaces 
 
 ARDANAPALUS. 
 
 What, crown'd already? But, proceed. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 Beleses, 
 The anointed high priest 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Of what god, or demon* 
 With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
 You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
 Reply to mine. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 And Satrap Ofratanes 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Why, he is our*. 
 
 HERALD (shou-ing a ring). 
 Be sure that he is now 
 In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
 His signet ring. 
 
 EARDANAPALUS 
 
 T is 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, 
 
 HERALP. 
 
 They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
 Of choice to single out a residence
 
 324 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 In any of the further provinces, 
 Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
 Where thou shall pass thy days in peace ; but on 
 Condition that the three young princes are 
 Given up as hostages. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS (ifonically). 
 
 Tiie generous victors ! 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 I wait the answer. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Answer, slave ! How long 
 Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 Since they we-e free. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Mouth-piece of mutiny ! 
 Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
 Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
 Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
 The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
 Away with him ! 
 
 [PAM A and the Guard* seizing him. 
 
 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. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And what 's mine ? 
 
 That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
 To lay it down 7 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 I but obey'd my orders, 
 At the same peril, if refused, as now 
 Incurr'd by my obedience. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 So, there are 
 
 New motiarchs 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 
 Sucli 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 7 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 He 's nght. Let him go free. My life's last act 
 Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 
 
 [Gives him a golilen cup from a table near. 
 his golden goblet ; let it hold your wine, 
 And think of me ; or melt it into ingots, 
 And 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 ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Yes, I ask 
 An hour's truce to consider. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 But an hour's ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 An hour's : if at the expiration of 
 That time your masters hear no further from me, 
 They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
 And act befittingly. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 I shall not fail 
 To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And, hark ! a word more. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 I shall not forget it, 
 Whate'er it be. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Commend me to Beleses ; 
 And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
 Him hence to meet me. 
 
 HERALD. 
 Where? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 At Babylon. 
 At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 
 
 HERALD. 
 
 I shall obey you to the letter. [Exit Herali 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Pania ! 
 Now, my good Pania ! quick ! with what I order'd. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 My lord, the soldiers are already charged. 
 And, see ! they enter. 
 
 [Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about At 
 Throne, etc. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Higher, my good soldiers, 
 And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
 Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
 Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
 With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
 Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
 Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
 To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
 'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
 Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
 How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
 For a king's obsequies ? 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Ay, for a kingdom's. 
 I understand you now. 
 
 AHDANAPALUS. 
 
 And blame me 7 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 No 
 Let me but fire the pile and share it with you. 
 
 HYRRHt. 
 
 That duty 's mine. 
 
 PANIA. 
 A woman's ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'T is the soHie ' 
 Part to die for his sovereign, and why n 
 The woman's with her Icner?
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 325 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 'T is most strange ! 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 But not so rare, my Pania, as them think'st it. 
 In the meantime, live thou Farewell ! the pile 
 Is ready. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 I should shame to leave my sovereign 
 With but a single female to partake 
 His death. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Too many far have heralded 
 Me to the dust already. Get thee hence 
 Enrich thee. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 And live wretched ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Think upon 
 Thy vow ; 't is sacred and irrevocable. 
 
 PANIA. 
 
 Since it is so, farewell. 
 
 CARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Search well my chamber, 
 Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
 Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
 Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
 All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
 Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
 The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
 Too loud at present to permit the echo 
 To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, 
 And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
 Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
 The 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 hano. ! 
 
 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 the hem of Ms robe, 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 moments, 
 And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
 Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
 JVbuj to be pitied, or far more for what 
 Is past than present ; for the future, 't is 
 In the hands of the deities, if such 
 There be : I shall know soon. Farewell farewell. 
 [Exeunt PANIA and the Soldiers 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 These men were honest : it is comfort still 
 That our last looks shall be on loving faces. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 \nd lovely ones, my beautiful! but hear me! 
 (f at this moment, for we now are on 
 The brink, thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
 This leap through flame into the future, say it: 
 1 shall not love thee less : nay, perhaps more, 
 2 p 2 
 
 'or yielding to thy nature : and there 's time 
 f et for thee to escape hence. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Shall I light 
 
 )ne of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
 The ever-burning lamp that bums without, 
 Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 )o so. Is that thy answer ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Thou shall see. 
 
 [Exit M VRP Hi 
 SARDANAPALUS (solu.t). 
 
 She 's firm. My fathers ! whom I will rejoin, 
 "t may be, purified by death from some 
 Jf the gross stains of too material being, 
 '. would not leave your ancient first abode 
 To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
 f I have not kept your inheritance 
 As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
 Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
 Jf arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
 [n which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
 To you in that absorbing element, 
 Which most personifies the soul, as leaving 
 The least of matter unconsumed before 
 its fiery working : and the light of this 
 VIost royal of funereal pyres shall be 
 tfot 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 empires, into nothing ; but even then 
 Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
 A problem few dare imitate, and none 
 Despise but, it may be, avoid the life 
 Which led to such a consummation. 
 MYRRHA returns with a lighted Torch in one 
 and a Cup in the other. 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Lo! 
 I 've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And the cup ? 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'T is my country's custom to 
 Make a libation to the gods. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 taket the cup, and after drinn 
 ing and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drtf 
 falls, exclaims 
 
 And this libation 
 Is for the excellent Beleses. 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 Why 
 
 Dwells thy mind rather upon 'hat man's nam 
 Than on his mate's in villany?
 
 326 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 The one 
 
 Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
 Of numan sword in a fiend'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 7 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 And dost thou think 
 
 A Greek girl dare not do for love that which 
 An Indian widow braves for custom? 
 
 SARDASAPALUS. 
 
 ThB 
 
 We but await the signal. 
 
 IITRRHA. 
 
 It is long 
 In sounding. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Now, farewell ; one last embrace ! 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 1 rue, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 
 
 MYRR7IA. 
 
 And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
 
 Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, 
 
 Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Say it. 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 It is that no kind hand will gather 
 The dust of both into one urn. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 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 king*, 
 Or kme, 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 ! 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 Then farewell, thou earth ! 
 And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
 Be thoii still free and beautiful, and far 
 Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
 Was for thee, my la?t thoughts, save one, were of thee ! 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And that? 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Is yours. 
 
 [The trumpet of PANIA sounds without. 
 
 8ARDAN APALDS. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 MYRRIIA. 
 
 Now! 
 
 tARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Adieu, Assyria 1 
 
 I lovea tnec well, my own, my father's land, 
 And Ixjttrr 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. [He mounts the ptlt 
 
 Now, Myrrha! 
 
 MTRRHA. 
 
 Art thou ready 1 
 
 SARDASAPALUS. 
 
 Ac the torch m thy grasp. 
 
 [MTRRHA Jires the pil 
 
 MYRRHA. 
 
 'T is fired ! I come. 
 
 [A* MTRRRA spring-* forward to throw herself 
 into the flames, the Curtain falls. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 291, line 19. 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. 
 " The Ionian name had been still more comprehen 
 sive, having included the Achaians and the Boeotians, 
 who, together with those to whom it was afterward* 
 confined, would make nearly the whole of the Greek 
 nation, and among the orientals it was always the gen- 
 eral name for the Greeks." Mitford's Gretae, vol. L 
 p. 199. 
 
 Note 2. Page 294, line 1. 
 
 -" Sardanapatus, 
 
 The king, and ion of Anacyndaraxes, 
 
 In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
 
 Eat, drink and lore ; the rest's not worth a 611ip.' 
 
 " For this expedition, he took not only a small ctiosen 
 body of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the 
 first day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to 
 have been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. 
 The fortifications, in their magnitude and extent, still 
 in Arrian's time, bore the character of greatness, which 
 the Assyrians appear singularly to have affected in work* 
 of the kind. A monument, representing Sardanapalus, 
 was found there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian 
 characters, of course in the old Assyrian language, which 
 the Greeks, whether well or ill, interpreted thus : " Sar- 
 danapalus, son of Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded 
 Anchialus and Tarsus. 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 turbulence, rather than to recom 
 mend immoderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be 
 questioned. What, indeed, could be the object of & 
 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 loi'ty mountains 
 and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once ic 
 circumstances to abandon themselves to the intemperate 
 joys which their prince has been supposed to have recom- 
 mended, is not obvious ; but it may deserve observation 
 that, in that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, 
 ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander, yel 
 barely named in history, at this day astonish the adven- 
 turous traveller by their magnificence and elegance. 
 Amid the desolation which, under a singularly barbarian 
 government, has, for so many centuries, been daily 
 spreading in the finest countries of thr globe, who' MI
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 327 
 
 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 just er 
 news than have been commonly ascribed to him ; but 
 lhat 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 
 partisans. 
 
 "The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sarda 
 napalus is striking in Diodorus's account of him." 
 Mitforfs Greece, vol. iz. pp. 311, 312, and 313. 
 
 A HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 
 
 The father softens, but the governor ' resolved. 
 
 CRITIC. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 FRANCIS FOSCARI, Doge of Venice. 
 JACOPO FOSCARI, Son of the Dogt. 
 JAMES LOREDANO, a Patrician. 
 MARCO MEMMO, a Chief of the Forty. 
 BARBARIGO, a Senator. 
 
 Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Gverdt, Attend- 
 ant, etc., etc, 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 MARINA, Wife of young FOSCARI. 
 
 Scene The Ducal Palace, Venice. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
 Enter LOREDANO and BARBARIGO, meeting. 
 
 LOREDAKO. 
 
 WHERE is the prisoner? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Reposing from 
 The Question. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 The hour's past fix'd yesterday 
 For the resumption of his trial. Let us 
 Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
 Urge his recall. 
 
 EARBARIGO. 
 
 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Well! 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 I yield net to you in love of jstice, 
 Or hale of the ambitious Foscari, 
 Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
 
 But the poor wretch has suffered beyond nature's 
 Most stoical endurance. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Without owning 
 His crime. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Perhaps without committing any. 
 But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
 Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
 Such weakness. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 We shall see. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 You, Loredano 
 Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 How far? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 To extermination. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 When they are 
 Extinct, you may say this. Let's into council. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Yet pause tne number of our colleagues is not 
 Complete yet; two are wanting ere we can 
 Proceed. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 And the chief judge, the Doge ? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 No ne. 
 With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
 
 First at the board in this unhappy process 
 Against his last and only son. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 True true 
 His last. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 Will nothing move you ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Feel* he. think vo 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 He shows it not. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I have mark'd that the wretch 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 But yesterday, I hear, on his return
 
 328 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
 The old man fainted. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 It begins to work, then. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 The work is half your own. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 And should be all mine- 
 My father and my uncle are no more. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 I have read their epitaph, which says they died 
 By poison. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 When the Doge declared that he 
 Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
 The death of Peter Loredano, both 
 The brothers sicken'd shortly : he is sovereign. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 4. wretched one. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 What should they be who make 
 Orphans ? 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 But did the Doge make you so ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 What solid proofs? 
 
 LOREDANO 
 
 When princes set themselves 
 To work in secret, proofs and process are 
 Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
 Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 But you will move by law? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 By all the laws 
 Which he would leave us. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 They are such in thii 
 Our state as render retribution easier 
 Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
 Thut you have written in your books of commerce 
 (The wealthy practice of our highest nobles), 
 " Doge Foscari, my debtor for the death* 
 Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
 My sue and uncle?" 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 It is written thus. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Ano will you leave it unerased ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Till balanced. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And how ? 
 
 ( Two Senators pass over the Stage, as in their way to 
 the Hall of the Council of Ten). 
 
 LOXEDAN* 
 
 You sec the number i complete, 
 roliov me. [Exit LOREDANO. 
 
 BARBARIOO (solus). 
 
 Follow diet ! I have follow'd long 
 Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
 Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
 The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
 <Vho shrieks wxhin its riven ribs, as gush 
 
 The waters through them ; but this son and siro 
 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, r.te, 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 Let him rest. 
 Signor, take time. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 
 But thou may'st stand reproved. 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 I '11 stand the haztuu 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 That's kind : I meet some pity, but no mercy ; 
 This is the first. 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 And might be the last, did they 
 Who rule behold us. 
 
 BARBARIGO (advancing to the guard). 
 
 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 '11 in together. Look well to the prisoner ! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 What voice is that? 'tis Barbarigo's ! Ah! 
 Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
 Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 True, 
 He judges. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 And his son's. I 'm faint* 
 Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
 Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 
 Enter an Officer, who whispers BARBARIGO. 
 
 BARBARIGO (to the guard). 
 Let him approach. I must not speak with him 
 Further than thus ; I have transgress'd my duty 
 In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
 Within the Council Chamber. 
 
 [Exit BARBARIC: 
 [Guard conducting JACOPO FOSCARI to thewindov, 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 There, sir, 't is 
 Open How feel you ? 
 
 4ACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Like a boy Oh Venice ! 
 GUARD. 
 And your limbs ?
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
 Bounding o er yon blue tide, as 1 have skimm'd 
 The gondola along in childish race, 
 And, niasqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
 My gay competitors, noble as I, 
 Raced for our pleasure in the pride of strength, 
 While tne 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 1 
 Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
 The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
 Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
 And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
 Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup s 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. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI (looking from the lattice). 
 My beautiful, my own, 
 
 My only Venice this is breath ! Thy breeze, 
 Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans iny face ! 
 The very winds feel native to my veins, 
 And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
 The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
 Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
 Made my heart sick. 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 I see the colour comes 
 
 Back to your cheek: Heaven send you strength to bear 
 What more may be imposed ! I dread to think on 't. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 They will not banish me again ? No no, 
 Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 Confess, 
 And the rack will be spared you. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI 
 
 I confess'd 
 Once twice before : both times they exiled me. 
 
 GUARD. 
 
 And the third time will slay you. 
 
 JACOPO 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 which hates you 7 
 
 JACOPO 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. 
 47 
 
 I ask no more than a Venetian grave 
 A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 Bring in the prisoner ! 
 
 GUARD. 
 Signor, you hear the order. 
 
 . 4COPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 't is 
 
 The third time they have tortured me : then lend me 
 
 Thine arm. [To the Guiad 
 
 OtFICER. 
 
 Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 
 Be nearest to your person. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 You! you are he 
 
 Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs 
 Away ! I '11 walk alone. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 As you please, signor ; 
 The sentence was not of my signing, but 
 I dared not disobey the Council, when 
 They 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Bade thee stretch me on their horrid engine. 
 I pray thee touch me not that is, just now ; 
 The time will come they will renew fhat order, 
 But keep off from me till 't is issued. As 
 I look upon thy hands, my curdling limbs 
 Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 
 And the cold drops strain th'ough my brow as if 
 But onward I have borne it I can bear it. 
 How looks my father ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 With his wonted aspect. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 So doth the earth, and sky, the blue of ocean, 
 
 The brightness of our city, and her domes, 
 
 The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
 
 Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
 
 Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
 
 Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'i! 
 
 Judged and destroy'd in silence all things wear 
 
 The self-same aspect, to my very sire 
 
 Nothing can sympathize with Foscan, 
 
 Not even a Foscari. Sir, I attend you. 
 
 [Exeunt JACOPO FOSCARI, Qfflcer, 9* 
 
 Enter MEMMO and another Senator. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 He's gone we are too late : think you "the Ten ' 
 Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 
 
 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 me 
 Near ruin'd buildings) never hare been proved.
 
 330 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
 Of the stave'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 
 Attam'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 two ; 
 But they are senators. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Most noble lady, 
 Command us. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I command! AUs! 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 on the rack, 
 Or question save those 
 
 MEMMO (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. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 A.nd his son's prison ; true, I have not forgot it ; 
 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 7 
 
 MEMMO. 
 Thy husband yet may be absolved. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 He is, 
 
 In haren. 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 
 An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
 Will h* condemr. him 1 
 
 MEMMO. 
 1 trust not. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 But if 
 He does not, there are those will sentence botn 
 
 MEMMO. 
 They can. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Ana with them power and will are one 
 In wickedness : my husband 's lost ! 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Not so ; 
 Justice is judge in Venice. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 If it were so 
 There now would be no Venice. But let it 
 Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
 Of nature's summons ; but "the Ten's " is quicker, 
 And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 
 
 [A faint cry uiithm, 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 'T was a cry of 
 
 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 '11 die in silence. 
 
 [A faint groan again wibtin, 
 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. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 And feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst thou 
 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 hfej 
 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 brirg 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, r feat seek vot '
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 33 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 Lady, 
 
 Twere better to retire. 
 
 SENATOR (offering to assist her). 
 I pray thee do so. 
 MARINA. 
 Off! / 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! this 
 
 Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse, 
 And worse suspense. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Who shall oppose me 7 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Whose duty 't is to do so. 
 
 They 
 
 'Tisrtetrduty 
 
 To trample on all human feelings, all 
 Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
 The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
 Variety of torturing ! Yet I '11 pass. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 (t 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. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 What 
 
 Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
 Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 
 
 [Exit MARINA, 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 Poor lady ! 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 'T is 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 ttfficv passes ovei the stage with another per ton. 
 MEMMO. 
 
 I hardly 
 
 Thought that " the Ten" had ov^n this touch of pity, 
 Or would permit assistance to the sufferer. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 Pity ! Is 't pity to recall to feeling 
 The wretch too happy to escape to death 
 By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
 Resource against the tyranny of pain 7 
 
 MEMMO. 
 I marvel they condemn him not at once. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 That's not their policy : they 'd have him live, 
 Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
 Because all earth, except his native land, 
 To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
 Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
 Consuming but not killing. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Circumstance 
 Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 None, save the letter, which he says was written, 
 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. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 The accusation of the bribes was proved. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
 Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
 Of Nicholas Erizzo, who slew the late 
 Chief of " the Ten." 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Then why not clear him ? 
 SENATOR. 
 
 Thai 
 
 They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
 That Almoro Donato, as I said, 
 Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 There must be more in this strange process than 
 The apparent crimes of the accused disclose 
 But here come two of " the Ten ;" let us retire. 
 
 [Exeunt MEMMO and Senatm, 
 
 Enter LOREDANO and BARBARIGO. 
 BARBARIGO (addressing LOREDANO). 
 That were too much : believe me, 't was not meet 
 The trial should go further at this moment. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 And so the Council must break up, and Justice 
 Pause in her full career, because a woman 
 Breaks in on our deliberations ? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 No, 
 That 's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's nat*. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 And had he not recover'd ? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 To relapt* 
 Upon the least renewal.
 
 352 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 'T was not tried. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 T is vain to murmur ; the majority 
 In council were against you. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Thanks to you, sir, 
 
 And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
 The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 I am a. judge ; but must confess that part 
 
 Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
 And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
 Makes me wish 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 What? 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 That you would sometimes feel, 
 As I do always. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Go to, you 're a child, 
 Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
 About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
 And melted by a tear a precious judge 
 For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
 Be partner in my policy ! 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 He shed 
 No tears. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 He cried out twice. 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 A saint had done so, 
 Kven with the crown of glory in his eye, 
 At such inhuman artifice of pain 
 As was forced on him : but he did not cry 
 For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
 And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
 But wrung from pangs, and followed by no prayers. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 He mutter'd many times between his teeth, 
 But inarticula' '!". 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 That I heard not ; 
 You stood more near him. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I did so. 
 
 BARE'IIGO. 
 
 Methought, 
 
 To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy, 
 And were the first to call out for assistant" 
 When he was failing. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I believed that swoon 
 His last. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And have I not oft heard thee name 
 
 His and his father's death your nearest wish? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 II ne dies innocent, that is to say, 
 
 With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 T wouldst thou slay his memory? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Wouldst thou have 
 
 His state descend to his children, as it must, 
 If he die unattainted ? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 War with them too? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 With all their house, till theirs or mine are nothing 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 And the deep agony of his pale wife, 
 And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
 And princely brow of his old fatiier, 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. 'T was 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, Foscan 
 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 sufferings. Lo ! they come : 
 How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
 To look on them again in this extremity : 
 I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 
 
 \Exit BARBARIGO. 
 
 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 fits denim, and signs the paper. 
 There, signer. 
 
 SENATOR (looking at the paper). 
 You have forgot ; it is not sign'd. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Not sign'd? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
 To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
 That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
 SENATOR (dipping the pen into the tnfc, and placing tfc 
 paper before the DOGE. 
 
 Your hand, too, shakes, my lord : allow me, thus 
 
 DOGE. 
 'T is done, I thank you.
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 333 
 
 SEN A 1 OK. 
 
 Thus the act confirm'd 
 By you and by " the Ten," gives peace to Venice. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 'T is long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
 As long ere she resume her arms ! 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 'T is 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 1 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. 
 
 'T is most true, 
 And merits all our country's gratitude. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Perhaps so. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 Which should be made manifest. 
 
 DOGE. 
 I hare 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 present kindness, 
 Not to feel deeply for your son. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Wasthii 
 In your commission ? 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 What, my lord? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 This prattle 
 
 Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 
 Return with it to them who sent you. 
 SENATOR. 
 
 I 
 
 Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
 That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Say, when they will now, even at this moment, 
 (f it so please them : I am the state's servant. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 They would accord some time for your repose. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 '-are no repose, '.hat is, none which shall cause 
 2G 
 
 The loss of an hour's lime unto the state. 
 Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
 Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 
 
 [Exit SENATOR. 
 [The DOGE remains in silence. 
 Enter an attendant. 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 Prince! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Say on. 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 The illustrious lady Foscari 
 Requests an audience. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Bid her enter. Poor 
 
 Marina ! [Exu Attendant 
 
 [The DOGE remains in silence as before. 
 Enter MARINA. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I have ventured, father, ou 
 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 .aughter ' 
 MARINA. 
 
 I had obtain'd permission from "the Ten" 
 To attend my husband for a limited number 
 Of hours. 
 
 DOGE. 
 You had so. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 'T is revoked. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 By whom 7 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 "The Ten." When we had reach'd " the Bridge et 
 
 Sighs," 
 
 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 that 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 
 T is dubious. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Till it meets ! and when it nieeis 
 They '11 torture him again ; and he and I 
 Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
 The interview of husband and of wife.
 
 334 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The holieM tit beneath the heavens? Oh God! 
 Host thou see this? 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 Child child 
 
 MARINA (abruptly), 
 
 Call r/ie not "child!" 
 
 You soon will have no children you deserve none 
 You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
 in circumstances which would call forth tears 
 Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
 Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
 That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
 Strech'd forth a hand to save them ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You behold me : 
 
 I cannot weep I would I could ; but if 
 Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
 This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
 This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
 A taiisman to still them I 'd give all 
 For him. 
 
 MARINA. 
 With less he surely might be saved. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
 Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself, 
 In all her mystery. Hear me they who aim 
 At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
 The si-e's destruction would not save the son ; 
 They work by different means to the same end, 
 And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 But they have crush'd. 
 
 DOOE. 
 Nor crush'd as yet I live. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And your son, how long will he live ? 
 DOGE. 
 
 I trust, 
 
 For all that yet is past, as many years 
 And happier than his father. The rash boy, 
 With womanish impatience to return, 
 Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter; 
 A high crime, which I neither can deny 
 Nor palliate, as parent or as duke : 
 Had he but borne a little, little longer 
 
 His Candiotc exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 
 
 them 
 He must return. 
 
 MARINA. 
 To exile ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I have said it. 
 MARINA. 
 And can I not go with him 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You well know 
 
 This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
 By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
 Will be accorded to a third request, 
 Since aggravated errors on the part 
 Of your lord renders them still more austere. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Austere ? Atrocious ! The old haman fiends, 
 With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
 To tears, save drops of dotage, with long white 
 
 And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, aod heads 
 As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
 
 abal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
 iVere no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
 in their accursed bosoms. 
 
 DOGE. 
 You know not 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 [ do I do afli. so should you, mcthinks 
 That these are demons ; could it be else that 
 Men, who have been of women born and suckled 
 Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love have given 
 Their hands in 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, 
 Yuu, 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 ! 
 You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 
 
 shook not; 
 
 And, after that, what are a woman's words? 
 No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
 
 you. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell thee. 
 Is no more in the balance vveigh'd with that 
 Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
 Pity thy son ! Tliou pity ! 't is a word 
 Strange to thy heart how came it on thy lips ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I must bear these reproaches, though they wrong me. 
 Couldst thou but read 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 'T is not upon thy brow 
 Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, where then 
 Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 
 
 DOGE (pointing downwards). 
 There ! 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 In the earth? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 To which I am tending: whet, 
 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 oi.e 
 To mingle with my name ; that nami shall be,
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 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 : 
 You were the last to bear it. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Would it were so ! 
 
 Better for him he never had been bom, 
 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, o'erwhelm'd, 
 Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
 In story or in fable, with a world 
 To back his suit. Dishonour'd ! he dishonour'd ! 
 I tell thee, Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd ; 
 His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
 For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
 'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! ye ! 
 Did you but love your country like this victim, 
 Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
 Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
 You 'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
 His grace for your enormous guilt. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 He was 
 
 Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
 The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 
 Than Jacopo's disgrace. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 That word again ? 
 DOGE. 
 Hu 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 't is 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 than a father's ; 
 The state would not dispense me from those duties ; 
 Twice I demanded it, but was refused ; 
 Thej must then be fulfill'd. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 " The Ten." 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 A message from 
 
 DOGE. 
 Who bears it? 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 Noble Loredano. 
 DOGE. 
 
 He ' but admit him. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Must I then retire 7 
 DOGE. 
 Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
 
 Concerns your husband, and if not Well, signot, . 
 
 Your pleasure! [To LOREDANO, entering 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I bear that of "the Ten." 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 They 
 Have chosen well their envoy. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 'T is their choice 
 Which leads me here. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It does their wiauom honour, 
 And no less to their courtesy. Proceed. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 We have decided. 
 
 DOGE. 
 We? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 "The Ten" in council. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What ! have they met again, and met without 
 Apprizing me ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 They wish'd to spare your feelings, 
 No less than age. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That's new when spared they cillid ' 
 I thank them, notwithstanding. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You know well 
 
 That they have power to act at their discretion, 
 With or without the presence of the Doge. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 'T is some years since I learn'd this, long before 
 I became Doge, or dream'J of such advancement. 
 You need not school me, signor : I sate in 
 That council when you were a young patrician. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 True, in my father's time ; I have heard him and 
 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 lingering!y in pain. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 No doubt ! yet most men like to live their days out. 
 
 DOGE. 
 And did not they ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 The grave knows best : they diou 
 As I said, suddenly. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Is that so strange, 
 That you repeat the word emphatically ' 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 So far from strange, that never was tnere deain 
 In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
 Think you not so ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What should 1 think of mort<u
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 That they have mortal foes. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 1 understand you ; 
 Y our sires were mine, and you are heir in all thing*. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You best know if I should be so. 
 
 DOOE. 
 
 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. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
 Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
 A fable. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Who dares say so ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I ! 'T is true 
 
 Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
 As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
 Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
 I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
 Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
 Of practise against life, by steel or drug. 
 The proof is, your existence. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I fear not. 
 DOOE. 
 
 \ ou have no cause, being what I am ; but were I 
 That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
 Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 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 signer, 
 
 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 things 
 I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
 Nor for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
 (I do not speak of you 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 unto 
 The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
 Safety, and all save honour, the decrees, 
 The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
 And now, sir, to your business. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 'T is decreed, 
 
 That, wiinout farther repetition of 
 The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
 Wrm-K only tends to show how stuoborn guilt is, 
 (" Yht> Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
 Wiioli still prescribes the Question, till a full 
 Oon'ewoii dd the prisoner partly having 
 
 Avow'd his crime, in not denying tha* 
 
 The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his), 
 
 James Foscari return to banishment, 
 
 And sail in the same galley which convey'd him. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Thank God ! At least they will not drag him more 
 Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
 But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
 Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
 Desire, were to escape from such a land. 
 
 DOGE. 
 That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 No, 't was too human. May I share his exile ' 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Of this " the Ten" said nothing. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 So I thought i 
 
 That were too human, also. But it was not 
 Inhibited? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 It was not named. 
 
 MARINA (to the DOGE). 
 
 Then, father, 
 Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 
 
 [To LORE DA NO. 
 
 And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
 Permitted to accompany my husband. 
 
 DOGE. 
 I will endeavour. 
 
 MARINA. 
 And you, signor ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Lady! 
 
 'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
 Of the tribunal. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Pleasure ! what a word 
 
 To use for the decrees of 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Daughter, k_now you 
 In what a presence you pronounce thes'> things ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 A prince's and his subject's. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Subject 7 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 It galls you : well, you are his equal, as 
 You think, but that you are not, nor would be, 
 Were he a peasant : well, then, you 're a prince. 
 A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 The offspring of a noble house. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And wedded 
 
 To one as noble. What or whose, then, is 
 The presence that should silence my free thought* 7 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 The presence of your husband's judges. 
 DOGE. 
 
 And 
 
 The deference due even to the lightest wore 
 That falls from those who rule in Venirp. 
 
 MARINA.
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 337 
 
 Fhosc maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
 
 Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
 
 Your tributaries, your dumb citizens, 
 
 And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
 
 Four 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 fear/rom you, 
 
 Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
 
 I trust I am not ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 You hear, she speaks wildly. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Wot wisely, yet not wildly. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Lady ! words 
 
 TJtter'd within these walls, I bear no further 
 Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
 Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
 Doge ' have you aught in answer.? 
 DOGE. 
 
 Something from 
 The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 My mission here is to the Doge. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Then say 
 
 The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
 Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
 The father 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I remember mine. Farewell ! 
 I Ion the hands of the illustrious lady, 
 And bow me to the Duke. 
 
 [Exit LOREDAJCO. 
 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, if 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, 't were 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 
 2o * 4P 
 
 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 passion* 
 
 Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 
 
 And false, and hollow clay from first to last, 
 
 The prince's nm 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 its ! So, we are slaves, 
 
 The greatest as the meanest nothing rests 
 
 Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
 
 Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
 
 And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
 
 And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
 
 Without our act or choice, as birth ; so that 
 
 Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
 
 And tlds is hell : the best is, that it is not 
 
 Eternal. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 These are things we cannot judge 
 On earth. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 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 administer'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. 
 
 And Foscari ? I do not think of such things, 
 So I be left with him. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You shall be so ; 
 Thus much they cannot well deny. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And if 
 They should, I will fly with him. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That can ne'er b* 
 And whither would you fly ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I know not, reck not- 
 To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman 
 Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
 And live, nor girt by spies, nor liable 
 To edicts of inquisitors of state. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What, wouldst thou have a renegade for husband, 
 And turn him into traitor ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 He is none : 
 
 The country is the traitress, which thrusts forUi 
 Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
 Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou ueem 
 None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
 Neglects or violates his trust is more 
 A brigand than the robber-chief. 
 DOGE. 
 
 i cannot 
 Charge me with such a breac-i of faith. 
 
 HARINA. 
 
 No; thou
 
 333 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ObservV, a*sy'st, such laws as make old Draco' 
 A code of lurcy by comparison. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I found the law; I did not make iu Were I 
 A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
 Fit tor amendment ; but, as prince, I never 
 Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
 Left by our fathers. 
 
 KAMUU 
 
 Did they make it for 
 fhe ruin of their children ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Under such laws, Venice 
 Has risen to what she is a state to rival 
 Li deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
 In {lory (for we hare had Roman spirits 
 Amongst us), ail that history has bequeath'd 
 Of Rome arid Carthage in their best times, when 
 The people sway'd by senates. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Rather say, 
 
 Groan'u under the stem oligarchs. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Perhaps so ; 
 
 But yet subdued the world : b such a stale 
 An individual, be he richest of 
 Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
 Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
 Tbe policy, irrevocably tending 
 To one great end, must be maintain' d in vigour. 
 
 MARINA. 
 This means that you are more a Doge than father. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 It means I am more citizen than either. 
 If we had not for many centuries 
 Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
 I irust, have still such, Venice were DO city. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Accused be the city where the laws 
 
 Would stifle nature's ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Had I as many sons 
 
 A* I hare years, I would have given them all, 
 Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
 Tc .he slate'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. 
 
 MA.RI.VA. 
 
 And this is patriotism ! 
 To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
 Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
 With all iu jealousy, will hardly war 
 So far with a weak woman as deny me 
 A moment's access to his dungeon. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 So far take on myself, as order that 
 Yon may be admitted. 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 And what shall I say 
 To r oscari from his father ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 That he obey 
 Th ww* 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And nothins more ? Will you not see bins 
 Ere he depart? It may be the last time. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 The last ! my boy ! The last time I shall see 
 My last of children ! Tell him 1 will come. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Prison of JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI (follli). 
 
 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 death, the imprecation of despair ! 
 
 And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
 
 With some faint hope, 't is true, that time, which wean 
 
 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 tcali, 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall? 
 Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah ! the names 
 Of my sad predecessors in this place, 
 The dates of theii despair, the brief words of 
 A grief too great for many. This stone page 
 Holds like an epitaph their history, 
 And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
 His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
 I recognise some names familiar to me, 
 And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
 Fittest for such a chronicle as tnis, 
 Which only can be read, as writ, by wTetches. 
 
 [He engravet hit i 
 
 Enter a FAMILIAR of " the Ten." 
 
 FAMILIAR. 
 
 I bring you food. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 I pray you set it down ; 
 I am past hunger: but my lips are parch'd 
 The water ! 
 
 FAMILIAR. 
 
 There. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI (after drinking). 
 I thank you : I am better. 
 
 FAMILIAR. 
 
 I am commanded to inform you that 
 Your further trial is postponed. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Till when ? 
 
 FAMILIAR 
 
 I know not, H is also in my orders 
 That your illustrious lady be admitted
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 33'' 
 
 JACOPO FOICARI. 
 
 Ah ! they relent then I had ceased to hope it: 
 TWHS time. 
 
 Enter MABIXA. 
 
 MABI5A. 
 
 My best beloved! 
 
 JACOPO rose A El (CTiiroon^ to-). 
 My true wife, 
 
 And only friend ! What happiness ! 
 UBOtt. 
 
 Wei part 
 No more. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCABI. 
 H-w ! wouldst thou share a dungeon? 
 
 MABI5A. 
 
 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 win 
 
 Share that all things except new separation ; 
 
 It is too much to hare survived the first. 
 
 How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? Alas! 
 
 Wbj do I ask? Thy paleness - 
 
 JACOPO rOSCARI. 
 
 Tistbejoy 
 
 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 Manna '. 
 
 The gloom of this eternal cefl, which never 
 
 Knew sunbeam, and the saBow sullen glare 
 
 Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
 
 To darkness more than light, by lending to 
 
 The dungeon vapours its liilinninom smoke, 
 
 Which cloud whatever we gaze on, eren thine eyes- 
 
 No, not thine eyes they sparkle bow they sparkle ! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCAEI. 
 And thine ! bat I am blinded by the torch. 
 
 MABIBA. 
 
 As I had been without h. Couldst thou see hen? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCABI. 
 
 Nothing at first ; but use and time had taught me 
 Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
 And the gray twilight of such gfissmiain-s as 
 Glide through the crevices, made by the winds, 
 Was kinder to mine eyes than the fnf son, 
 When gorgeously oVgiding any towers, 
 Save those of Venice : but a moment ere 
 Thou earnest hither, I was busy writing. 
 
 What? 
 
 MABIXA. 
 JACOPO FOSCABI. 
 
 My name : look, *t is there recorded next 
 of him who here preceded me, 
 dates say true. 
 
 MjmUu 
 
 And what of Urn? 
 
 JACOPO FASCABI. 
 
 These watts are snent of men's ends; they only 
 Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walk 
 Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
 th those who soon most be so. IFfcs* ef torn 1 
 Thou askest What of me? may soon be askM, 
 
 With the like answer doubt and dreadful sorauM 
 Unless thou telTst my tale. 
 
 MAB134. 
 
 j tptak of thee ! 
 
 JACOPO FOfCABI. 
 
 And wherefore not? AH then shall speak of me: 
 The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
 And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
 WiH bant afl ceiement, even a living grave's ! 
 [ do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
 And neither do l' fear. 
 
 XABI9A. 
 
 Thy fife is safe. 
 
 JACOPO FOfCARl. 
 
 And liberty? 
 
 MABI.TA. 
 
 The mmd should make its own. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCABI. 
 That has a noble sound; bat 'tis a sound, 
 A music most impressive, but too transient: 
 The mind is much, but is not aft. The mmd 
 Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
 And torture positive, far worse than detlh 
 (If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 
 Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
 Than me; bat His not aH, for there are things 
 More wofuJ such as this small dungeon, where 
 I may breathe many years. 
 
 Alas! and this 
 Smal dungeon is aH that belongs to thee 
 Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 
 
 JACOPO roscAJtu 
 That thought would scarcer/ aid me to endore a. 
 My doom is **~*n* t many are in dungeons, 
 Bat none Eke mine, so near their father's pake*. 
 Bat men my heart is somrhmrs Ugh, and hope 
 WiD stream along those rooted rays of fight 
 Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
 Oar only day; for, save the jailor's torch. 
 And a strange fire-fly, which was quickly caught 
 Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
 I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
 I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
 For I have such, and shown k before men; 
 It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 
 
 MABtVA. 
 
 I win be with thee. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCABX. 
 
 Ah! if it were so! 
 
 But Aof they never giant ed nor win grant, 
 Andlehalbealone: no men no books 
 Those lying ukeiKMf.i of lying men. 
 I ask'd for even those outlines of their land, 
 Which they term annals, history, what yon wn% 
 Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
 Refused me; so these wafts have been my study, 
 More faithful pictures of Venetian story, 
 With aO their blank, or dismal stains, man is 
 The hnl not far from hence, which bears en Ugh 
 Hundreds of doges, and ibeir deeds and dates. 
 
 MA BIX A. 
 
 I come to tel thee the result of thdr 
 OB thy doom. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCABI. 
 
 I known leek-
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 [He points to his limbi, as referring to the 
 tortures which he had undergone. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 *To no no more of that : even they relent 
 Prom that atrocity. 
 
 JACOFO FOSCARI. 
 
 What then 7 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 That you 
 Return to Candia. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Then my Lost hope 's gone. 
 I could endure my dungeon, for 't was Venice ; 
 I could support the torture, there was something 
 In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up, 
 Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
 But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
 And holding on its course ; 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? 
 
 JACOPO 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. 
 This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
 A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
 Were wretched exiles. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Well 1 know how wretched ! 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And yet you see how from their banishment 
 Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
 Their antique energy of mind, all that 
 Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
 Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 
 And shall an evil, which so often leads 
 To good, depress thee thus ? 
 
 JACOPO 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 : perhap.. I could 
 Have borne this though I know not. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Wherefore not ? 
 
 It was the lot ot millions, and must be 
 The fate of tnyiiids more. 
 
 JACOPO 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, 1 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 cliffs and clouds, 
 That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 
 And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength, 
 I say, the parent of all honest feeling. 
 He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Obey her, then ; 't is she that puts thee forth. 
 
 JACOFO FOSCARI. 
 
 Ay, there it is : 't is like a mother's curse 
 Upon my soul the mark is set upon me. 
 The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
 Their hands upheld each other by the way, 
 Their tents were pitched together I 'm alone. 
 
 MARINA. 
 You shall be so no more I will go with thee. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 My best Marina ! and our children ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 They 
 
 I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
 Abhorrent policy (which holds all ties 
 As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure), 
 Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 
 
 JACOPO 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 't is our first 
 On earth to bear. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Have I not borne ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Too much 
 
 From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
 To teach you not to shrink now from a lot 
 Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
 Of late, is mercy. 
 
 JACOPO 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, 
 And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
 Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 
 
 1 The calenture. 
 
 2 Alluding to the Swiss air, and its
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 341 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 1 wi i divide this with you. Let us think 
 Of c ur departure from this much-loved city 
 (Since you must love it, as it seems), and this 
 Chamber of state her gratitude allots you. 
 Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
 And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 That 's sudden. Shall I not behold my father I 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 You will. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Where? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Here or in the ducal chamber 
 He said not which. I would that you could bear 
 Your exile as he bears it. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Blame him not. 
 
 I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
 He could not now act otherwise. A show 
 Of feeling or compassion on his part 
 Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
 Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
 Accumulated ills. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Accumulated ! 
 What pangs are those they have spared you ? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 That of leaving 
 
 Venice without beholding him or you, 
 Which might have been forbidden now, as 't waa 
 Upon my former exile. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 That is true, 
 
 And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
 And shall be more so when I see us both 
 floating on the free waves away away 
 3e it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
 Unjust, and 
 
 JACOPO 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 of ten bald-heads ; and 
 Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst than say 
 Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee 1 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Let us address us then, since so it must be, 
 To our departure. Who comes here ? 
 
 Enter LOREDANO, attended by Familiar*. 
 LOREDANO (to the Familiars), 
 
 Retire, 
 But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiart, 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Most welcome, noble signor. 
 
 I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
 
 Such presence hither. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 >T is not the first time 
 I nave visited these places. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Nor would be 
 [Tie last, were all men's ments well rewarded, 
 ame you here to insult us, or remain 
 As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Neither are of my office, nobie lady! 
 am sent hither to your husband, to 
 Announce " the Ten's " decree. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 That tenderness 
 las been anticipated : it is known. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 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 ihem, and hence ' 
 The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
 And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
 Their sting is honester. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 I pray you, calm you : 
 What can avail such words 7 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 To let him know 
 That he is known. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Let the fair dame preserve 
 Her sex's privilege. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I have some sons, sir, 
 Will one day thank you better. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You do well 
 To nurse them wisely. Foscari you know 
 Your sentence, then ? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 Return to Candia! 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 True 
 For life. 
 
 JACOFO FOSCARI. 
 
 Not long. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I said for life. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCAPI. 
 
 And I 
 Repeat not long. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 A year's imprisonment 
 In Canea afterwards the freedom of 
 The whole isle. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Both the same to me : the aftr 
 Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
 Ii 't true my wife accompanies me ? 
 LOREDVNO. 
 
 Yes, 
 If she BO wills it. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Who obtain'd that justice * 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 One who wars not with women.
 
 342 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 But oppresses 
 
 Men : howsoever, let him have my thanks 
 For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
 From him or such as he is. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 He receives them 
 As they are offer'd. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 May they thrive with him 
 So ranch ! no more. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 
 Because we have brief time for preparation, 
 Anl you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
 Thin lady, of a house noble as yours. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Nobler! 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 How nob'.er ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 As more generous! 
 
 We say the " generous steed " to express the purity 
 Of his high blood. Thus much I 've learnt, although 
 Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze), 
 From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
 Of Egypt, and her neighbour Araby: 
 And why not say as soon " the generous man T" 
 f f race be aught, it is in qualities 
 Jlore 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 trees 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 ! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 Again, Marina! 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Again ! still, Marina. 
 
 See you not, he conies here to glut his hate 
 With a last look upon our misery ? 
 Let him partake it ! 
 
 JACOPO 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 
 
 1 h^ve pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
 
 t care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
 
 <V;id he out live, for him the very worst 
 
 *f destinies : each day secures him more 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 This is mere insanity. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 t may oe so , ami who nath made us mad J 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 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 nusband ; 
 In short, to trample on the fallen an office 
 The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 
 How have you sped ? We are wretched, signer, as 
 Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us 
 And how feel you ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 As rocks. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 By thunder blasted : 
 
 They feel not, out 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 DOGE. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 My father! 
 
 DOGE (embracing him). 
 Jacopo ! my son my son ! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 My father still ! How long it is since I 
 Have heard thee name my name our name ! 
 DOGE. 
 
 My boy ! 
 Goulds t thou but know 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 I rarely, sir, have murmur'd, 
 DOGE. 
 I feel too much thou hast not. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Doge, look there ! 
 [She points to LOREDA.NO 
 DOGE. 
 
 I see the man what mean'st thou ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Caution! 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Being 
 
 The virtue which this noble lady most 
 
 May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Wretch ! 't is 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You may know him better. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Yes ; worst he could not. 
 
 JACOPO 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 7
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 343 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You behold 
 These white hairs ! 
 
 JACOPO 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. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Fhey might behold their parent any where. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I would that they beheld their father in 
 A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
 To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 
 They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
 Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well 
 I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
 But let it only be their heritage, 
 And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
 Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
 And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
 Which floats above the place where we now stand 
 A cell so far below the water's level, 
 Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
 Might strike them : this it not their atmc-sphere, 
 However you and you and, most of all, 
 As worthiest you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
 May breathe it without prejudice. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 I had not 
 
 Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
 I shall depart, then, without meeting them 7 
 
 DOGE. 
 Not so : they shall await you in my chamber. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 And must I leave them all ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You must. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Not one 7 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 They are the state's. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I thought they had been mine. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 They are, in all maternal things. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 That is, 
 
 In all things painful. If they 're sick, they win 
 Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
 To me to bury and to mourn : but if 
 They live, they '11 make you soldiers, senators, 
 Slaves, exiles what you will ; or if they are 
 Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles ! 
 Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 
 
 LOREDASO. 
 The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 
 
 JACOPf FOSCARI. 
 
 How know you that here, where the genial wind 
 Ne'e* Slows in all its hliuterin^ freedom? 
 
 LCREDANO. 
 
 'T was so 
 
 When I came here. The galley floats within 
 A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
 Prepare my children to behold their father. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Be firm, my son ! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCAHI. 
 
 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. 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 And present 
 Liberation. 
 
 DOGE. 
 He speaks truth. 
 
 JACOPO 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 The time narrows, signor 
 
 JACOPO 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 lean 
 
 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, 
 But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
 Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 
 
 LOREDANO (to the Familiar'). 
 
 The torch, then 
 
 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. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Alas: 
 
 Mus*. youth support itself on age, and I, 
 Who ought to be the prop of yours 7 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Take mine. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will 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 yo ever. 
 
 \Ertvm*
 
 344 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
 Enter LCREDASO and BARBARIOO. 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 And have you confidence in such a project? 
 
 LOREDAJTO. 
 i have, 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 'T is hard upon his years. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Say rather 
 Kind, to relieve him from the cares of state. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 1 will break his heart. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Age has no heart to break. 
 Hf has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
 A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
 Swerved. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 In his own portion of the palace, with 
 His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Bidding farewell. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 A last. As soon he shall 
 Bid to bis dukedom. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 When embarks the son ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Forthwith when this long leave is taken. T is 
 Time to admonish Uiem again. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Forbear ; 
 Retrench not from their moments. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Not I, now 
 
 We have higher business for our own. This day 
 Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
 As the firs' of his son's last banishment 
 And that is vengeance. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 In my mind, too deep. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Tis moderate not even life for life, the rule 
 Denounced of retribution from all time : 
 They owe me still ray father's and my uncle's. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Uid not the Doge deny this strongly ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Doubtless. 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 ATM did not thii shake your suspicion? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 No. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Kut ii rhis dr.nos&on 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 hjs deed*. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 As much of ceremony RS you will, 
 So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
 I care, depute the council on their knees 
 (Like Barbarossa to the Pope) to beg him 
 To have the courtesy to abdicate. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 What, if he will not? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 We '11 elect another, 
 And make him null. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 But will the laws uphold us ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 What laws? "Trie Ten" are laws; and if they were art, 
 I will be legislator in this business. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 At your own peril ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 There is none, I tell you, 
 Our powers are such. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 But he has twice already 
 Solicited permission to retire, 
 And twice it was refused. 
 
 LOREDAKO. 
 
 The better reason 
 To grant it the third time. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Unask'd? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 It shows 
 
 The impression of his former instances : 
 If they were from his heart, he may be thankful : 
 If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 
 Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
 And be thou fi.x'd in purpose for this once. 
 I have prepared such arguments as will not 
 Fail to move them, and remove him : since 
 Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, don 
 You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
 And all will prosper. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 He is safe, I tell you ; 
 His fourscore years and five may linger on 
 As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 
 Alone is aim'd at 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 But discarded pnnces 
 Are seldom long of life. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 And men of eighty 
 More seldom still. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And why not wait these few 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Because we have waited long enough, and h
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 I find longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 
 
 [Exeunt LOREDASO and BARBAF.IGO. 
 Enter MEMMO and a Senator. 
 
 SESATOR. 
 
 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 arc 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 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 In Venice " But n 's a traitor. 
 But me no u buts, n unless you would pass o'er 
 The Bridge which few repass. 
 SEXATOR. 
 
 I am silent. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Why 
 
 Thus hesitate ? " The Ten " have calPd 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 us 
 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. 
 
 SEXATOR. 
 
 Let us view them ; they, 
 No doubt, are worth it. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Being worth oar fires 
 
 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 office. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Let us not 
 Br. latest in obeying u the Ten's " summons. 
 
 SENATOR. 
 
 AD are not met, but I am of your thought 
 few far let 's in. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 The earliest are most welcome 
 2H 49 
 
 In earnest councils we will not be least so. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 Enter the DOGE, JACOPO FOSCARI, and MARINA. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Ah, father ! though I must and will depart, 
 Yet yet I pray you to obtain for*me 
 That I once more return unto my home, 
 
 Sowe'er remote the period. Let there be 
 
 \ point of time as beacon to my heart, 
 
 iVith any penalty annex'd they please, 
 
 But let me still return. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Son Jacopo, 
 3o and obey our country's will, 't is not 
 Por us to look beyond. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 But still I most 
 Look back. I pray you think of me. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Alas. 
 
 You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
 They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
 Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
 The exile of the disinterred ashes 
 Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth. 
 And their desponding shades came flitting round 
 To impede the act, I must no less obey 
 A duty paramount to every duty. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 My husband ! let us on : this but prolongs 
 Our sorrow. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 But we are not summon'd yet : 
 The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : who knows ? 
 The wind may change. 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 And if it do, it will not 
 Change Aeir hearts, or your lot ; the galley's oar* 
 Win quickly dear the harbour. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Oh, ye elements ! 
 
 Where are your storms ? 
 
 MARI5A. 
 
 In human breasts. Alas ' 
 WO! nothing eakn you. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Never yet did mariner 
 Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
 And pleasant breezes, as 1 call upon you, 
 Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! whch 
 Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
 To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
 And waken Aostcr, sovereign of the tempest ! 
 Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
 A broken cor&e upon the barren f JQO, 
 Where I may mingle with the sands which skit 
 The land I love, and never shall see more! 
 
 MARIXO. 
 And wish yon this with me beside you? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 No- 
 No not for thee, too good, too kind ! May's! a** 
 Live long to be a mother to those children 
 Thy (bod fidelity for a lime derives 
 Of such support! But for rayvdf aione,
 
 316 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Jlay nil the winds of heaven howl down the gulf, 
 
 And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 
 
 Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 
 
 As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
 
 C jst me out from amongst them, as an offering 
 
 Tc appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 
 
 Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 
 
 Dead, but still bear me to a native grave, 
 
 From fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 
 
 Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
 
 One lacerated like the heart which then 
 
 Will be - But wherefore breaks it not ? why live I ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
 
 Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
 
 A sufferer, but not a loud one : why, 
 
 What is this to the things thou hast borne in jence 
 
 Imprisonment and actual torture ? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Triple, and tenfo.d torture ! B yot are right, 
 It must be borne. Father, yo <r nlessing. 
 DOGV. 
 
 Would 
 It could avail thet ! but no lens thou hast it. 
 
 JACOFO FOjCARI. 
 
 J jrgive - 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 My poor mother for my bull* 
 And me for having lived, and you yourself 
 (As I forgive you), for the gift of life, 
 Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 What hast thou done ? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Nothing. I cannot charge 
 My memory with much save sorrow : but 
 I hae 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 irons 
 A 'ike hereafter. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Fear not : that 's reserved 
 For your oppressors. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 Let me hope not. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 i Hope not ? 
 
 JACOPO 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 ! 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 TViy may renenf. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And if they do, Heaven will not 
 Au-ept the tardy penitence of demons. 
 
 Enter en Officer and Gvards. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 Signor ! the boat is at the shore the wind 
 Is risins we ari ready *o attend you. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
 Your hand ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 Take it. Alas ! how thine own trer.blt ' 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 No you mistake ; 't is yours that shalr,*, mj father. 
 Farewell ' 
 
 DCGE, 
 
 Farr reU ! Is there aught else ? 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 No nothing. 
 [To the Officer. 
 y* jie your arm, good signer. 
 
 OIFICE*. 
 
 You turn pale 
 Let me support you paler ho ! some aid there ! 
 Some water ! 
 
 MARINA. 
 Ah, he is dying ! 
 
 JACOPO 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 ! 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 The light ! 
 / it the light ? I am faint. 
 
 [Officer presents him with watt 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 He will be better, 
 Perhaps, in the air. 
 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 I doubt not. Fatner wife 
 Your hand? ! 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 There 's death in that damp clammy graso 
 Oh God ! My Foscari, how fare you ? 
 JACOPO FOSCARI. 
 
 Well ! 
 
 [Ht diu. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 He 's gone. 
 
 DOGE. 
 He 's free. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 No no, he is not dead ; 
 
 There must be life yet in that heart he could not 
 Thus leave me. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Daughter I 
 
 MA1UNA. 
 
 Hold thy peace, old man ' 
 I am no daughter now thou hast no son. 
 Oh Foscari ! 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 We must remove the body. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your b_s office 
 Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
 Even by your murderous laws Leave his remain* 
 To those who know to honour them. 
 
 omen. 
 
 I Pu*
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 547 
 
 Inform the signory. and learn their pleasure. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Inform the signory from me, the Doge, 
 They 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. 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 And I must live ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Your children live, Marina. 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 My children ! true they live, and I must live 
 To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
 As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
 Were oarrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
 Had been so ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 My unhappy children ! 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 What! 
 
 You feel it then at last you .' Where is now 
 The stoic of the state? 
 
 DOGE (throwing himself down by the body). 
 Here! 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 Ay, weep on ! 
 
 1 thought you had no tears you hoarded them 
 Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he nerer 
 Shall weep more never, never more. 
 
 Enter LOREDARO and BARBARIGO. 
 LOREDA.XO. 
 
 What's here? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Ah! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avaunt! 
 Incarnate Lucifer ! 't is holy ground. 
 A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
 A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
 
 But pass'd here merely on our path from council. 
 
 MARI.tA. 
 
 Pass on. 
 
 LOREDA*O. 
 
 We sought the Doge. 
 
 MARI5A (pointing to tfieDocr,who is still on the ground 
 by his ton's body). 
 
 He 't busy, look. 
 
 About the business you provided for him. 
 Are ye content ? 
 
 BARBARICO. 
 
 We will not interrupt 
 A parent's sorrow*. 
 
 HARI5A. 
 
 No, ye only make them, 
 Then 'eave them. 
 
 DOSE (rising). 
 Sirs, I am ready. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 No not DOW. 
 
 LOREDAXO. 
 
 i'el 't was important. 
 
 POGE. 
 
 If 't was so, I can 
 On)\ icneat . am read* 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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 look's! on there : 
 If they be good, say on ; you need not fear 
 That they can comfort me. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 I would they could ! 
 DOGE. 
 I spoke wi to you, but to Loredano. 
 
 He understands me. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Ah ! I thought it would be so. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What mean you ? 
 
 MARI.tA. 
 
 Lo ! there is the blood beginning 
 To flow through the dead lips of Foscari 
 The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 
 
 [To LOBEDAKO. 
 
 Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
 How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
 Bear hence the body. ] To his attendants}. Signers, if 
 
 It please you, 
 Within an hour I '11 hear you. 
 
 [Exeunt DOGE, MARISA, and attendant*, wak 
 the body.] 
 
 Manent LOREDAXO and BARBARIGO 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 He must not 
 Be troubled now. 
 
 LOREDAHO. 
 
 He said himself that nought 
 Could give him trouble farther. 
 
 BAABARIOO. 
 
 These are words; 
 
 But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
 Upon it barbarous. 
 
 LOREDAHO. 
 
 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 hare no time for tears. 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Ton would deprive tins old man of all business ? 
 
 LOREDASO. 
 
 The thing's decreed. The Ghinta and "the Ten * 
 Hare made k law : who shall oppose that kw? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Humanit v ! 
 
 LOREDAJIO. 
 
 Because his son is dead 7 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And yet unburied. 
 
 LOREDASO. 
 
 The act was passing, it might hare nirpnum 
 Its passage, but impedes it not one* oast.
 
 348 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ARBARIGO. 
 
 i '11 not consent. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 You have consented to 
 All that 's essential leave the rest to me. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Why press his abdication now? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 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. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 You have a son. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 I hare and had a father. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Still so inexorable ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Still. 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 But let him 
 
 Inter his son before we press upon him 
 This edict. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Let him call up into life 
 My sire and uncle I consent. Men may, 
 Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
 Sires of "\ hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
 An 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 path to the eternal cure. 
 His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
 My dabbling in vile drugs. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And art them sure 
 He dealt in such ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Most sure. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And yet he seems 
 All openness. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 And so he scem'd not long 
 Ago to Carmagnuola. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 The attainted 
 And foreign traitor ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Even so : when he, 
 
 After the very ni^ht in which " the Ten" 
 v Jom'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
 Met the great Duke at day-break with a jest, 
 Demanding whether he should augur him 
 u The good day or good night?" his Doge-ship answer'd 
 * That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
 In which (lie added with a gracious smile) 
 There of'en has been question about you."' 
 T was true ; the question was the death resolved 
 'Jf Cannagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
 
 1 A historical fact. 
 
 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 
 Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
 Is dead ; so are young Foscari and his brethren 
 I never smiled on them. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Was Cannagnuola 
 Your friend ? 
 
 LOREDAXO. 
 
 He was the safeguard of the city. 
 In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
 Its saviour first, then victim. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Ah ! that seems 
 
 The penalty of saving cities. He 
 Whom we now act against not only saved 
 Our own, but added others to her sway. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
 
 To him who took a city ; and they gave 
 
 A crown to him who saved a citizen 
 
 In battle : the rewards are equal. Now, 
 
 If we should measure forth the cities taken 
 
 By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
 
 Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
 
 Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
 
 To private havoc, such as between him 
 
 And my dead father. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Are you then thus (ut'd ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Why, what should change me? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 That which change! 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 are dead, his family depress'd, 
 And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 More soundly. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 That 's an error, and you '11 find It 
 Ere you sleep with your fathers. 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 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 tovrarut 
 The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Where go you, sirrah ? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 By the ducal order 
 To forward the preparatory rites 
 For the late Foscari's interment. 
 
 BARBARIOO. 
 
 Thw
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 Vault has been often opunM of late years. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 T will be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 May I pass on? 
 
 LOREDAKO. 
 
 You may. 
 
 t AKBARIGO. 
 
 How bears the Doge 
 This last calamity? 
 
 OFFICER. 
 
 With desperate firmness. 
 [n 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 Officer. 
 
 BARBARIGO. . 
 
 This stroke 
 
 Win move all Venice in his favour. 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Right ! 
 
 We must be speedy : let us call together 
 The delegates appointed to convey 
 The Council's resolution. 
 
 BARBARICO. 
 
 I protest 
 Against it at this moment. 
 
 LORBDANO. 
 
 As you please 
 
 1 11 taxe their voices on it ne'ertlieless, 
 And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
 . [Exeunt BARBARIGO and LOREDANO. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 TJte DOGE'S Apartment. 
 THE DOGE and ATTENDANT. 
 
 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. 
 
 DOGE. 
 To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 
 AN OFFICER. 
 
 Prince ! I have done your bidding. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 What command 7 
 OFFICER. 
 A melancho'v one to call the attendance 
 
 or 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 True true true ; I crave your pardon. I 
 Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
 JViJt very old old almost as my years. 
 fv. now I fought them off, but they begin 
 To overtake me 
 
 Enter the Deputation, consisting oftucoftke Signary, 
 and the CHIEF OF THE TEN.] 
 
 Noble men, your pleasure ! 
 2 H2 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 In the first place, the Council doth condole 
 With the Doge, on his late and private grief. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 No more no more of that. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 Will not the Duke 
 Accept the homage of respect ? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I do 
 Accept it as 't is given proceed. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 " The Ten," 
 With a selected giunta from the senate 
 Of twenty-five 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, 
 Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
 Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
 Upon reflection must accord in this), 
 The resignation of the ducal ring, 
 Which you have worn so long and venerably ; 
 And, to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
 Cold to your years and services, they add 
 An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
 Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
 Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Did I hear rightly? 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 Need I say again ? 
 
 . DOGE. 
 
 No. Have you done ? 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 I have spoken. Twenty 
 Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
 
 DOGE. 
 I shall not need so many seconds. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 We 
 
 WiD 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 
 Vly wish to abdicate, it was refused me ; 
 
 And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
 \n oath from me that I would never more 
 lenew this instance. I have sworn to die 
 n full exertion of the functions which 
 
 My country call'd me here to exercise, 
 
 According to my honour and my conscience 
 
 " cannot break my oath. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN 
 
 Reduce us not 
 
 To the alternative of a decree, 
 nstead of your compliance, 
 DOGE. 
 
 Providence 
 
 'rolongs my days, to prove and chasten me ; 
 But ye have no right to reproach mv length
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
 
 I am ready to lay down my life for her, 
 
 As I have laid down dearer things than life ; 
 
 But for my dignity I ho.d it of 
 
 The whole republic ; when the general will 
 
 \i manifest, then you shall be answer'd. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 We grieve for such an answer ; but it cannot 
 Avail you aught. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I can submit to all things, 
 Bui nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
 What you decree decree. 
 
 GRIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 With this, then, must we 
 Return to thoc who sent us ? 
 DOGE. 
 
 You have heard me. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 With all due reverence we retire. 
 
 [Exeunt the Deputation, etc. 
 
 Enter an ATTENDANT. 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 My lord, 
 The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
 
 My time is hers. 
 
 Enter MARINA. 
 
 My lord, if I intrude 
 Perhaps you fain would be alone 7 
 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 are, 
 Endeavour Oh my husband ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Give it way ! 
 I cannot comfort thee. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ves ; all things which conduce to other men's 
 mperfect 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, 
 Krd 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Soon miy be a prir?e no longer. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 How. 
 
 DOGE. 
 *"hey have taken my son from me, and now aim 
 
 At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
 Let them resume the gewgaws ! 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Oh the tyrants ! 
 In such an hour too ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 T is the fittest time : 
 An hour ago I should have felt it. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And 
 
 Will you not now resent it ? Oh for vengeance ! 
 But he, who, had he been enough protected, 
 Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
 Cannot assist his father. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Nor should do so 
 Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
 Instead of that 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 They tortured from him. This 
 May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
 To me my husband and my children were 
 Country and home. I loved him how I loved him ! 
 I have seen him pass through such an ordeal, as 
 The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
 And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
 Have nought to give but tears ! But could I compass 
 The retribution of his wrongs ! Well, well ; 
 I have sons who shall be men. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Your grief distracts you. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 I thought I could have borne it, when I saw him 
 Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
 That I would rather look upon his corse 
 Than his prolcng'd captivity : I am punish'd 
 For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 I must look on him once more. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Come with me ! 
 DOGE. 
 Is he 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Our bridal bed is now his bier. 
 
 DOGE. 
 And he is in his shroud ? 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 Come, come, old man ' 
 [Exeunt the DOGE and MAKII* \ 
 
 Enter BARBAKIGO and LOREDANO. 
 BARBARIGO (to an ATTENDANT). 
 Where is the Doge ? 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 This instant retired hence 
 With the illustrious lady, his son's widow. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 Where? 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 To the chamber where the body lies. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Let us return then. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You forget, you cannot. 
 We hare the implicit order of the giunta
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 351 
 
 To await their coming here, arid join them in 
 Their office : they '11 be here soon after us. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 And will they press their answer on the Doge ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 'T was 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 ? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 LOREDAXO. 
 
 T was 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. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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 of hating ; 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 How ! my giunta ! 
 
 BARBARIGO. ' 
 
 Fours .' 
 
 Fhey speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
 Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yow ? 
 
 LOREDAKO. 
 
 You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
 This from you. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Oh ! they '11 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. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 You talk but idly. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 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. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 The Duke is with his son. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 If it bo SO, 
 
 We will remit him till the rites are over. 
 Let us return. 'T is time enough to-morrow. 
 
 LOREDANO (a.fidc to B AKBi JUGO). 
 
 Now the rich man's hell-fire upon your tongue, 
 Unqucnch'd, unquenchable ! I '11 have it torn 
 From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utler 
 Nothing but sobs through blood, lor tnis ! Sage sign:?* 
 [ pray ye be not hasty. \Aloud io the <jtketi 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 But be human ! 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 See, the Duke comes ! 
 
 Enter the DOGE. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 I have obey'd your summons, 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 We come once more to urge our past request. 
 
 DOGE. 
 And I to answer. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 What? 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 My only answer. 
 You have heard it. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 Hear you then the last decree, 
 Definitive and absolute ! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 To the point 
 To the point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
 And gentle preludes to strong acts Go on ! 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 You are no longer Doge ; you are released 
 From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
 Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
 Your services, the state allots the appanage 
 Already mention'd in our former congress. 
 Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
 Under the penalty to see confiscated 
 All your own private fortune. 
 DOGE. 
 
 That last clause, 
 I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 Your answer, Duke ? 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Your answer, Francis Foscari 1 
 
 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 
 Not useless to that country, I would fain 
 Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
 But the decree being render'd, I obe>. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 If you would have the three days named extended, 
 We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
 As sign of our esteem. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Not eight hours, signer, 
 Nor even eight minutes. There 's the ducal .-ins, 
 
 f Taking nffhu r.ng ou Mf 
 And there tbe ducal diadnm. And so 
 The Adriatic 's tree 'o wed another.
 
 352 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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, 
 i'ou, by your garb, Chief of the Forty. 
 
 MEMMO. 
 
 Signor, 
 
 I am the son of Marco Memmo. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 your father was my friend. But ton* and father* ! 
 What, ho ! my servants there ! 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 My prince ! 
 DOGE. 
 
 No prince 
 .There are the princes of the prince ! 
 
 [Pointing to the Ten'* Deputation. 
 
 Prepare 
 To part from hence upon the instant. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 Why 
 
 So rashly ? 't will give scandal. 
 DOGE. 
 
 Answer that ; 
 
 [To the Ten. 
 It is your province. Sirs, bestir yourselves ; 
 
 [To the Servants. 
 
 There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
 With care, although 't is past all further harm 
 But I will look to that myself. 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 He means 
 The body cf his son. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 And call Marina, 
 Mr daughter ! 
 
 Enter MARINA. 
 
 Elsewhere. 
 
 DOGE. 
 Get thee ready ; we must mourn 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 And every where. 
 DOGE. 
 
 True ; but in freedom, 
 Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
 Signers, 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 
 1 o fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
 The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
 The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
 Sudt power I do believe there might exist 
 In such a curse as mine, provokd by such 
 As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signers ! 
 May 'he next duke be better than the present ' 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Ti ;xu .luke IF Pascd Maliitiero. 
 
 DOC K. 
 Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
 For his inauguration. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Earth and heaven ! 
 Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
 Live to hear this ! the first doge who e'er hcar> 
 Such sound for his successor ! Happier he, 
 My attainted predecessor, stern Fahero 
 This insult at the least was spared him. 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 What! 
 Do you regret a traitor ? 
 
 Donr. 
 
 No I merely 
 Envy the dead. 
 
 CHIEF OF TH^ TEN. 
 
 My lord, if yon indeed 
 Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
 Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
 By the private staircase, which conduct? you to-vO' 
 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. 
 There five and thirty years ago was I 
 Install'd, and traversed these same halls from whicj 
 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. 
 But, come ; my son and I will go together- 
 He to his 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 ! 
 DOGE. 
 And here my staff": thus propp'd will I go forth. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 It must not be the people will perceive it. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 The people ! There 's no people, you well know it. 
 Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
 There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
 May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse you, 
 Save with their hearts and eyes. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEN. 
 
 You speak in passion. 
 Else 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You have reason. I have spoken ir \j<:h 
 More than my wont ; it is a foib! whirl* 
 Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
 Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
 A dotage which may justify this dceJ
 
 THE TWO FOSCAR1. 
 
 355 
 
 Of yours, although the law Joes oat, nor wilL 
 Farewell, sin. 
 
 BAKBARIGO. 
 
 Too shall not depart without ' 
 An escort fitting past and present rank. 
 We will accompany, with due respect, 
 The Doge unto his private palace. Say, 
 Mj brethren, will we not? 
 
 DIFFERENT TOICES. 
 
 Ay! Ay! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 You shall not 
 
 Stir m my train, at least. I entered here 
 As sovereign I go out as citizen 
 By the same portals ; but as citizen, 
 All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
 Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
 Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
 Ponip is for princes I am none / That 's fake, 
 I am, but only to these gates. Ah ! 
 LOEEDAJIO. 
 
 Hark! 
 [The great bett of Saint Mark'* tofU. 
 
 BAKBARICO. 
 
 The ben! 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TM. 
 
 Saint Mark's, which tout for the election 
 Of Malipiero. 
 
 JX)CE. 
 
 Wei! I recognise 
 
 fhe sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
 And that is five and thirty years ago ; 
 Even then I tea* not young. 
 
 BAB.BAB.IGO. 
 
 Sit down, my lord ! 
 You t/embie. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 T is the knell of my poor boy! 
 Mj heart aches bitterly. 
 
 BARBAKIGO. 
 
 I pray you sk. 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Ko; my seat here has been a throne tifl now. 
 Marina! let us go, 
 
 MABI2TA. 
 
 Most readily. 
 
 DOGE (waDa a foe ttrpt, &e* stop*). 
 I fed a thirst wiD no one bring me hen 
 A cup of water ? 
 
 BARBARICO. 
 
 MARIVA. 
 
 And I - 
 
 LORE DA 50. 
 
 And 
 
 [TV DOGE take* a goblet from the hand of L*> 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 ( take yoKrs, Loredano, from the hand 
 Most fit for such an boor as this. 
 
 LOKBD4JTO. 
 
 WhyoT 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Tis said that our Venetian crystal has 
 Such pure annpaUiy to poisons, as 
 To bum if aught of venom touches it. 
 You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
 50 
 
 LOREDAHO. 
 
 WeU, sir! 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Then it is false, or you are true 
 For my own part, I credit neither; 'tis 
 An idle legend. 
 
 MARIXA. 
 
 You talk wildly, and 
 Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
 Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my hun>anJ 
 
 BAB.BARIGO. 
 
 He sinks! support him! quick a chair support haw' 
 
 DOGE. 
 
 Thebefl toOson! let's hence my brain 'son fire' 
 
 BABBABICO. 
 
 I do beseech yon, lean upon us ! 
 DOGE. 
 
 No! 
 
 A sovereign should & standing. My poor boy ! 
 Off with your arms '.That bell! 
 
 [The DOGE drop* down, and <Bk 
 BUBOU. 
 
 My God! my God! 
 BAXBABIGO (to LOREDABO). 
 Behold ! your work 's completed ! 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TE. 
 
 Is there then 
 No aid? Call in assistance ! 
 
 ATTESDAST. 
 
 Tut aU over. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEH. 
 
 If it be so, at least his obsequies 
 
 Shan be such as befits his name and nation, 
 
 His rank and his devution to the duties 
 
 Of the nsahm, whie his age permitted hint 
 
 To do binseif and them full justice. Brethren, 
 
 Say, shall it not be so? 
 
 BAKBAXIGO. 
 
 He has not had 
 
 The saisery to die a subject where 
 He retgnM : then let his funeral rites be princely. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TE3C. 
 
 We are agreed, then? 
 
 ^fl, except LoBEDAiro, anneer. 
 Yes. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEX. " 
 
 Heaven's peace be with IBB* 
 
 MARIVA. 
 
 Signers, your pardon : this is mockery. 
 Juggle BO more with that poor remnant, which, 
 A awmeat since, while yet it had a soul 
 (A soul by whom you have increased jrotfa 1 empire* 
 And made your power as proud as was hb glory) 
 You bamsh'd from his palace, and tore down 
 From his high place with such relentless coldness : 
 And now, when he can neither know these honour*. 
 Nor would accept them if he could, you, signon. 
 Purpose, with idle and i 
 
 To make a pageant over what yon trampied. 
 A princely funeral wffl be your reproach. 
 And not his honour. 
 
 <-HItF OF THE TEX. 
 
 Lady, we revoke not 
 Oar imposes so readily. 
 
 mntA. 
 I know*.
 
 304 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 As far FT touches torturing the living. 
 
 t thought the dead had been beyond even yott, 
 
 Thong 1 ! ( some,nodoubt),consign'dto powers whicli may 
 
 RrsenTiie that you exercise on earth. 
 
 f -eave him to me ; you would have done so for 
 
 His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten' d : 
 
 (t 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 TEJt. 
 
 Do you 
 Pretend still to this office? 
 
 HARI3A. 
 
 I do, signor. 
 
 Though his possessions have been all consumed 
 In the state's service, I have still my dowry. 
 Which shaB be consecrated to his rites. 
 And those of [She ttopt with agitation, 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEX. 
 
 Best retain it for your children. 
 ABOU. 
 
 Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TE*. 
 
 We 
 
 Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
 Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and fouowM 
 Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
 As Doge, but simply as a senator. 
 
 MARI5A. 
 
 I Lave heard of murderers, who have interrM 
 
 Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this boor, 
 
 Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 
 
 O'er those they stew. I 've heard of widows' tears 
 
 Alas ! I have shed some always thanks to you ! 
 
 I 've heard of fair* in sables you have left none 
 
 To the deceased, so you would act the part 
 
 Of such. Wefl, sirs, your will be done ! as one day, 
 
 I trust, Heaven's win be done too ! 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TE*. 
 
 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? 
 
 BARBARIGO. 
 
 Heed not her rash words ! 
 Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEJT. 
 
 V\ e wiU not note them down. 
 
 A KB ARIGO (turning to LOR ED ASO, \cho it writing upon 
 hi* tablet*). 
 
 What art thou writing, 
 With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
 
 LOKEDAXO (printing to the DOGE'S body). 
 That he has paid me !' 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TEX. 
 
 What debt did he owe you? 
 
 LOUD ABO. 
 
 A tang and just one ; nature's debt and mine. 
 
 [Curtain faU* . 
 
 I - L'km. ptgftf." A historic*; fac*. See the History if 
 VOUOP by P 'Mm pace 411. vol ii. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Extrcdt de PHiitare de la Rfpubliqtie de Veni.ie, ptt 
 P. Daruj de P Academic francaite* Tom. 2. 
 
 DEPUIS trente ans, la republique n'avait pas depose" 
 les annes. Elle avail acquis les provinces dc Brescia, 
 de Bergame, de Creme, el la principaute de Ravenne. 
 
 Mais ces guerres contumelies faisaient beaucoup de 
 malheureux It de mecontents. Le doge Francois Fos- 
 cari, & qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en avoir etc le pro- 
 moteur, nuanifesta une seconde fois, en 1442, et probable 
 ment avec plus de sincerile que la premiere, 1'inteniion 
 d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le conseil s'y refusa encore. On 
 avail exige de lui le serraent de ne plus quitter le dogaU 
 D etail deja avance dans la vieillesse, conservani cepen- 
 dant beaucoup de force de tete et de caraciere, el jouis- 
 sant de la gloire d' avoir vu la republique etendre au loin 
 les limites de ses domaines pendant son administration. 
 
 Au milieu de ces prosperiies, de grands chagrins vin* 
 rent mettre a 1'epreuve la fermele de son ame. 
 
 Son fiis, Jacques Foscari,ful accuse, en 1445, d'avob 
 recii des presents de quelques princes ou seigneurs etran- 
 sers, notamment, disait-on, du due de Milan, Philippe 
 Visconti. C'etail non seulement une bassesse, mais une 
 infraction des lois positives de la republique. 
 
 Le conseil des dix traita celte affaire comme s'il se Cut 
 agi d'un dehl commis par un particulier obscur. L'ac- 
 cuse fut amene dcvant ses jugcs, devant le doge, qui ne 
 crut pas pouvoir s'abstenir de presider le tribunal. !> 
 il fut interroge, applique k la question, 1 declare coupabic, 
 et il entendit, de la bouche de son pere, 1'arret qui le 
 condamnait a un banissemenl perpetuel, et le releguait 
 k Naples de Romanic, pour y finir ses joars. 
 
 Embarque sur une galere pour se rendre au heu de son 
 exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les solicitations du 
 doge obtinrent, non sans difficulte, qu'on lui assignal unt 
 autre residence. Enfin le conseil des dix lui permil do 
 se retirer a Trevise, en lui irnposant 1'obligation d'y res- 
 ter sous peine de mort, et de se presenter tous les jours 
 devant le gouverneur. 
 
 D y etait depuis cinq ans, lorsqu'un des chefs du conseil 
 des dix fut assassine. Les soupoons se porterent sur lui : 
 un de ses domestiques qu'on avail vu a Venise ful arrtte 
 et subit la torture. Les bourreaux ne purentlui arracher 
 aucun aveu. Ce terrible iribunal se fil amener le mailrvj, 
 le soumit aux memes epreuves ; il resista & tous les tour- 
 menLs, ne cessant d'atlester son innocence ; 5 mais on ne 
 
 1 E dataeli la corda per avere da lui la veriU ; chiamato il 
 coosiglk) de' ciieci eolU giunta, nel quale ti messer lo doge, fa 
 centenzia'.o. [Marin Sanuto Vite de' Duchi, F. Foscari.) 
 
 3 E fu tormcnlato ne mai confeasb cosa alcuna, pure parve 
 al consiglio de' dieri di confinarlo in vita alia Canea. (Ibid.) 
 Voici le lexte do jugemeat : " Cum Jacobus Fogcari per ut- 
 casknem percusiionis et mortis Hermolai Donaii fuit retentui 
 et examioaUu, et propter signincaiiones, teslificatiooe* et 
 criptonu quae habentur contra eum, clare apparel ipsam e*96 
 ream ctiminis pra-.iicti, ted propter inranlationes, et verba qua 
 sibi reperta tunt, de quibus existil indicia manifesta, videtur 
 propter obit inatam menttm uarn, non ease po$>ibile extranere 
 ab ip*o illam veriiatem, qua; clara est per scripturas et pel 
 teKificatiooes. qooniam in tune aliquam nee vocern, nee geni 
 turn, led Rolum intra denies voces ipse videtur et auditor infra 
 e loqui. etc. . . . Taroen non est standum in is'is terminis, 
 propter bonorem status nostri et pro multis reepectibus, pne- 
 certim quod regimen nostrum occupatur in hac re et quia i,, 
 terdictum est xmplius progredere : vadit pan qnod dictus ,'a- 
 eobiH Foscari, propter ea quz habentnr de illo, mittatur io 
 jum in civitate Caneae," etc. Notice sur le pructs d*
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 r it dans cette Constance que de Pobstination ; de ce 
 qu'il taisait le fait, on conctut que ce fait eristait : on 
 Itribua sa fcrmete a la magie, et on le relegna i la 
 Ccnee. De cette tcrre lointaine, le banni, digne alors 
 de quclque phie, ne eessait d'ecrire a snn pere, a 
 amis, pour obtenir quelque aduucissement a sa depor- 
 tation. Vobtcnant rien, et sacham que la terreur qu'in- 
 spirait le cooseii des dix ne ha permetlait pas d'esperer 
 de trourer dans Venise une seule voix qui s'elevat 
 sa faveur, 3 fit une lettre pour le nonveau due de Milan, 
 par laqueDe, au nom des bons offices que Sforce avail 
 rcetis du chef de la repnbuque, 3 implorah son inter- 
 vention en favour d'un innocent, da fils do doge. 
 
 Cette lettre, scion qaelqaes historicns, fut confiee a 
 on marchand qui avail promis de la faire parvenir an 
 due, mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il y avail a craindre 
 en se rendant Finiermediaire d'one pareille coirespou- 
 dance, se hila, en debarquant a Venise, de la remeOre 
 au chef du tribunal. Une autre version, qui paralt plus 
 sure, rapporte que la lettre fut surprise par on espion, 
 attache aux pas de Fexjle. 1 
 
 Ce fut un nouveau delit dont on eat a ponir Jacques 
 Foscari. Reclamer la. protection d'un prince etranger 
 etah un crime, dans un sujet de la repabuque. Une ga- 
 lere partit sor-le-champ poor Pamener dans les prisons 
 de Venise. A eon arrivee, 3 fut soumis a Fnstrapade. 
 C'etah one singauere destinee poorle dtoyen d'une re- 
 pubHque et pour le fib d*nn prince, d'etre trots fats dans 
 sa vie applique a U question. Cette fbts la torture etak 
 d'autant pros odieuse, qo'efle n'avait point d'objet, le 
 r ah qu'on avah a hri reprocher etant incontestabl 
 
 Quand on demanda a Paccose, dans les intervaBes qoe 
 les boorreaux lui accordaient, poorqooi 3 avail ecrit la 
 lettre qu'on hi prodnisak, 3 repondh qoe c'etait preeise- 
 roent parccqu'il ne doutah pas qu'e&e ne tombat entre 
 les mains du tribunal, qoe tout e autre voie hri avah etc 
 fennee poor faire parvenir ses reclamations, quTl s*at- 
 tendait bien qu'on le ferait amener a Venise, mais qu'il 
 avah tout risque poor avoir la consolation de voir sa 
 femme, son pere, et sa mere, encore une fots. 
 Sur cette naive declaration, on i&ma sa 
 0*6x3 ; mais on Paggrava, en j ajoutant quH serah re- 
 tenu en prison pendant on an. Cette rigueor, dont on 
 us ait covers un maibeureux etail sans doute odieose ; 
 mais cette polhiqoe, qoi defendah k tons les choreas de 
 lake inlervour les en-angers dans les aflakes inttiieuies 
 de la ipubBqae, etak sage. EDe etak chez eox 
 
 Ltustorien Paul Morosini* a conte qoe Pempereor 
 Frederic VL pendant qoll eta. PMte des Venkiens, de- 
 manda. comme one faveor particu!iere,Padmisskio d'un 
 choyen dans le grand conseO, et la grace d'un anoien 
 gouverneur de Candie, gendre do doge, et "^pftt poor 
 
 Pune ni Fautre. 
 
 Cepcndant OB ne pot iiiluser an condamne la 
 ion de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses parents, qu"D 
 aEah quitter poor tonjoon. Cette dernrere entrerue 
 
 rie Horirhe e ammicKe. per fonur U 8toria drii eccelui 
 
 . 
 
 Maria Smmoto. VHe de* Ducki. F. PoKari.) 
 3 HJom <U Vaoeaa. Eb. S3. 
 
 meme fut acconmagnee de cruautf, par * s^ren: c*. 
 conspection, qui retenak lee epancbements de la <Ji deal 
 paterneBeet conjugate. Ce ne fat point dans Fmlrrieit 
 de lew appartement,ce fut dans one des grandes caBes 
 du palais, qu'une femme, accompagnee de ses qoatn 
 fib, lint faire les denrien adieux a son raari, qu'nn per* 
 octogenaire et la dogaresse aocablee d^mfirimtes, /Kar- 
 en! on moment de la triste consohtion de meter lean 
 Urines a cefles de leor exile. Dse jetak lean gennox, 
 en leur tendant des mains dkloquees par la tortnre, pon 
 les supplier de soCiciter qudque adoocissement a la 
 sentence qui renait d'etre prononcee centre luL Son 
 pere eut le courage de hrirepondre: "Non.moBfb, 
 5pectez Totre arrft, et obeissez sans murmorea U 
 A ces mots 3 se separa de nnfortond, 
 
 qui fat car-le-champ embarque poor Candie, 
 
 L'antiquite k avee aulant dThorreor qoe d'adnnratiaB 
 an pere condamnant ses fib 
 
 cet effort qui parait au-dessus de la nature -. f - 
 
 mab iei, ou la premiere fante n'ctak qo'ane fkibleBW, oa 
 la seconde n'etait pas proovee, oft la UutMtme n'avak 
 rien de criminel, comment cooceroir la Constance d*oB 
 pere, qoi vok torturer took fob son fits oniqae, qai Pen- 
 lend condamner sans preoves, et qui n'edate pas en 
 piaintes; qui oe Faborde que pour loi montrer on visage 
 pms austere qu'ancndri, et qoi, an moment de s'en se> 
 parer poor jamais, hri interdk les murmuies et jmqa'a 
 1'esperance? Comment expnqoer one si croeDe drcoo- 
 spectkn, si ce n'est en avooant, a notre honte, qoe la 
 tyrannie peat obtenir de Pespcce tmnuw les *m 
 efforts one h verta? La serritnde anrak-efle son h6- 
 rolsme comme la Gberte ? 
 
 Qndoae temps apres ce jogement, on decoovrit le ve- 
 ritable anteor de Passassmat, dont Jacqoes Foscari por- 
 tahkpeine; njak n'etah pins temps de rq>arer ceoe 
 atroce injustice, Ve malheareax etak mart dans sa prison. 
 
 11 me reste a raconter la sake des malwon du pere. 
 LTustoire les attribue a Fimpatieoce qu'avaieat ses 
 emis et ses rivanx de voir vaqoer sa place. g*f 
 accuse fbrmeflcmeot Jacqoes Loredan, Pan des chefs 
 da consei des dix, de s'etre ivre eontre ce viemard ; 
 
 divisai! tears i 
 
 Franeois Foscari avah essaye de la faire cesser, en 
 offrant sa flfe a PiDustre amiral Pierre Lareaaa, poor 
 de ses fils. L'aEiance avakcterejtee,etrMuinkiedes 
 
 *twe. <fte It fUKoie dec jmgramt foot da 
 
 HwporknnMia*e<at ndre. luwlei 
 
 IrxBfj d'hancw et de frtrrar. per M 
 
 sjinSAtiit
 
 356 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 deux tajniilcs s'en etait accrue. Dans tous les conseils, 
 dans loutes les affaires, le doge irouvail loujours les 
 Loredao prets i combaitre ses propositions ou ses in- 
 tereis. II !ui echappa un jour de dire qu'il ne se croi- 
 rait rseilement prince que lorsquc Pierre Loredan au- 
 rait cesse de vivre. Cet aniiral tnourut quelque temps 
 apres d'une incommodile assei prompte qu'on ne put 
 exphquer. II n'en fallut pas Javanlagc aux malveillants 
 pour insmuer que Francois Foscari, ayant desire cette 
 mart, pouvait bien 1' avoir ha tee. 
 
 Ces bruits s'accrediierent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
 perir subitement Marc Loredan, frere de Pierre, et cela 
 dans le moment ou, en sa qualile d'avogador, il instrui- 
 cait un proces centre Andre Donate, gendre du doge, 
 accuse de peculaL. On ecrivit sur la tombe de 1'aniiral 
 qu'il avail cte enleve a la patrie par le poison. 
 
 D n'y avail aucune preuve, aucun indice centre Fran- 
 CtMB Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soupconner. 
 Quand sa vie entiere n'aurail pas dementi une imputa- 
 tion aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promet- 
 Uit ni I'impunite ni meme Indulgence. La mort tra- 
 gique de Tun de ses predeccsseurs Ten avertissait, et 
 d 'avail que irop d'exemples domestiques du soin que 
 le ccnseil des dix prenait d'humilier le chef de la re- 
 pBbique. 
 
 C ependant, Jacques Loredan, (Us de Pierre, croyait ou 
 frlgn.it de croire avoir a venger les pertes de sa famille. ' 
 Dans ses lirrcs de comptes (car il faisait Ic commerce, 
 eomroe a cette epoque presque tous les patrie icns), il 
 avail inscrit de sa propre main le doge au nombre de ses 
 debileurs, pour la mort, y etait- il dit, de mon pere et de 
 too oncle. 1 De I'autre cote 1 du registre, il avail laisse 
 ^Hf page en blanc, pour y faire mention du recouvre- 
 ment de cette deUe, et en efiet, apres la perte du doge, il 
 ecrivit sur son registre : il me 1'a payee, Cha pagata. 
 
 Jacques Loredan ful elu membre du conseil des dix, 
 en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien de profi- 
 ler de cette occasion pour accomplir la vengeance qu'il 
 meditait. 
 
 Le doge, en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il venait 
 de subir, pendant le proces de too fils, s'etait retire au 
 food de son palais : incapable de se livrer aux affaires, 
 coiwunie de chagrins, accaWi de vkillesse, il ne se mon- 
 trait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
 drake, si facile a expnquer dans un vieillard octoge- 
 aire si malheureux, deplut aux decemvirs, qui voulu- 
 rent j voir un murmare centre leurs airets. 
 
 Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses col- 
 4-gues du tort que les infirmites du doge, son absence 
 des cofMetb, apportaient k 1'expedition des affaires ; il 
 but par hasarder et reussit a faire agreer la proposition 
 de le deposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Ven- 
 ice avail pour prince un homme dans la caducite : 1'u- 
 sage et les lois y avaienl pourvu : dans ces circonstan- 
 ees le doge etait supplee par le plus ancien du conseil. 
 Ici, eda ne suffisail pas aux ennemis de Foscari. Pour 
 Jonner pins de solennite a la deliberation, le conseil des 
 Jir demanda une adjonction de vinst-cinq senalcurs ; 
 mais comme on n'en enonfait pas Tobjel, ct que IP grand 
 conseil etait loin de le soupconner, il se trouva que Marc 
 f oscari, frere du doge, leur nit donne pour 1'un des ad- 
 Au lieu de I'admettre a la deliberation, ou de 
 
 reclamer contre ce choix, on enferma ce senateur dans 
 une chambre separee, et on lui fit jurer de ne jamais 
 parler de cette exclusion qu'il eprouvait, en lui decla- 
 rant qu'il y allait de sa vie ; ce qui n'empecha pas qu'on 
 inscrivit son nom au bas du decret, comme s'll y cut 
 pris part. 1 
 
 Quajid on en vint ^ la deliberation, Loredan la provo- 
 qua en cs termes. J " Si 1'utilite publique doit imposer 
 silence a tous les intereis prives, je ne doute pas que 
 nous ne prenions aujourd'hui une mesure que la patrie 
 reclame, que nous lui devons. Les etats nc peuvent 
 se maintenir dans un ordre de choses immuable : vous 
 n'avez qu'a voir comme le notre est change, et combien 
 il le scrait davantage s'il n'y avail 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, 1'encombrement des affaires, 
 et la legerete avec laquelle les plus importantes sent 
 decidees ; la licence de notre jeunesse, le peu d'assi- 
 duite des magislrats, 1'introduclion de nouveautes dan- 
 gereuses. Quel est 1'effet de ces desordres ? de com- 
 promeltre noire consideration. Quellc en cst la cause ? 
 I'absence d'un chef capable de moderer les uns, de di- 
 riger les autres, de donner 1'exemple k lous, el de main- 
 tenir la force des lois. 
 
 " Ou est le temps ou nos decrets elaient aussitot ex- 
 ecutes que rendus? oil Francois Carrare se trouvait 
 investi dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir etre seulcnient 
 informe que nous volitions lui faire la guerre ? Nous 
 avons vu tout le contraire dans la derniere guerre con- 
 tre le due de Milan. Mallieureuse la republique qu, 
 est sans chef! 
 
 " Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenients et 
 leurs suites deplorables, pour vous affliger, pour vous 
 effrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que vous 6te 
 les maitres, les conservaleurs de cet etat fonde par vos 
 peres, el de la liberte que nous devons a leurs travatur 
 a leurs institutions. Ici, le mal indique le remede. 
 Nous n'avons point de chef, il nous en faut un. Notre 
 prince est noire ouvrage,, nous avons done le droll de 
 juger son merite quand il s'agit de 1'elire, el son inca- 
 pacite quand elle se manifeste. J'ajouterai que le 
 peuple, encore bien qu'il n'ait pas le droil de pronon- 
 cer sur ies actions de ses maitres, apprcndra ce chan- 
 gement avec transport. C'est la Providence, je n'en 
 doute pas, qui lui inspire ellc-meme ces dispositions, 
 pour vous avertir que la republique reclame cette reso- 
 lution, et que le sort de 1'etat est en vos mains." 
 
 Ce discours n'eprouva que de timides contradictions ; 
 cependant, ladeliberaiion dura huil jours. L'assemblee, 
 ne se jugeanl pas aussi sure de 1'approbation univer- 
 selle que 1'oraieur voulail le lui faire croire, desirait que 
 le doge donnat lui-meme sa demission. II 1'avail deja 
 proposee deux fois, el on n'avail pas voulu 1'accepltr. 
 
 Aucunu loi ne portail que le prince fut revocable : il 
 etail au contraire k vie, et les exemples qu'on pouvait 
 citer de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient que de 
 lelles revolulions avaienl loujours etc le resullal d'un 
 mouvement populaire. 
 
 Mais d'ailleurs, si le dogs pouvait tre depose, ce n'etait 
 pas assurement par un tribunal compose d'un petit norr>- 
 bre de membres, instituc pour punir les crimes, et nulie- 
 
 1 Hue? 'amen injurie* quamris iir.iiinarias non tarn ad 
 i rfvocmverat Jaeoous l^medaou* defunciorum DC 
 
 MUll fevoCBvBm ^mcvuiiB uauicu*iu uciuit\,iui uin mmr 
 
 qiun in *beoeduium rindicum opporuua. (Palazxi 
 
 FaMrjlM^k*.) 
 
 T lW * rtUMMn VsnitiMM d* VianoJo. 
 
 1 II faut copcrvianl rpmxrnuer que dans la nolir- o I I'oc 
 ~-on'<" re fait, la deliberation) est rapportee. que let rinf^ 
 cinq adjoinu j *oot oomtnes. et que le nom de Marc t 
 ae s'jr irouve pa*. 
 
 9 Cede baraocne e Et dan* la n. 'ice e.t*e ct-Jmnf
 
 THE TWO FOSCART. 
 
 357 
 
 ment invest! du droit de revoquw ce que le corps souve- 
 rain de I'etat avail fait. 
 
 Cependant le tribunal arrta que les six conseillers de 
 la seigneurie, et les chefs du conseil des dix, se Irans- 
 jiorteraient aupres du doge, pour lui signifier que Pex- 
 ccllentissime conseil avail juge convenable qu'il abdiqual 
 one dignile donl son age nc lui permettait plus de rem- 
 pbr les fonctions. On lui donna 1500 .locals d'or pour 
 son enlretien, et ringt-quatre heures pour se decider. ' 
 
 Foscari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup dc gra- 
 vite, que deux foe il aval* voulu se demettre de sa charge; 
 qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avail exige dc lui le 
 serment de ne plus reiterer cetle demande ; que la Pro- 
 vidence avah prolonge ses jours pour I'eprouver et pour 
 Paffliger ; que cependant on n'etait pas en droit de re- 
 procher sa longue vie k un homme qui avail employe 
 quatre-vingt-quatre ans au sen-ice de la republique; 
 qu'il etait prSt encore a lui sacrifier sa vie ; mais que, 
 pour sa dignite, il la lenaii de la republique entire, et 
 qu'il se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, quand la 
 volonte generate se serail legalemenl manifestee. 
 
 Le lendemain, k 1'heure indiquee, les conseillers et les 
 chefs des dix se presenierenU II ne voulut pas leur don- 
 ner d'autre reponse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-le- 
 champ, lui envoya demander encore tme ibis sa resolu- 
 tion, seance tenante, et, la reponse ayant etc la meme, 
 on prononca que le doge etait releve de son serment et 
 depose de sa dignite : on lui assigna une pension de 
 1500 ducats d'or, en lui enjoignant de sortir du palais 
 dans huit jours, sous peine de voir tous ses bieas con- 
 fisques.* 
 
 Le lendemain, cc decret fut porte au doge, et ce fut 
 Jacques Loredan qui cut la cruelle joie de le lui presen- 
 ter. D repondit : " Si j'avais pu prevoir que ma vieil- 
 " i prejudiciable k I'etat, le chef de la republique 
 ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat, pour preferer sa 
 di^nite a la patrie ; mais cette vie lui ayant etc utile 
 pendant tant d'annees, je voulais lui en consacrer jus- 
 qu'au dernier moment. Le decret est rendu, je m'y 
 conformerai." Apres avoir parle ainsi, il se depouilla 
 des marques de sa dignite, remit 1'anneau ducal qui fut 
 brise en sa presence, et des le jour suivant il quitta ce pa- 
 lais, qu'il avail habile pendant trente-cinq ans, acconv- 
 paffne de son frere, de ses parents, et de ses amis. Un 
 secretaire, qui se trouva sur le perron, 1'invita k des- 
 cendre par un escalier derobe, afin d'eviter la fbule du 
 peuple, qui s'eiait rassemb'.e dans les co'irs, mais il s'y 
 refusa, disant qu'il voulait descendre par oil il etait 
 monte ; et quand il fat an bas de Tescalicr des geants, il 
 se retouma, appuye sur sa bequille, vers le palais, en 
 proferant ces paroles: " Mes services m'y avaient ap- 
 pe!e, la malice de mes ennemis m'en fail sortir." 
 
 La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avail 
 peut-etre desire sa mort, e"tait, eraue de respect et d'at- 
 tendrissement.' Rentre dans sa maison, il recommanda 
 h sa famille d'oublier les injures de ses ennemis. Per- 
 sonne dans les divers corps de I'etat ne se crut en droit 
 
 clamation du conseil des dix prescrm .e silence le ph* 
 absolu sur cette affaire, sous peine de oort. 
 
 Avant de donner un succcsseur k Fs-v>eois Foscar 
 une nouvel'.e loi fut rendue, qui defendai* -iu dopi 
 d'ouvrir et de lire, autremenl qu'en presence lie its con- 
 seillers, les depeches des ambassadeurs de i? repub- 
 lique, et les lettres des princes etrangcrs. ' 
 
 Les electeurs entrerent au conclave, et nomm-ent an 
 dogat Paschal Malipier, le 30 octobre 1457. Lacloch* 
 de Sainl-Marc, qui annoncait k Venise son nouvcan 
 prince, vint frapper 1'oreillede Francois Foscari; celt* 
 fbis sa fermete 1'abandonna, il eprouva un tel s^isisse- 
 ment, qu'il mourut le lendemain. 5 
 
 La republique arreta qu'on lui rendrait les monies hon- 
 neurs funebres que s'il fut mort dans 1'exercice de sa 
 dignite ; mais lorsqu'on se presenta pour enlever se 
 restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marine Nani, de- 
 clara qu'elle ne le souffrirait point ; qu'on ne devail paj 
 trailer en prince apres sa mort celui que vivant on avail 
 de*pouiile de la couronne, et que, puisqu'il avail consume 
 ses biens au service de Petal, elle saurait consacrer sa 
 dot a lui faire rendre les demiers honneurs. 1 On lie tint 
 aucun compte de cette resistance, el malgre les protes. 
 tations de Pancienne dogaresse, le corps fut enleve, re- 
 vetu des ornemens ducaux, expose en public, et les ob- 
 seques furent celebrees avec la pompe accouiumee. Le 
 nouveau doge assista au convoi en robe de senateur. 
 
 La pitie qu'avait inspiree le malheur de ce vieillard, 
 ne fut pas tout-k-fait sterile. Un an apres, on osa db 
 que le conseil des dix avail outrepasse ses poutoirs, et 
 il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'in- 
 gerer k Pavenir de jug er le prince, k moins que ce ne 
 fut pour cause de felonie.* 
 
 Un acle d'aulorite tel que !a deposition d'un doge h> 
 amovible de sa nature, auroit pu exciter un souleve- 
 ment general, ou au moins occasioner une division 
 dans une republique autrement constituee qe Venise. 
 Mais de puis Irois ans, il existait dans ceDe-ci one 
 magistrature, ou plutoi une autorite, devant laqoeOe 
 tout derail se laire. 
 
 Extraitde FHistcire des RpubEques ItaKemesthtwtayen 
 Age, pear J. C. L. Simonde de Sixmondi, torn. z. 
 LE doge de Venise, qui avail prevenu par ce traite UIM 
 gnerre non moins dangereuse que celle qu r il avail ter- 
 minee presque en m->me temps par le traite de Ix>di, 
 etait alors parvenu \ une extreme vieillesse. Francois 
 Foscari occupait cette premiere dignite de Petal des le 
 15 avril 1423. Quoiqu'il fQt deja age de plus de cin- 
 quanie-un ans k Pepoque de son election, il etait cepen- 
 dant le plus jeune des quarante-un electeurs. H avail 
 eu beaucoup de peine k parvenir an rang qull convoi- 
 tait, et son election avail etc conduite avec beaucoup 
 d'adresse. Pendanl plusieurs tours de scrutin ses amis 
 les plus reles s'etaient abstenus de hu donner leur suf- 
 frage, pour que les autres ne le considerassent pas comiue 
 un concurrent redoutable.* Le conseil des dix craignart 
 
 des'etonner,qu'un prince inamovibleeutete depose sans son credit parmi la noblesse pauvrc, parcequ r t avail 
 qu'on lui reprochat rien ; que I'etat cut perdu son chef, ; cherche a se la rendre favorable, tandis qu'il eta.it pro 
 H Pinsji du senat, et du corps souverain lui-meme. Le ; curateur de Sainl-Marc, en faisant em;>loyer p<us do 
 peuple seul laissa ^chapper quelques regrels : une pro- ! trente mifle ducats k doter des jeunes hlles de bonne 
 
 1 Ce decret est rapport* tertuenement dans la notice. 
 
 2 I-a notice rapporte auni ce decree 
 
 3 On lit dam la notice CM propre mots ; " Sa fosw sUlo in 
 wro potere roleorieri k) arrebbero restituito " 
 
 21 
 
 1 Hist, di Venitia. di Paolo Morosini. lib. S3 
 9 Hist, di Pietro Justiniuii. lib. 8. 
 
 3 Hist. d'Eenalio. lib. & cap. 7. 
 
 4 Ce deeiet estdu25 Oetobre. 145P. L notice b rapMm. 
 
 5 Marin Sannto, Vile de' Duchi di Veoeni, p. 867
 
 3o8 
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 maison, ou k etab'.ir des jeunes gentilshomines. On affreux tourmens, sans reussir a en tirer aucur.e ccm 
 eraignait encore sa nombreuse famille, car alors il etait >. fession. Malgre sa denegation, le conseil des dix !e 
 pere de quatre enfans, et marie de nouveau ; enfin on .condamna a etre iransporte a la Canee, et accorda ur.e 
 redoutait son ambition et son gout pour la guerre. L'opi- ' recompense a son Helateur. Mais les horribles douleur* 
 ion que ses adversaires s'etaienl fbrmee de lui fut veri- \ que Jacob Foscari avail eprouvees, avaient trouble sa 
 fiee par les eveneroens ; pendant trente-quaJre ans que raison ; ses persecuieurs, touches de ce dernier malheur, 
 Foscari fut a la tete de la republique, elie ne cessa point ! permirent qu'on le ramenat h Venise le 26 mai 1451. 
 de combattre. Si les hostilites etaient suspendues du- j D erabrassa son pere, il puisa dans ses exhortation* 
 rant quelques mois, c'etail pour rccommencer bientoi quekjue courage et quelque calme, et il fut reconauit 
 
 avec plus de vigueur. Ce ful I'epoque oil Venise etendii 
 on empire sur Brescia, Bergame, Ravenne, el Creme, 
 oil eOe fonda sa domination de Lombardie, el parut 
 sans cesse sur le point d'asservir toute cette province. 
 Profbnd, courageux, inebranlable, Foscari communiqua 
 aux conseils son propre caractere, et ses talens lui firent 
 obtenir plus dlnfluence sur la republique, que n'avaient 
 exerce la plupart de ses predecesseurs. Mais si son am- 
 bition avail eu pour but I'agrandissement de sa famille, 
 efle fut erueUement trompee : irois de ses fils moururcnt 
 dans les hint annees qui survirent son election : le qua- 
 Irieme, Jacob, par lequeJ la maison Foscari s'est per- 
 petuee, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des dix, et 
 empotsonna par ses malheurs les jours de son pere. ' 
 
 Eu effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
 envers le chef de 1'etat, lorsqu'il le voyait plus fort par 
 ses talens et sa popularite, reillait sans cesse sur Fos- 
 cari, pour le punir de son credit et de sa gktire. Au 
 mois de fevrier 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, Florentin, 
 exile k Venise, accusa en secret Jacques Foscari aupres 
 des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'avoir recu du due Philippe 
 "Viscomi, des presens d'argent et de joyaux, par les 
 mains des gens de sa maison. Telle etait I'odieuse 
 procedure doptee k Venise, que sur cette accusation 
 secrete, le fiis du doge, du representant de la majeste 
 de la repubuqoe, fut raise k la torture. On lui arracha 
 par 1'estrapaiSe Paveu des charges portees contre lui ; 
 il fut relegue p>.-w le reste de ses jours k Napoli de Ro- 
 manie, avec obligation de se presenter chaque matin au 
 commandant de la place.* Cependant, le vaisseau qui 
 le portait ayant louche k Trieste, Jacob, grievemenl 
 malade des suites de la torture, et plus encore de 1'hu- 
 miliatinn qu'il avail eprouvee, demanda en grace au 
 conseil des dix de n'etre pas envoye plus loin. II obtint 
 cette faveur, par une deliberation du 28 decembre 1446 ; 
 3 fut rappele k Trevise, et il eut la liberte d'habiter tout 
 le Trevisan indifieremment.* 
 
 Dvivait en paixk Trevise; et la fiP ~Je Leonard Con- 
 Urini, qu'il avail epousee le 10 fevrier 1441, elail venue 
 e joindre dans son exil, lorsque, le 5 novembre 1450, 
 Ahnoro Donate, chef du conseil des dix, fut assassine. 
 Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano Gritti et 
 Antonio Venieri, porterent leur soupcons sur Jacob 
 Foscari, parcequ'un domestique a lui, nomine Olivier, 
 avail etc vu cc soir-lk meme k Venise, et avail des pre- 
 miers donne la nouvede dc eel assassinat. Olivier fut 
 mis k la torture, mais il nia jusqu'a la fin, avec on cour- 
 age mebranlable, le crime dont on I'accusait, quoique 
 
 es juges eussent la barbaric de lui faire donner jusqu'k etait panse de ses blessures. Ce fils demandait em-ore 
 q'tatre-vingt tours d'estrapade. Cependant, comme la grace de mourir dans sa maison. " Retourne h ton 
 Jacob Foscan avail de puissans motifs d'inunitie conlre " exil, mon fils, puisque la patrie 1'ordonne," lui Ail If 
 ecnnseildesdixquiravaitcondamne, etquilemoignait doge, "et soumets-toia sa volonte." Mais en ret Irani 
 
 1 1% haine au doge son pere, on sssaya de mettre k son j 
 
 -nm Jac-A k la torture, et Pon proJongea contre lui ces j 1 Marin Sanuto, p. 1139 M. AnL SaNel) ,o O'.ti Ul 
 
 immediatement k la Canee. ' Sur ces entrefaites, Xico- 
 las Erizzo, homme deja note pour un precedent crime, 
 confessa, en mourant, que c'etait lui qui avoit tue Al- 
 moro Donato.* 
 
 Lc malheurcux doge, Francois Foscari, avail deja 
 cherche, a plusieurs reprises, a abdiquer une dignite si 
 funeste a lui-meme et a sa famille. H lui semblait 
 que, redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, comme il 
 n'inspirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, on n'acca- 
 blere.it plus son fils par ces effroyables persecutions. 
 Abattu par la mort de ses premiers enfans, il avoit vou- 
 lu, des le 26 juin, 1433, deposer une dignite, durant 
 1'eiercice de laquelle sa patrie avail etc lourmentee par 
 la guerre, par la peste, et par des malheurs de lout 
 genre. 1 II renouvela cetle proposition apres lesjuge- 
 mens rendus contre son fils ; mais le conseil des dix le 
 retenait forcement sur le Irone, comme U retenait son 
 fils dans les fers. 
 
 En rain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaque 
 jour au gouverneur de la Canee, reclamail contre 1'in- 
 justice de sa demiere sentence, sur laquelle la confession 
 d'Erizzo ne laissait plus de doutes. En vain il deman- 
 dait grace au farouche conseil des dix ; il ne pouvait 
 obtenir aucune reponse. Le desir de revoir son pere et 
 sa mere, arrives tous deux au dernier termc de la %-ieil- 
 lesse, le desir de revoir une patrie dont la cruaute ne 
 meritait pas un si lendre amour, se changerenl en luj 
 en une vraie fureur. Ne pouvanl relourner a Venisc 
 pour j vivre libre, il voulul du moins y aller cherchei 
 un supplice. U ecrivil au due de Milan a la fin de mai 
 1456, pour implorer sa protection aupres du senat : et 
 sachanl qu'une lelle leltre serait consideree comme un 
 crime, il 1'exposa lui-meme dans un lieu ou U etait stir 
 qu'elle serail saisie par ies espions qu: Tentouraienu 
 En efTet, la lettre etant deferee au conseil des dix, oa 
 1'envoya chercher aussitot, et il ful reconduil a Venise 
 le 19 juillet 1456.* 
 
 Jacob Fosrari ne nia point sa lettre, il raconta en 
 meme temps dans quel bui il 1'avait ecrite, et comment 
 il 1'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. 
 Malgre ces aveux, Foscari fut remis k la torture, et on 
 lui donna trenle tours d'estrapade, pour voir s'il confir- 
 merail ensuite ses depositions. Quand on le detacha 
 de la corde, on le trouva dechire par ces horribles se- 
 cousses. Les juges permirent alors a son pere, a sa 
 mere, a sa femme, el a ses fils, d'aller le voir dans sa 
 prison. Le vieux Foscari, appuye sur son baton, ne se 
 traina qu'avec peine dans la chambre ou son fils unique 
 
 1 Marin Sin:o, p 9GB. 
 
 5 IbH . -JW. 
 
 i Ibid. Vite. p. 1121 
 
 T. IV. f. 187. 
 
 2 Ibid. 1139. 
 
 3 Ibid. p. 1032. 
 
 4 Ibid. p. 116i
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 35J 
 
 4ans con palais, ce malheureux vieillard s'eraoouit, 
 epuise par la violence qu'il s'etait faite. Jacob derail 
 encore passer une annee en prison a la Canee, avant 
 qu'on lui rendit la meme liberte limitee a laqueUe il 
 etait reduit avact cet e venement ; mats a peine fut-i! 
 deharque sur cette terre d'eiil, quil y mourut de dou- 
 ,eur.' 
 
 Des-lors, et pendant quinze mots, le vieux doge acca- 
 ble d'annees et de chagrins, ne recourra plus la force 
 de son corps ou celle de son ame ; il n'assistait plus a 
 aucun des eonseils, et 3 ne pouvait plus remplir aucune 
 des fonctions de sa dignite. II etait entre dans sa 
 quatrt- vingt-sixieme annee, et si le conseil des dix avail 
 etc susceptible de quelque pitie, il aurait anendn en 
 silence la fin, sans doule nrochaine, d'une carriere mar- 
 quee part tant de g".oire et tant de malheurs. Mais le 
 chef du conseil des dix eiart alors Jacques Loredano, 
 fils de Marc, et neveu de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui 
 toute leur Tie avaient etc les ennemis acharaes da vieux 
 doge. Ils avaient transmis leur haine a lean enfants, 
 et cette vieilie rancune n'etait pas encore Mtirfaitf.. 1 A 
 1'instigaiion de Loredano, JerOme Barbarigo, inquisi- 
 teur d'etat, proposa au conseil des dix, an mois d'oc- 
 lobre 1437, de soumettre Foscari a une nouvelle humi- 
 liation. Des que ce magistral ne pourait plus remplir 
 ses fooctioos, Barbarigo demanda qu'on nommat 
 autre doge. Le conseil, qui avail refuse par deux fob 
 I'abdication de Foscari, parceque la constitution ne 
 pourait la permeUre, hesita arant de se meltre en a 
 tradictioa arec ses propfes decrets. Les discussions 
 dans le conseil et la junte se prolongerent pendant halt 
 jours, jusque fort arant dans la nuh. Ce pendant, on 
 fit entrer dans I'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur 
 db Saint-Marc, et frere du doge, pour qu'il fut lie par 
 le redoutable serment du secret, et qu'il ne put arreter 
 les mesures de ses ennemis. Enfin, le conseil se rendit 
 aupres du doge, et lui demanda d'abdkjuer voloniaire- 
 ment un etnploi qu'il ne pourah plus exercer. " J*ai 
 jure" repondit le vieillard, u de remplir jusqu*ii ma 
 mort, selon mon honneur et ma conscience, les fonc- 
 tions auiqueiles ma patrie m'a appele. Je ne puis me 
 delier moi-me me de mon serment ; qu'un prdre des con- 
 seus dispose de moi, je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne le 
 devancerai pas." Alors une noureDe deliberation du 
 conseil de Ua Francois Foscari de son serment ducal, lui 
 as sura une pension de deux mule ducats pour le reste 
 de sa vie, et lui ordonna d'evacuer en trois jours le 
 palais, et de deposer les omemeus de sa dignite. Le 
 doge ayant remarque parmi les conseifiers qui lui por- 
 tereat cet ordre, un chef de la quarantie qu'il ne o 
 naissait pas, demanda son nom: "Jesuisle Bis de Marco 
 Memmo," lui dit le conseifler "Ah! ton pere etait 
 mon ami," lui dit le vieux doge, en soupiranU D donna 
 aussitot des crdres pour qu'on transportat ses efiets 
 dans une maison a lui ; et le lendemain, 23 octobre, on 
 le vit, se soutenant a peine, et appuye sur son vieux 
 frere, redescendre ces me'mes cscab'ers sur lesquefe, 
 trente-quatre ans aupararant, on Parait ru instaOe aree 
 tant de pompe, et traverscr ces nrfmes salles ou la repo- 
 blique avail recu ses sermens. Le people entier parut 
 iiioigne de tant de durete exercee conire un vieillard 
 qtf J respectait et qu'il aimait ; mais le conseil des dix 
 
 I Marin Sanoto. p. 1163. Navaiion Star. Vw.er. p. 1118. 
 i >*a.id: Storia dvile dC Venexiaoa. P. 11. L. VUL p. 
 
 .tt. p. ?;. 
 
 fit pubuer one defense de parier de cette revoiution, 
 sous peine d'etre traduit derant les inqutsiieurs d'etaU 
 Le 80 octobre, Pasqual Malipieri, p""iaiti^ir de Saint- 
 Marc, fut elu pour successeur de Foscari ; ceiui-ci n'eut 
 pas neanmoins PhumiuaUon de rivre sujet, la ;ii 1 
 avail regne. En pntffndam le son des cloches, qi too- 
 natent en actions de grace pour cette election, il OMMTOI 
 subhement d'une hemorragie causee par one veine qv 
 s'edata dans sa poitrioe. ' 
 
 'LE doge,b!essedetrouTer< 
 dicteur et un *iuM'in si amer dans son frere, hn dit. OB 
 jour en plein conseil: 'Messire Augustin, vous fakes 
 tout rotre possible pour hater ma mort ; vous vous flat- 
 tez de me succeder ; mais si les autres vous n'mniJMtiil 
 anssi bien one je vous connais, 3s n'auront garde d 
 vous elire.' La dessus il se leva, emu de colere, rentra 
 dans son appartement, et mourut qudqnes jours apres. 
 Ce frere contre leqnd fl s'etait emporte fut preciscmeai 
 le successeur qu'on hn donna. C'etait un mfrite dont 
 on aimait a tenir compte, surtout k un parent, de s'e'tre 
 mis en opposition avecle chef de la repnbhqoe." 1 Dam, 
 Hitlcirc de Fenaae, voL iL sec. xL p. 533. 
 
 IK 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 
 that the tragedy was written and sent to England some 
 one before I had seen Lady Morgan's work, which I* 
 only received on the 16th of August. I hasten, however, 
 to notice the coincidence, and to yield the originality of 
 the phrase to her who first placed il 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 accident- 
 ally) that there have been lately brought against me 
 charges of plagiarism. I have also had an anonymous 
 sort of threatening intimation of the same kind, appa- 
 rently with the intent of extorting money. To such 
 charges I have no answer to make. One of them is lu- 
 dicrous enough. I am reproached for having formed 
 the description of a shipwreck in verse from the narra- 
 tives of many actual shipwrecks in nrose, selecting soch 
 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 ; let it remain so. Whilstlhav* 
 been occupied in defending Poprt character, the lower 
 orders of Grub-street appear to have been assailing MIC 
 this is as it should be, both in them and in me. One of 
 the accusations in the nameless epistle aDuded to is stil 
 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 
 compliment to my literary powers which 1 ever received. 
 It states also " that a person has. been trying to mak* 
 
 1 Marin Stouto, Vile de' Duett di Veoena. p. 11CI 
 ChroBiem E^ofaiaam. T. XXL p. 99i Cfaktafat* m 
 Soldo btam Branua, T. XXL p. S91. Naiwt Stone 
 Venenu*. T. XXIIL p. 1130. JL A- Stbel&ca. Doc* 3L 
 
 u via. r. 3Di 
 
 3 The Venetian* appear to have had a punouar tare Mr 
 bnaUwthe beut of their Pop; the ahove nlfcjit - 
 nance of the kind the Doge Mweo Borbmrico; be w*s 
 eeeded far Us brather ACMUM BuWnc^
 
 360 
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 acquaintance with Mr. Townsend, 2 genueman of the 
 law, who was with me on business in Venice three 
 years ago, for the purpose of obtaining any defama- 
 Mty particulars of my life from this occasional visitor." 
 Mr. Townsend is welcome to say what he knows. I men- 
 tion these particulars merely to show the world in gen- 
 ial 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 imagi- 
 nation. 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 
 blinded by baseness and bigotry, I highly admire the 
 poetry of that and his other publications. 
 
 Mr. Southey, too, in his pious preface to a poem 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 tolera- 
 tion 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 perse- 
 cuted ; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel 
 and Diderot were sent to the Bastile, and a perpetual war 
 was waged with the whole class by the existing despotism. 
 In the next place, the French Revolution was not occa- 
 sioned by any writings whatsoever, but must have occur- 
 red had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion 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 alter- 
 ation. And the English Revolution (the first, 1 mean) 
 what was it occasioned by ? The Puritans were surely 
 as pious and moral as Wesley or his biographer ? Acts 
 acts on the part of government, and not writings against 
 them, have caused the past convulsions, and are tending 
 to the future. 
 
 I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolu- 
 tionist : I wish to see the English constitution restored, 
 and not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally 
 one by temper, with the greater part of my present prop- 
 erty in the funds, what have / to gain by a revolution ? 
 Perhaps I have more to lose in every way than Mr. Sou- 
 they, with all his places and presents for panegyrics and 
 abuse into the bargain. But that a revolution is inevi- 
 table, 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 writ- 
 ing ..ves of Wesley 1 One mode of worship is merely de- 
 stroyed by another. There never was, nor ever will be, a 
 country without a religion. We shall be told of France 
 again : bul it was only Paris and a frantic party, which 
 
 lor a moment upheld their dogmatic nonsense of theo phi- 
 lanthropy. The church of England, if overthrown, will 
 be swept away by the sectarians, and not by the sceptics. 
 People are too wise, too well-informed, too certain of 
 their own immense importance in the realms of space, 
 ever to submit to the impiety of doubt. There may be a 
 few such diffident speculators, like water in the ;jt..e sun 
 beam of human reason, hut they are very few j and their 
 opinions, without enthusiasm or appeal to th ; 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 an- 
 ticipated "death-bed repentance" of the objects of his 
 dislike ; and indulges himself in a pleasant " Vision of 
 Judgment," in prose as well as verse, full of impious 
 impudence. 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, notwithstanding the " diabolical pride" which 
 this pitiful renegado in his rancour would impute to 
 those who scorn him. Whether, upon the whole, th 
 good or evil of my deeds may preponderate, is not foi 
 me to ascertain ; but, as my means and opportunities 
 have been greater, I shall limit my present defence to an 
 assertion (easily proved, if necessary ) that I, " in my de 
 gree," have done more real good in any one given year, 
 since I was twenty, than Mr. Southey in the whole 
 course of his shifting and turncoat existence. There are 
 several actions to which I car. look back with an hones! 
 pride, not to be damped by the calumnies of a hireling. 
 There are others to which I recur with sorrow and re- 
 pentance ; but the only act of my life of which Mr. 
 Southey can have any real knowledge, as it was one 
 which brought me in contact with a near connexion ot 
 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 
 scattered 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 province 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 scrib- 
 bler of all works sitting down to deal damnation and de- 
 struction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat Tyler, th 
 Apotheosis of George the Third, and the Elegy on Mar- 
 tin the regicide, all shuffled together in his writing-desk. 
 One of his consolations appears to be a Latin note from 
 a work of a Mr. Landor, the author of " Gcbir," whose 
 friendship for Robert Southey will, it seems, " be an 
 honour to him when the ephemeral disputes and ephe- 
 meral reputations of the day are forgotten." I for one 
 neither enw him "the friendship," nor the glory in 
 reversion which is to accrue from it, like Mr. Thelus- 
 son's fortune in the third and fourth generation. 
 This friendship will probably be as memorable as his 
 own epics, which (as I quoted to him ten or twelve years 
 ago in English Bards) Person said "would be remem- 
 bered when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, and not ti. 
 then." For the present, I leave him.
 
 ( 361 ) 
 
 Cain; 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 Vow the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God bad m&de.Ge*. ui. 1 
 
 TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 THIS "MYSTERY or CAIN" is INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOf.. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE following scenes are intitled "a Mystery," in con- 
 formity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
 similar subjects, which were styled "Mysteries," or 
 "Moralities." The author has by no means taken the 
 same liberties with his subject which were common for- 
 merly, as. may be seen by any reader curious enough to 
 refer to those very profane productions, whether in 
 English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has 
 endeavoured to preserve the language adapted to his 
 characters ; and where it is (and this is but rarely) taken 
 from actual Scripture, he has made as little alteration, 
 even of words, as the rhythm would permit. The 
 reader will recollect that the book of Genesis does not 
 itate that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by " the 
 Serpent;" and that only because he was "the most 
 lubtil of all the beasts of the field." Whatever interpre- 
 lation the Rabbins and the Fathers may have put upon 
 ihis, I must take the words as I find them, and reply 
 with Bishop Watson upon similar occasions, when the 
 Fathers were quoted to him, as Moderator in the Schools 
 of Cambridge, "Behold the Book!" holding up the 
 Scripture. It is to be recollected that my present sub- 
 ject has nothing to do with the New Testament, to 
 which no reference can be here made without ana- 
 chronism. With the poems upon similar .topics I have 
 not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have 
 never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
 before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's 
 "Death of Abel" I have never read since I was eight 
 years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
 my recollection is delight; but of the contents, I remem- 
 ber only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
 Thirza. In the following pages I have called them 
 " Adah" and " Zillah," the earliest female names which 
 occur in Genesis ; they were those of Lamech's wives : 
 those of Cain and Abel are not called by their names. 
 Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have 
 caused the same in expression, I know nothing, and 
 ca;c 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 
 2 I 2 51 
 
 Old Testament. For a reason for this ex raordinarr 
 omission, he may consult "Warburton's Divine Lega- 
 tion ;" whether satisfactory or not, no better has yel 
 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 had been destroyed several times before the 
 creation of man. This speculation, derivod from the 
 different strata and the bones of enormous and un- 
 known animals found in them, is not contrary to the 
 Mosaic account, but rather confirms it ; as no human 
 bones have yet been discovered in those strata, al- 
 though 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 propor- 
 tionably powerful to the mammoth, etc., etc., is, of 
 course, a poetical fiction, to help him to make out Kii 
 case. 
 
 I ought to add, that there is a " Tramelogcdix'' J 
 Alfieri, called " Abel." I have never read that nor any 
 other of the posthumous works of the writer, cxcqH 
 his life. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 ADAH. 
 CAIN. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 WOMKIN. 
 ETE. 
 ADAH. 
 ZILLAH. 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 
 AKGEL or THE LORD. 
 LccirEK.
 
 3G2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Land without Paradise. Time, Sunrise. 
 
 ADAM, EVE, CAIN, ABEJ , ADAH, ZILLAH, 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 ! 
 
 EVE. 
 
 God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
 Morning from night, till then divided never 
 Who 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 ! 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thou silent? 
 
 CAIN. 
 Why should I speak 7 
 
 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. 
 
 Hut thou, my eldest-born, art silent still. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 T is belt*- I *hould be so. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 Wherefo.iesoT 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 1 na<r nought to ask. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 Nor aught to thank for? 
 
 CAIR. 
 
 No. 
 
 Dost thou not live ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Must I not die? 
 
 EVE. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
 To faU. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 And we must gather 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 serpents' words. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Why notT 
 
 The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge : 
 It was the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
 And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 
 
 EVE. 
 
 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 i. 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. 
 
 Cam, my son, 
 
 Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd, 
 And do as he doth. 
 
 [Exit ADAM and E* ft. 
 
 ZILLAH. 
 
 Wilt thou not, my brother ? 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow, 
 Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouso 
 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 '11 follow you anon. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 If not, I win 
 Return to seek you here. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 The peace of God 
 Be on your spirit, brother ! 
 
 [Exit ABEL, ZILLAH and ADAH
 
 CAIN. 
 
 363 
 
 CAIN (solus). 
 
 And this is 
 
 Life ! Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? because 
 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 he 
 Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 
 Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
 The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
 If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
 The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
 One answer to all questions, " 't was Mi will, 
 And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
 He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 
 I 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, 
 Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect, 
 Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
 Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
 Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
 Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
 In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
 Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
 Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls, 
 And the immortal trees which overtop 
 The cherubim-defended battlements ? 
 If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 
 Why should I quail from him who now approaches 7 
 Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
 Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
 As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
 Half of his immortality. And is it 
 So 7 and can aught grieve save humanity? 
 He cometh. 
 
 Enter LUCIFER. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Mortal! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Spirit, who art thou 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Master of spirits. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And being so, canst thou 
 Leave them, and walk with dust 7 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 I know the thoughts 
 Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 How! 
 
 You know my thoughts ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 They are the thoughts of all 
 Worthy of thought ; 't is your immortal part- 
 Which speaks within you. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 What immortal part 7 
 
 This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
 Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
 While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
 Vas pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 T"hev nave deceived thee ; thou shall live. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I lire, 
 
 But ave to die : and, living, see no thing 
 
 To make dsath hateful, save an innate clinging, 
 A loathsome and yet all invincible 
 Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
 Despise myself, yet cannot overcome 
 And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Thou livest, and must live for ever : think noi 
 The earth, which is thine outward covering, is 
 Existence it will cease, and thou wilt be 
 No less than thou art now. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 No less ! and why 
 No more? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 It may be thou shall be as we. 
 
 CAIN. 
 And ye 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Are everlasting. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Are ye happy 7 
 LUCIFER. 
 We are mighty. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Are ye happy 7 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 No : art thou 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 How should I be so ? Look on me ! 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Poor clay ! 
 And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I am : and thou, with all thy might, what art thoti f 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
 Would not have made thee what thou art. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ab 
 Thou look'st 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 I 
 
 CAIN. 
 Who? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 
 CAIN. 
 
 And heaven . 
 And all that in them is. So I have heard 
 His seraphs sing ; and so my father saiih. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 They say what they must sing and say, on paui 
 Of being that which I am and thou art 
 Of spirits and of men. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And what is that 7 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Souls *.io 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.
 
 364 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 'Fhat he may torture : let him ! He is great 
 
 But, in iiis 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 alone, 
 
 Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 
 
 Could he but crush himself, 't were the best boon 
 
 He ever granted : but let him reign on, 
 
 And multiply himself in misery ! 
 
 Spirits and men, at least we sympathize ; 
 
 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 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Thou speak'st to me of things which long have swum 
 In visions through my thought : I never could 
 Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
 My father and my mother talk to me 
 Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
 The gates of what they call their Paradise 
 Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
 Which 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 mine. My father is 
 Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
 Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
 Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
 A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
 The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
 The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
 My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
 Than the bird's matins ; and my Adah, my 
 Own and beloved, she too understands not 
 Tho mind which overwhelms me : never till 
 Now met I -aught to sympathize with me. 
 T is well I rather would consort with spirits. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And hadst thou not been fit by thine own soul 
 For such companionship, I would not now 
 Hare stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
 Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
 
 CAIN. 
 Ah ! didst tkou 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 ? 
 I )m 1 plant things prohibited within 
 The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
 By heir own innocence? I would have mav'e ye 
 Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth so thrust ye 
 Because " VP should not eat the fruits of life, 
 A.nd become gods as we." Were those his words ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Hic were, as I have heard from those who heard them 
 
 In thunder. 
 
 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 snatch'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 't is made 
 To sway. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But didst thou tempt my parents ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Poor clay ! what should I tempt them fo, or howt 
 
 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 cast 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. 
 Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die i 
 
 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 agei 
 Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes and your seed's, 
 The seed of the then world may thus array 
 Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
 To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
 That bows to him who made things but to bend 
 Before Kis sullen sole eternity ; 
 But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
 Fond parents listcn'd to a creeping thing, 
 And fell. For what should spirits tempt them 1 Whni 
 Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
 Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
 
 Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st not 
 
 With all thy tree of knowledge. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But thou can< not 
 
 Speak aught of knowledge which 1 would not know. 
 And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
 To know.
 
 CAIN 
 
 3G5 
 
 And heart to look on ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Be it proved. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Dar'st thou to look on Death? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Been seen. 
 
 He has not yet 
 
 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 a lion, when a boy, 
 In play, till he Van roaring from my gripe. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 It has no shape, but will absorb all things 
 That bear the form of earth-born being. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 I thought it was a being : who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Ask the Destroyer. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Who? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 The Maker call him 
 Which name tnou wilt ; he makes but to destroy. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard 
 Of death : although I know not what it is, 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
 In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
 And, when I saw gigantic shadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 
 By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
 I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for 
 With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
 What 't was which shook us all but nothing came. 
 And then I tum'd my weary eyes from oflT 
 Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
 Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 
 Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Perhaps but long outlive both thine and thee. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I 'm glad of that ; I would not have them die, 
 They are so lovely. What is death? I fear, 
 
 feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
 I cannot compass : 't is denounced against us, 
 Both them who sjnn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill 
 tVluuill? 
 
 But shall I know it 
 
 LUCIFEK. 
 
 ^ resolved into the earth. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 As * **ow not death, 
 I cannot answer. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Were I quiet ear&. 
 
 That were no evil : would I ne'er had u cn 
 Aught else but dust ! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 That is a grov'ling wish, 
 Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
 The life-tree ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 He was hinder'd. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Deadly error 
 
 Not to snatch first that fruit : but ere he pluck'a 
 The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
 Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
 And yet I fear it fear I know not what ! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And I, who know all things, fear nothing : see 
 What is true knowledge. 
 
 CAIN. 
 Wilt thou teach me all? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Ay, upon one condition. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Name it. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 That 
 Thou dost fall down and worship me thy Lord, 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 No. 
 
 CUN. 
 
 His equal ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 No ; I have nought in common with hint 
 Nor would : I would be aught above beneath- 
 Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
 His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : 
 Many there are who worship me, and more 
 Who shall be thou amongst the first. 
 CAIN. 
 
 1 never 
 
 As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
 Although my brother Abel oft implores 
 That I would join with him in sacrifice :- 
 Why should I bow to thee ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Hast thou ne'er bow a 
 To him? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Have I not said it? need I say .t? 
 Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee thai T 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 He who bows not to him has bow'd to mo ' 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But I wiU bend to Dither
 
 3GG 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 UCIFER. 
 
 Ne'erthele" . 
 
 Thou art ray worshipper: not wp-* m PP m S 
 Him n.'ikes thee mine the sair" 
 
 And what is that? 
 
 Thou 'It know her- and hereafter. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ba taugt' the mystery of my being. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Let me but 
 
 Where I will lead thee. 
 
 Follow 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But I must retire 
 
 To till the earth for I had promised - 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 To cull some first fruits. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Why? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 To offer up 
 With Abel on an altar. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Saidst tnou not 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst bent to him that made thee ? 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ye 
 
 But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
 The ottering is more his than mine and Adah^ 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Why dost Ihou hesitate? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 She is my sister, 
 
 Bum on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
 She wrung from me, with tears, this promise, and 
 Ruther than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
 Hear all and worship aught. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Then follow me ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 i win. 
 
 Enter ADAH. 
 ADAH. 
 
 My brother, I have come for thee ; 
 It is our hour of rest and joy and we 
 Have less without thee. Thou hast labour' d not 
 This mom ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
 Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
 Come away. 
 
 CAIIf. 
 
 Sce'st thou not ? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 I see an angel ; 
 
 Wo have seen many: WLI he share our hour 
 Of rest ? ae is welcome. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But he is not like 
 Tli angels we have seen. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Are there, then, others ? 
 Hoi lie is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
 
 To be our guests will he ? 
 
 CAIN (to Lucifer), 
 
 Wilt thou ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Thee to be mine. 
 
 I ask 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I must away with him. 
 
 JDAH. 
 
 And leave us 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 And m? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Beloved Adah! 
 
 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 know'st thou ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 He speaks kk 
 A god. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 So did the serpent, and it lied. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Thou errest, Adah ! was not the tree that 
 Of knowledge? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Ay to our eternal sorrow. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And yet that grief is knowledge so he lied not : 
 And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; 
 And truth in its own essence cannot be 
 But good. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 But all we know of it has gather'd 
 Evil on evil : 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 thee. 
 
 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 Goo. ! 
 
 Shall they not love, and bring forth things that lovfl 
 Out of their love? have they not drawn their milk
 
 CAIN. 
 
 36' 
 
 Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
 Born ot 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? And, 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. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 What is the sin which is not 
 Sin in itself 7 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 sob Eden? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art fairer 
 Than was the serpent, and as false. 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 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 with our own 
 Dissatisfied and curious thoughts as thou 
 Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush' J 
 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 
 fhe archangels. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 And still loftier than the archangel* 
 
 ADAH 
 
 Ay but not blessed. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 If the blessedness 
 Consists hi slavery no. 
 
 ADAR. 
 
 I have heard it said, 
 
 The seraphs love most cherubim know most 
 And this should be a cherub since he loves not. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And if the higher knowledge quenches love, 
 What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
 Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
 The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
 That they are not compatible, the doom 
 Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
 Choose betwixt love and knowledge since there u 
 No other choice : your sire hath chosen already : 
 His worship is but fear. 
 
 ADAH. 
 Oh, Cain ! choose love. 
 
 CAIIf. 
 
 For thee, my Adah, I choose not it was 
 Born with me but I love nought else. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Our parepts / 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Did they love us when they snatch'd from the tree 
 That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 We were not bom then and if we had been, 
 Should we not love them and our children, Cain? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister ! 
 Could I but deem them happy, I would half 
 
 Forget but it can never be forgotten 
 
 Through thrice a thousand generations ! nevei 
 
 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 scienc* 
 
 And sin and, not content with their own sorrow, 
 
 Begot me thee and all the few that are, 
 
 And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
 
 Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
 
 To inherit agonies accumulated 
 
 By ages ! And / must be sire of such things ! 
 
 Thy beauty and thy love my love and joy, 
 
 The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
 
 All we love in our children and each other, 
 
 But lead them and ourselves through many years 
 
 Of sin and pain or few, but still of sorrow, 
 
 Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 
 
 To Death the unknown ! Methinks the tree of know 
 
 ledge 
 
 Hath not fulfill'd its promise : if they sinn'd, 
 At least they ought to have known all things thai a 
 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 
 Wert happy 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Be thou happy then alone
 
 568 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I will hart nought to do witb happiness, 
 Which bumbles me and mine. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Alone I could not, 
 
 Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
 I 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 
 Judge from what I have heard. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And thou could* not 
 Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Alone! Oh, my God! 
 Who 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, 
 Lonely and good ? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 He is not so ; he hath 
 
 The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
 And thus becomes so in diffiising joy : 
 What else can joy be but the spreading joy 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
 Or of his first-born son ; ask your own heart ; 
 
 It is not tranquil. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Alas ! no ; and you 
 Are you of heaven ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 If I am not, inquire 
 
 The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
 (Which you proclaim) of the all- great and good 
 Maker of life and living things ; it is 
 His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
 And some of us resist, and both in rain, 
 His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial, 
 Since better may not be without : there is 
 A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
 To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
 Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
 The star which watches, welcoming the mom. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
 Iti beauty. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And why not adore ? i 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Our father 
 Adores the Invisible only. 
 
 LUCIFE*. 
 
 But the symbols 
 Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
 Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
 I> l*?*der of the host of heaven. 
 ADAH. 
 
 Our father 
 
 Sailh that no has beheld the God himself 
 Wl ! made him and our mother. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Hast thou seen him 7 
 
 Yes in his works. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 AUC1FER. 
 
 But in his being 7 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 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 seem'st 
 Like an ethereal night, where long white clouo* 
 Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd starn 
 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 seem'st unhappy ; do not make us so, 
 And I will weep for thee. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Alas ! those tears ! 
 Goulds t tbou but know what oceans will be shed 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Byrne? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 By all? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 What an 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 The million n :illions 
 
 The myriad myriads the all-peopled ear Jj 
 The unpeopled earth and the o'er-peopled bell, 
 Of which thy bosom is the germ. 
 ADAH. 
 
 OhCaki! 
 This spirit curseth us. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Let him say on ; 
 
 Him win I follow. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Whither? 
 
 LUCIFKR. 
 
 To a place 
 
 Whence he snail come back to thee in an nour , 
 But in that hour see things of many days . 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 How can that be 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Did not your Maker make 
 Out of old worlds this new one in few day* 7 
 And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
 Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
 Or hath destroy'd in few ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 Lead on. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Will be 
 In sooth return within an hour 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 He sharf. 
 
 With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
 Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
 Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
 We bi-eathe not by a mortal measurement 
 But that 's a mystery Cain, come on with rm
 
 CAIN. 
 
 363 
 
 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 dwellest thou? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Throughout all space. Where should I dwell? Where are 
 Thy God or Gods there am I ; all things are 
 Divided with me ; life and death and time 
 Eternity and heaven and earth and that 
 Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
 Those who once peopled or shall people both 
 These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
 Hit, and possess a kingdom which 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 led thee. Follow me. 
 
 CAt.f. 
 
 Spirit, I have said it. [Exeunt LCCIFER and C AIX. 
 ADAH (foUmct, exdcaming) 
 
 Cain! my brother! Cain! 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Abyt* of Space, 
 
 CAIS. 
 
 I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
 To rink. 
 
 LVCIFER. 
 
 Have faith in me, and thou shah be 
 Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Can I do so without impiety ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Believe and sink not ! doubt and perish ! thus 
 Would run the edict of the other God, 
 Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
 Echo the sound to miserable things, 
 Which, knowing nougnt oeyond their shallow senses, 
 Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
 Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
 [n their abasement. I will have none such : 
 Worship or worship not, thou shall behold 
 The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
 Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life, 
 With torture of my dooming. There will come 
 \n hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
 A. man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
 A.nd walk lite waters ;" and the man shall walk 
 2K 52 
 
 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. 
 
 CAI5. 
 
 Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
 Is yon our earth ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Dost thou not recognise 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 o*nr, 
 
 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 I 
 Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
 And they who guard them ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Point me out the rile 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 CAT*. 
 
 How should I ? As we move 
 Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smallec 
 And as it waxes little, and then less, 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the lighl 
 Which shone the roundesi of ihe stars, when I 
 Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
 Appear to join the innumerable star* 
 Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And if there should t* 
 Worlds greater than ihine own, innabited 
 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? 
 
 CAIH. 
 
 I should be proud of thought 
 Which knew such thing*. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 But if that high thought w*t 
 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 mosl enervating and filthy cheat, 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom' d to be 
 A* frail, and few so happy 
 
 CAIS. 
 
 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 
 Fee! the prophetic torture of its truth), 
 Here let me die : for to give birth to U>OM
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VVho can but suffer many years, and die, 
 Methiuks, lit merely propagating death, 
 And multiplying murder. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Thou canst not 
 
 A U. die there is what must survive. 
 CAIN. 
 
 The Other 
 
 Spake not. of this unto my father, when 
 He shirt him forth from Paradise, with death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 I may be in the rest as angels are. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 I am angtlic : wouldst thou be as I am? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I know not what thou art : I see thy power, 
 And ste t'nou show'st me things beyond my power, 
 Beyond all power of my bom faculties, 
 Although inferior still to my desires 
 And my conceptions. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What are they, which dwell 
 So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And what art thou, who dwellest 
 So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 Nature and immortalky, and yet 
 Seem'st sorrowful ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 I seem that which I am ; 
 And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 Wouldst be immortal ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Thou hast said, I must be 
 Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
 This until lately but, since it must be, 
 Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
 To anticipate my immortality. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 fhou didst before I came upon thee. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 How? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 RT suffering. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And must torture be immortal ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ' 
 Is it not glorious ? 
 
 CAIN 
 
 Oh, thou beautiful 
 And unimaginable ether ! and 
 Fe multiplying masses of increased 
 And still-increasing lights ! what are ye? what 
 Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
 Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
 Is your course measured for ye ! Or do ye 
 Sweep on m your unbounaed revelry 
 Through an aerial universe of endless 
 Expansion, at which my soul aches to think, 
 Intoxicated with eternity? 
 Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
 How beautiful ve we ' how beautiful 
 
 Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die 
 (If that they die), or know ye in your might 
 And knowledge! My thoughts aie not in this h*i 
 Unworthy what I see, though my dust is : 
 Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 
 
 LUCIFER 
 Art thou not nearer 7 look back to thine earth ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
 Of most innumerable lights. 
 
 LUCIFEU 
 
 Look there! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I cannot see it. 
 
 LUCIFER. ' 
 Yet it sparkles still. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 What, yonder? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Yea. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And wilt thou tell me so ? 
 Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banics 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 LUCIFEH. 
 
 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 that 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 roe. 
 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 sec. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 But what 
 Sate nearest it ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 The things I have not seen, 
 Nor ever shall the mysteries of death. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What if I show to thee things which have died, 
 As I have shown thee much wnich cannot di* *
 
 CAIN. 
 
 371 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Do so. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Away, then ! oil our mighty wings, 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade from us ! 
 The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it, 
 For I was made of it. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 'T is now beyond thee, 
 Less in the universe than thou in it : 
 Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
 Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust ; 
 'T is 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 mon*ents only and the ipace 
 Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
 But changes nuke not death, except to clay ; 
 But thou art clay and canst but comprehend 
 That which was clay, and such thou shall behold. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Clay, spirit! What thou wilt, I can survey. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Away, then ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But the lights fade from me fast, 
 And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
 And wore the look of worlds. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And such they are. 
 CAIN. 
 
 .i*>d Edens in them 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 It may be. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And men ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 ?3a, or things higher. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ay ! and serpents too? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 VTculdst thou have men without them 7 must no reptile 
 Breathe, save the erect ones 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 How the lights recede! 
 Where fly we ? 
 
 LUCIFEB. 
 
 To the world of phantoms, which 
 Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But i' prey's ua~k. ind dark the stars are gone! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And yet thou seest. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Tis a fearful light 1 
 
 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 tool 1 
 Like them the features of fair earth : instead, 
 All here seems dark and dreadful. 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 But distinct. 
 Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things 7 
 
 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? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Return ! be sure : how else should death be peopled 7 
 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 doua* 
 
 SCENE H. 
 
 Hades. 
 Enter LUCIFER and CAIN. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ' 
 For they seem more than one, and yet more peopm 
 Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
 So thickly in the upper air, that I
 
 S72 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Had decm'd them rather the bright populace 
 
 Of sonic ail 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 hare it present? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Tin I know 
 
 That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
 But if it be as I have heard my father 
 Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing 
 Oh God! I dare not think on 'i ! 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. 
 Dost 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 say'st well : 
 
 The curse is mutual 't wixt thy sire and thee 
 But for thy sons and brother ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Let them share it 
 
 With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
 BequeathM 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 what is death? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What? Hath not He who made ye 
 
 Said 'tis another life? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ti'l 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 
 Vet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
 All to be animated for this only ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 What are these mighty phantoms which I see 
 Floating around me ? 'hey wear not the form 
 Of die intelligences I have seen 
 
 Round our regretted and uuenter'd Eden, 
 Nor wear the form of man as I have vicw'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, which, though not 
 Of men nor angels, looks like something which, 
 If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
 Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
 Of seeming strength, 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 ; mighty 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. 
 
 Whu 
 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 
 The last of these. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And what are they ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 That which 
 Thou shall be. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But what were they ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Living, high, 
 
 Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
 As much superior unto all thy sire, 
 Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
 The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
 In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
 Thee and thy son ; and how weak they are, judge 
 By thy own flesh. 
 
 CAIN. 
 Ah me ! and did they perish ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from thine. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But was mine theirs ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 It was. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But not as now : 
 It is too little and too lowly to 
 Sustain such creatures. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 True, it was more glonou*. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And wherefore did it fall?
 
 CAIN. 
 
 373 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Ask Him who fells. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But how ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 By a most crushing and inexorable 
 Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
 Which struck a world to chaos, as a cnac 
 Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
 Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. 
 Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 T is awfid ! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And true. Behold these phantoms ! they were once 
 Material as thou art. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And must I be 
 Like them? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Let Him who made thee answer that. 
 I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
 And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
 Inferior as thy petty feelings, and 
 Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
 Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
 What ye in common have with what they had 
 Is life, and what ye shall have death ; the rest 
 Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
 Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
 Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
 A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
 Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness 
 A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
 Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
 What these superior beings are or were : 
 Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
 The earth, thy task I '11 waft thee there in safety. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 No: I '11 stay here. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 How long ? 
 CAIN. 
 
 For ever ! 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 
 Must pass through what the things thou see'st have 
 
 rhe 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 repaaa 
 To earth again ? 
 
 Sxl 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 TTieir 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 't was 
 Oh, what a beautiful world it wca ! 
 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 
 Of death and life. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What thy world is thou see'st, 
 But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
 That which it was. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And those enormous creature* 
 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 teiror ; taller than 
 The cherub-guarded wafls of Eden, with 
 Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence thorn 
 And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
 Their bark and branches what were they ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 That whion 
 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 
 With them would render the curse on it useless 
 T would be destroy'd so early. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But why tear J 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 You have forgotten the denunciation 
 Which drove your race from Eden war with all thing* 
 And death to all things, and disease to most thing* 
 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, they 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 hopeiess wretcha . 
 They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons : 
 Like them, too, without having shared the apple , 
 Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge 
 It was a lying tree for we know nothing. 
 At least it promised knowledge at the price 
 Of death but knowledge siiH : but what know* ma
 
 374 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LVCIIER. 
 
 fy may bo death leads to the highest knowledge ; 
 And buing of al things the sole thing certain, 
 At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
 The tree was true, though deadly. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 These dim realms ! 
 ( see them, but I know them not. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Because 
 
 Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
 Comprehend spirit wholly but 't is 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 know'st that there is 
 A state, and many states beyond thine own 
 And this them knewest not this morn. 
 CAIN. 
 
 But all 
 Seems dim and shadowy. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Be content ; it will 
 Seem clearer to thine immortality. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And yon immeasurable liquid space 
 Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
 Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
 The river which flows out of Paradise 
 Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
 And boundless and of an ethereal hue 
 What is it 7 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 There is still some sucn on earth, 
 Although inferior, and thy children shall 
 Dwell near it 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 T is like another world ; a liquid sun 
 And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
 Its shining surface ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Are its habitants, 
 The p.st 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 ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Eve> thy mother, best 
 Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I ms seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
 Hrt more of beau* 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Hast thou ne'er beheld him 7 
 
 CAIrf. 
 
 Many of the same kind (at least so call'd), 
 But never that precisely which persuaded 
 The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect, 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Your father saw him not 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 No ; 't was my mother 
 Who tempted him she tempted by the serpent. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' wives 
 Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange, 
 Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Thy precept comes too late : there is no 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 't is even 
 Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
 'T will not be follow'd, so there 's little lost. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I understand not this. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 The happier thou ! 
 
 The world and thou are still too young ! Thou thinkcst 
 Thyself most wicked and unhappy: is it 
 Not so 7 
 
 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 thou suflerest, are both Eden, 
 In all its innocence, compared to what 
 Thou shortly may'st 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 thoi 
 Lead me here only to inform me this ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 Was not thy quest for knowledge 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Yes : as being 
 The road to happiness. 
 
 LUCIFEK. 
 
 If truth be so, 
 Thou hast k. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Then my father's God did weU 
 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, ito 
 [ '11 not believe it for I thirst for good.
 
 CAIN. 
 
 37i 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And who and what doth not? IVho covets evil 
 For its own bitter sake ? None nothing ! 't is 
 The leaven of all life and lifelcssness. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Within those glorious orbs which we behold, 
 Distant and dazzling, and innumerable, 
 Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
 111 cannot come ; they are too beautiful. 
 
 LUCIFKR. 
 
 Thou hast seen them from afar. 
 CAIN. 
 
 And what of that? 
 
 Distance can but diminish glory they, 
 When nearer, must be more ineffable. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Approach the things of earth most beautiful, 
 And 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, 
 Which being nearest to thine eyes, is still 
 More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 My sister Adah. All the stars of heaven, 
 
 The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
 
 Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world 
 
 The hues of twilight the sun's gorgeous coming 
 
 His setting indescribable, which fills 
 
 My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 
 Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
 
 Along that western paradise of clouds 
 
 The forest shade the green bough the bird's voice 
 
 The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
 
 And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
 
 As the day closes over Eden's walls ; 
 
 All these are nothing to my eyes and heart, 
 
 Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
 
 To gaze on it. 
 
 LUCIFF.R. 
 
 T is frail as fair mortality, 
 In the first dawn and bloom of young creation 
 And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
 Can make its offspring; still it is delusion. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 You think so, being not her brother. 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Mortal! 
 My brotherhood 's with those who have no children. 
 
 CAIN. 
 Then thou canst have no fellowship with u. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
 But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
 Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
 Why art thou wretched ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Why do I exist? 
 
 Why art tkmi wretched ? why are all things so ? 
 Even He who made us must be as the maker 
 Of th.nirs unhappy ! To produce destruction 
 Cao suruly never be the task of joy, 
 And yet my sire says He 's omnipotent . 
 Then why is evil He being good ? I ask'd 
 
 This question of my father ; and he said, 
 
 Because tliis evil only was the path 
 
 To good. Strange good, that must arise from rmt 
 
 Its deadly opposite ! I lately saw 
 
 A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
 
 Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
 
 And piteous bleating of its restless dam : 
 
 My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
 
 The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretcii 
 
 Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
 
 The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
 
 Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
 
 Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
 
 Springs good ! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What didst thou answer ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Nothing f 
 
 He is my father : but I thought, that 't were 
 A better portion for the animal 
 Never to have been stung at alt, tnan to 
 Purchase renewal of its little life 
 With agonies unutterable, though ' 
 Dispell'd by antidotes. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 But as thou saidst, 
 Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
 Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hen 
 Unto thy children 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Most assuredly : 
 What should I be without her ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What am I ? 
 CAIN. 
 Dost thou love nothing? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 What does thy God lore? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 All things, my father says ; but I confess 
 1 see it not in their allotment here. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And therefore thou canst not see if / love 
 Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
 To which particular things must melt like snow, 
 
 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 mote 
 
 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 mother's eye ; 
 And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
 Will cease, like any other appetite. 
 
 CA'X. 
 
 Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be?
 
 37r 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 W.th 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 pas* away 
 
 In them and her. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I 'm sorry for it ; but 
 Cannot concci ire my love for her the less. 
 And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
 He who creates all beauty will lose more 
 Than me in seeing perish such a work. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 I pity tfcee who lovest what must perish. 
 
 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. 
 
 'T is well and meekly done, 
 
 CAIN. 
 Meekly! 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 He is the second born of flesh, 
 And is his mother's favourite. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Let him keep 
 Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
 
 To win H. 
 
 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 beauteous planter of barr'd Paradise 
 Hs, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I 
 
 Ne'er saw Him, and I know not if He smiles. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 But vou have seen his angels. 
 CAIN. 
 
 Rarely. 
 
 LOCIFER. 
 
 But 
 
 Sufficiently to see they love your brother ; 
 Hi* sacrifices are acceptable. 
 CAIN. 
 So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 thou hast thought of this ere now. 
 
 CA.IK. 
 
 And if 
 
 [ have thought, why recall a thought that (hepaute*, 
 
 as agitated) Spirit ! 
 Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. 
 Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hastshown me tlj-* 
 Mighty Pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 
 Of which ours is the wreck : thou hast pointed cut 
 Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
 Is the dim and remote companion, m 
 Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
 Of that existence with the dreaded name 
 Which my sire brought us death ; thou hast shown me 
 
 much 
 
 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, then 
 
 say'st ; 
 
 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 
 Your essence, and your nature, and your glory 7 
 
 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 me that 
 Ye are both eternal? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Yea! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And what I have seen. 
 Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And cannot ye both reign then ? is there nat 
 Enough? why should ye differ ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 We both reign. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But one of you makes evil.
 
 CAIN. 
 
 377 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Which? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Thou! for 
 If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And why not He who made ? / made ye not ; 
 Vc aie his creatures, and not mine. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Then leave us 
 
 His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
 Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 I could show thee 
 
 Both ; but the time will come thou shall see one 
 Of them for evermore. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And why not now ? 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to gather 
 The little I have shown thee into calm 
 And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
 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 
 
 1 he son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
 But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
 Fhat sight is for the oJier state. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Of death? 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 That is the prelude. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Then I dread it less, 
 Now that I know it leads to something definite. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
 
 Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
 
 Eai, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, 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 show'd, 
 Taught thee to know thyself? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Alas ! I seem 
 Nothing. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 And this should be the human sum 
 Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness ; 
 Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
 T will spare them many tortures. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Haughty spirit ! 
 
 Plioii speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 
 Hast a superior. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 No ! By heaven, which He 
 Holds, -.nd the abyss, and the immensity 
 53 
 
 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 ba'.tled 
 
 In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
 
 And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
 
 And the interminable realms rf space, 
 
 And the infinity of endless ag-:s, 
 
 All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
 
 And star by star, and universi by universe, 
 
 Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
 
 Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
 
 Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
 
 And what can quench our immortality, 
 
 Our mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
 
 He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
 
 Evil ; but what will be the food He gives ? 
 
 Were I the victor, his wor) s would be d-em'u 
 
 The only evil ones. And pou, ye new 
 
 And scarce-born mortals, what have beei his gilt 
 
 To you already in your little world ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But few ; and some of those but butt, . 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Bac* 
 
 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 Aim, do not name it mine, 
 Till ye know better its true fount ; and judc 
 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 oversway'd 
 By tyrannous threats to force you into fail'i 
 'Gainst all external sense and inward feebng ; 
 Think and endure, and form an inner we rid 
 In your own bosom where the outward fails-: 
 So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
 Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 
 
 [They dtsappejt 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Earth near Eden, as in Act 1. 
 Enter CAIN and ADAH. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I will ; but wherefore ? 
 
 ADAR. 
 
 Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
 Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 CAIN. 
 
 Cypress! 'tis 
 
 A gloomy tree, which looks as if it moum'd 
 O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose f 
 For our child's canopy ? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Because its branches
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 Shut out the sui like night, and therefore seem'd 
 fitting to shadow slumber. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Ay, the last 
 And longest ; but no matter lead me to him. 
 
 [They go up to the child, 
 How lovely he appears ! his little checks, 
 In their p-re incarnation, vying with 
 The rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 
 ADAH. 
 
 And his lips, too, 
 
 How beautifully parted ! No, you shall not 
 Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake soon 
 His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over, 
 But it were pity to disturb him till 
 'T is closed. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 You have said well ; I will contain 
 My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! Sleep on 
 And smile, Uiou little, young inheritor 
 Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
 Thinf, are the hours and days when both are cheering 
 And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit 
 Thou know'st no^ thou art naked ! Must the time 
 Come thou shall be amerced for sins unknown, 
 Which were not thine nor mine ? But now sleep on ! 
 His cheeks 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 ! 'T is but a dream ; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
 Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Deai 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 
 
 IVhere'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
 Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
 And Zillah our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 Yes, death, loo, is amongst the debts we owe her. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence, 
 Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
 The promised wonders which thoa 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. 
 
 'T is scarcely 
 IVo noun since ye departed two long hours 
 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
 rVorlds which he once shone on, and never more 
 hall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
 Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Hardly hours. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 The mind then hath capacity of time, 
 And measures it by that which it beholds, 
 Pleasing or painful, little or almighty. 
 i had beheld the immemorial works 
 Df endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds : 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
 Prom its immensity ; but now I feel 
 My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
 That I was nothing ! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Wherefore said he so ? 
 Jehovah said not that. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 No : he 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 know st 
 Even for our parents' error. 
 
 OIN. 
 
 What is that 
 To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 
 
 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. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 How know we that some such atonement one da/ 
 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 ! tho-j sinnest now, my Cain ; thy words 
 Sound impious in mine ears. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Then leave me ! 
 ADAH. 
 
 Nevei 
 Though thy Ood left thee. 
 
 CAIN. 
 Say, wht Vave we here ?
 
 CAIN. 
 
 379 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Two a'tars, which our brother Abel made 
 During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
 A sacrifice to God on thy return. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And how knew Ae, 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, 't is well done. 
 
 CAIN. 
 One altar may suffice ; J 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 sun, 
 
 According to the curse: must I do more? 
 
 For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
 
 With all the elements ere they wjll yield 
 
 The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
 
 For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
 
 Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing 
 
 For nothing shall I be a 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 germs of an eternal misery 
 
 To myriads is within him ! better 't were 
 
 I snatch'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 child ! 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, 
 
 T were 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 
 'T were better that he never had been born. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joys, 
 
 The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
 
 And loving him ? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 
 
 [She goes to the child. 
 
 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, ami son, our features are 
 Reflected in each o'hcr ; as they are 
 In the ciror waters, when they are gentle, and 
 
 When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
 And love thyself for our sakes, ior we iove thee. 
 Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arm*. 
 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 pam 
 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 subtlety. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Of that I doubt ; 
 But bless him ne'ertheless. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Our brother come*. 
 CAIN. 
 Thy brother Abel. 
 
 Enter ABEL. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Welcome, Cain! My brother, 
 The peace of God be on thee ! 
 CAIN. 
 
 Abel! hail! 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering, 
 In high communion with a spirit, far 
 Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
 We have seen and spoken with, like to our father 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 No. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Why then commune with him ? he m^y be 
 A foe to the Most High. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And friend to man. 
 Has the Most High been so if so you term him 7 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Term him ! your words are strange to-day, my broth* 
 My sister Adah, leave us for a while 
 We mean to sacrifice. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Farewell, my Cam ; 
 
 But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
 And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
 To peace and holiness ! 
 
 [Exit ADAH, with ha -fiila 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Where hast thou been J 
 
 , CAIN. 
 
 I know not. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Nor what thou hast seen ? 
 CAIN. 
 
 The dea/t 
 
 The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent. 
 The overpowering mysteries of space 
 The innumerable worlds that were and are 
 A whirlwind of such overwhelmin
 
 so 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
 Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
 Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light 
 Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue 
 Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound- 
 What may this mean ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 
 
 ABEL. 
 Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone 
 Jehovah loves thee well. 
 
 ABEL. 
 Both well, I hope. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But thee the better : I care not for that ; 
 Thou art fitter for his worship than I am : 
 Revere him, then but let it be alone 
 At least without me. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Brother, I should ill 
 
 Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
 If as my elder I revered thee not, 
 And in the worship of our God call'd not 
 On thee to join me, and precede me in 
 Our priesthood 't is thy place. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But I have ne'er 
 
 Asserted it. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 The more my grief; I pray thee 
 To do so now ; thy soul seems labouring in 
 Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 No; 
 
 Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
 Knew I what calm was in the 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. 
 
 C'noose for me : they to me are so much turf 
 And stone. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Choose thou ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I have chosen. 
 ABEL. 
 
 T is the highest, 
 
 And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
 Thine offerings. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Where are thine 7 
 ABEL. 
 
 Behold them here 
 Hie frfUings 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 Jrmtt, 
 Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
 
 [They dress their altars, and kindle a fiamr. 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. 
 
 ABEL (kneeling). 
 
 Oh God! 
 
 Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
 Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
 And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
 His children all lost, as they might have been, 
 Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
 The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
 Accord a pardon like, a paradise, 
 Compared with our great crimes : Sole Lord of ugh: . 
 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 during this speech f 
 Spirit ! whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
 Omnipotent, it may be and, if good, 
 Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evL ; 
 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, 
 Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 
 And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
 Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
 If thoulovest blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smoke* 
 On my 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 tr.u face 
 Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
 Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
 Suffer'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 may's!,
 
 CAIN. 
 
 33 
 
 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 win j 
 And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
 Not being omnipotent, or fit to judge 
 Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
 Its mandate, which thus far I have endured. 
 
 [Thejire upon the altar of ABEL kindle* into a 
 column of the brightest flame, and at.ce.nds 
 to heaven; while a whirlwind throws down 
 the altar of CAIN, and scatters the fruits 
 abroad upon the 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-offering prospers better ; see 
 How heaven licks up the flames, when Uiick with blood ! 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
 But make another of thine own before 
 It is too late. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 I will build no more altars, 
 Nor suffer any. 
 
 ABEL (rising). 
 Cain ! what meanest thou ? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 To cast down yon vile flatt'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 shall not: add not impious works to impious 
 Words ! let that altar stand 't is hallow'd now 
 By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
 In his acceptance of the victims. 
 CAIN. 
 
 Hit! 
 
 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 yeam 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 ! thou shall not louch my allar 
 Wilh violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
 To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
 Thai sacrifice may b'j 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 What meanest thou ? 
 CAIN. 
 
 Give 
 
 Uive way ! thy Gvl loves blood ! ihcn look lo it: 
 Give 'ay, ere he h..n more! 
 2L 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 In his great name, 
 
 I sland belween Ihee and Ihc shrine wluch hatb 
 Had his acceptance. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 If thou lov'st Ihyself, 
 
 Sland back till I have strew'd this turf along 
 Its native soil : else 
 
 ABEL (opposing him). 
 
 I love God far more 
 Than life. 
 CAIN (striking him with a brand, on the temples, whi . 
 
 he snatches from the altar). 
 Then take thy life unto thy God, 
 Since he loves lives. 
 
 ABEL (falls). 
 
 What hast tho.t done, my brother 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 Brother! 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 
 Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
 He did. Cain, give me give me thy hand ; anu let 
 
 Poor Zillah 
 
 CAIN (after a moment's stupefaction). 
 
 My hand ! 't is all red, and with 
 What? 
 
 [A long pause. /Booking slowly round 
 Where am I ? alone ! Where 's Abel ? where 
 Cain ? Can it be thai I am he ? My brother, 
 Awake ! why liest Ihou so on the green earth ? 
 'Tis not the hour of slumber: why so pale? 
 
 What hast thou ? thou wert full of life ihis morn j 
 
 Abel ! I pray Ihee, 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 slir ! 
 
 Why, so thai 's well ! Ihou breath'st ! breathe ^wp 
 
 me! 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 ABEL (very faintly). 
 
 What 's he who speaks of God 7 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Thy murderer. 
 
 ABEL. 
 
 Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
 Comfort poor Zillah: she has but one brother 
 Now. [ABEL diet. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And I none ! Who makes me brotherless ? 
 His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
 Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
 His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 
 And yet I feel it not. His heart! his hear* ' 
 
 Let me see, doth it beat? melhinks 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 ? 't if wot . 
 [Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks yt ii 
 And yet there are no dew? ! 'T is blood my blood- 
 My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 
 Then what have I further to do with life, 
 Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
 But lie cannot be dead ! Is silence death ? 
 No ; he will wake : then let me watch bv him
 
 302 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 L Te cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
 Thus quickly ! he hath spoken to me since 
 What shall I stv to him ? My brother ! No ; 
 He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
 Smite not each other. Yet yet speak to me. 
 Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
 That I may bear to hear my own again ! 
 
 Enter ZII.LAH. 
 
 ZILLAH. 
 
 I heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 
 
 T is Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
 
 Dost Uiou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh ! heaven ! 
 
 What means this paleness, and yon stream ? No ! no ! 
 
 It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
 
 Abel ! what's this ! who hath done this? He moves 
 
 not; 
 
 He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
 With stony lifelessness ! Ah! cruel Cain! 
 Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
 This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
 Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have stepp'd in 
 Between him and aggression ! Father ! Eve ! 
 Adah ! come hither ! Death is in the world ! 
 
 [Exit ZILLAH -calling on her parent*, etc. 
 
 CAIN (solus). 
 
 And who hath brought him there ? I who abhor 
 The 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, 
 As if he would not have asserted his 
 Inexorable claim without my aid. 
 I am awake at last a dreary dream 
 Had madden'd me : but he shall ne'er awake ! 
 
 Enter ADAM, EVE, ADAH, and ZILLAH. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 A voice of woe from Zillah brings me her*. 
 What do I see ? 'T is true ! My son ! 
 Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 
 
 [To ETE. 
 
 EVE. 
 
 Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
 Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
 Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
 A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 Who, 
 
 Or what hath done this deed ? speak, Cain, since thou 
 Wert present : was it some more hostile angel, 
 Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
 Brute of the forest ? 
 
 EVE. 
 
 Ah ! a livid light 
 
 rJreaks through, as trom a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
 Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar, 
 
 And black with smoke, and red with 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 Speak, my son ! 
 
 SiiH.ik, and assure us, wretciied as we arc, 
 I'liat we are not more miserable still. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 *>i? ak. Cain ' and say it was not thou ! 
 
 EVE. 
 
 It was. 
 
 I see it now he hangs his guilty head, 
 And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
 Incarnadine. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Mother, thou dost him wrong 
 Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
 Which grief wrings from our parent. 
 EVE. 
 
 Hear, Jeho\ ih 
 
 May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
 For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
 May all his days be desolate ! May 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Hold ! 
 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
 And my betroth'd. 
 
 EVE. 
 
 He hath left thee no brfHher 
 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 theo ? 
 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 (o his holy wilL 
 
 EVE (pointing to CAIN). 
 His will ! the will of yon incarnate spirit 
 Of death, whom I have brought upon the eartn 
 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 u - ', 
 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 -pring 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 clement 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 him with man ! 
 Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Coin, 
 Through all the coining 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 E i K, 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 Cain ! get thee forth ; we dwell no more together. 
 Depart ! and leave the dead to me I am 
 Henceforth alone we never must n ect more- 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Oh, part not with him thus, my father ; do not 
 Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his h ad
 
 CAIN. 
 
 383 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 cursn him not : his spirit be his curse. 
 . ome. Zillah ! 
 
 ZILLAH. 
 
 I must watch my husband's corse. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 We will return again, when he is gone 
 Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
 Come, Zillah! 
 
 ZILLAH. 
 
 Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 
 And those lips once so warm my heart ! my heart ! 
 [Exeunt ADAM and ZILLAH, weeping. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I am ready ; 
 
 So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
 
 And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 
 Cnder the cloud of night. Nay, speak to me, 
 
 To me thine own. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Leave me ! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Why, all have left thee. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou not fear 
 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 ore/aim*, 
 
 Cain! Cain! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Hear'st thou that voice 7 
 The Voice within. 
 
 Cain! Cain! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 It soundeth like an angel's tone. 
 Enter the AXGEL OF THE LORD. 
 
 ANGEL. 
 
 Where is thy brother Abel? 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Am I then 
 My brother's keeper ? 
 
 AICKEL. 
 
 Cam ! 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 opened late her mouth 
 To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
 Henceforth, when thou shall till the ground, it shall not 
 5Tield thee her strength ; a fugitive shall thou 
 Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Hiis punishment is more than he can bear. 
 Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
 Ami from the face of God shall he be hid. 
 A lua. We and vagabond on earth, 
 T will uome to pass, that whoso findeth him 
 Snail slav hm> 
 
 fiAIN. 
 
 Would thcv could ! but who are they 
 
 Shall slay me? where are these on the lone eartfc 
 As yet unpeopled ? 
 
 AXGEL. 
 
 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 see'st so besmcar'd with tiood ? 
 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. 
 
 NVhat 
 Wouldst thou wilh me? 
 
 A.NGEI . 
 
 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 teU the mark on CAIN'S trtno, 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 It burns 
 
 My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
 Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 
 
 ANGEL. 
 
 Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the womb, 
 As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
 Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 
 
 TAIN. 
 
 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 mysolf ; but could I 
 
 With my own death redeem him from the duct- 
 
 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 takeu 
 
 From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 
 
 ANGEL. 
 
 Who shall heal murder ? what is done is done. 
 Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
 Unlike the last ! [The ANGEL disappear*. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 He 's gone, let us go forth ; 
 I hear our little Enoch cry within 
 Our bower. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Al ! little knows he what he weeps iur J 
 And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ' 
 But the four rivers ' would not cleanse my souL 
 Thiiik'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 If I thought that he would not, I would 
 
 1 The "four rivers" which flowed round Edr>n, ana corue 
 qaently the only water* with hich Cain was acquainted up* 
 the earth.
 
 3&1 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAIN (interrupting her). 
 
 No, 
 
 No more ot threats : we have had too many of them : 
 Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 f will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
 I <et us dupart 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 see'st 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, 
 hi 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, earth ! 
 For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
 Give thee back this. Now for the wilderness. 
 
 [ADAH stoops down and kisses the body of ABEL. 
 
 AD A 11. 
 
 A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
 Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
 I alone must not weep. My office is 
 Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them , 
 But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
 Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
 Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
 'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Lead ! thou shall be my guide, and may our God 
 Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 And he who lieth there was childless. 
 
 1 have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
 
 Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
 
 And might have tempcr'd this stern blood of mine, 
 
 Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
 
 O Abel ! 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 Peace he with liim ! 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 But with me ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Sterner; or, K\\t 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 
 
 BY ONE OP HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 
 THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE following drama is taken entirely from the " Ger- 
 man's Tale, Kruitzner," published many years ago in 
 "Lee'* Canterbury Tale*;" written (I believe) by two 
 Msters, of whom one furnished only this story and 
 another, both of which are considered superior to the 
 remainder of the collection. I have adopted the char- 
 kcters. plan, and even tne language, of many parts of 
 I his story. Some of the characters are modified or 
 altered, a few of the names changed, and one character 
 (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself: but in the rest 
 the original is chiefly followed. When I was young 
 (aliout fourteen, 1 think) 1 first read this tale, which 
 made a deep impression upon me ; and may, indeed, be 
 Mad to contain the germ of much that I have since 
 written. 1 am not sure that it ever was vet-/ popular ; or 
 at any rate its popularity has since been eclipsed by that 
 if oihei great writers in the same department. But I 
 have generally found that those who had read it, agreed 
 with rne in their estimate of the singular power of mind 
 ml conception which it developes. I should also add 
 
 conception, rather than execution ; for the story might, 
 perhaps, have been more developed with greater advan- 
 tage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine 
 upon this story, I could mention some very high names ; 
 but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; for every 
 one must judge according to their own feelings. I 
 merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
 see to what extent I have borrowed from it ; and am not 
 unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure in 
 perusing it than the drama which is 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 Ilvina," which I had sense 
 enough to burn), and had nearly comphted an act, 
 when I was interrupted by circumstances This is some- 
 where amongst my papers in England ; b 'as not 
 
 been found, I 'have re-written the first, - the 
 
 subsequent acts. 
 
 The whole is neither intended, nor in ary ihtpe 
 adapted, for the stage. 
 
 February, 1822.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 385 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 WERNER. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 GABOR. 
 FRITZ. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 ARXIIEIM. 
 
 MEISTER. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 LUDWIG. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 IDA STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Scene partly on the frontier of Silesia, and partly in 
 Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 
 
 Time the close of the thirty years' war. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on the 
 n-rrthern Frontier of Silesia the Night tempestuous. 
 WERNER and JOSEPHINE hi* wife. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 M j love, be calmer ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I am calm. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Tome 
 
 Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
 And nr 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. 
 
 'T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
 The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 Ah.no! 
 
 WERNER (smiling). 
 Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 I would 
 Have it a healthful current. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Let it flow 
 Until 't is spilt or check'd how soon, I care not. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 \nd am I nothing in thy heart ? 
 . WERNER. 
 
 All all. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Tf ten canst thou wish for that which must break mine ? 
 
 WERNER (approaching her slowly). 
 but for thee I had been no matter what, 
 But much of good and evil ; what I am, 
 Thou knowest ; what I might or should have been, 
 
 2 L 2 54 
 
 Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
 Shall aught divide us. 
 
 [WERNER wulks on abruptly, and then aj 
 preaches JOSEPHINE. 
 
 The storm of the night, 
 Perhaps, affects me : I 'm a thing of feelings, 
 And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
 Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my lovw 
 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 howls round them, and 
 The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
 The creeping marrow. I have been a soldior, 
 A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
 A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 And art thou not new shelter'd from them all / 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Yes and from these alone. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 And that is somethir.g 
 
 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, when the ebb 
 Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 It is not that, thou know'st it is not : we 
 Have borne all this, I '11 not say patiently, 
 Except in thee but we have borne it. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Well! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Something beyond our outward sufferings (though 
 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 
 Hath wasted not alone my strength, but moans, 
 And leaves us, no ! this is beyond tne ! but 
 For this I had been happy thou 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 TTlnc. 
 Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms.
 
 300 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 \nd all a incl 1 fcr's hunger satisfied. 
 
 Twelve year* he was but eight then : beautiful 
 
 He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
 
 My Ulric ! mjr adored ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I have been full oft 
 
 The 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 man solitude. Alone, I had died, 
 
 And all been over in a nameless grave. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
 Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they who strive 
 With fortune win or weary her at last, 
 So that they find the goal, or cease to feel 
 Further. Take comfort, we shall find our boy. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 We were in sight of him, of every thing 
 
 Which could bring compensation for past sorrow 
 
 And to be baffled thus ! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 We are not baffled. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Are we not pennyless ? . 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 We ne'er were wealthy. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 But I was bom to wealth, and rank, and power ; 
 Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them, 
 And forfeited them by my lather's wrath, 
 In my n'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
 Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
 Loft the path open, yet not without snares. 
 This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
 Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
 The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me, 
 Become the master of my rights, and lord 
 Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
 Dominion and domain. 
 
 JOSEPHINE 
 
 Who knows ? our son 
 
 Miy have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
 Even now uphold thy rights for thee ! 
 WERNER. 
 
 'Tis hopeless. 
 
 Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 
 Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
 Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
 I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
 The oromise that his anger would stop short 
 Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
 To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
 Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 [ must hope better still, at least we have yet 
 Batfli-.d the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 We should have done, but for this fatal sickness, 
 More fatal than a mortal malady, 
 because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : 
 Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
 
 By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; 
 How do I know he hath not track'd us here ' 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 He d tes not know thy penon ; and his spies, 
 
 Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hainbu: fh 
 
 Our unexpected journey, and this change 
 
 Of name, leave all discovery far behind : 
 
 None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Save what we seem ! save what we are sick begf, tni 
 
 Even to our very hopes. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Alas! 
 That bitter laugh t 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Who would read in this form 
 The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
 Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
 JVho, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
 Of rank and ancestry ; in this worn cheek, 
 And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls, 
 Which daily feast a thousand vassals 1 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 You, 
 
 Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
 My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
 The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 
 
 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. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Your father did not think so, though 't was noble ; 
 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, nothing 7 
 
 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 might'st have earn'd thy bread as thousands earn O, 
 
 Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
 
 Or other civic means, to mend thy fortunes. 
 
 WERNER (ironically). 
 And been an Hanseatic burgher ? Excellent ! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Whate'er thou might'st have been, to me thou an, 
 What no state, high or low, can ever change, 
 My heart's first choice ; which chose the<>, knowm* 
 
 neither 
 
 Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought, save thy sorrow* 
 While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
 When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 My better argel ! such as I have ever found the , 
 This rashness, or this weakness of my temper.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 3S7 
 
 Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
 Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
 In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 
 Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
 Cliasten'd, subdued, outworn, 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. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 A knocking ! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Who can it be at this lone hour ? we have 
 Few visitors. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 And poverty hath none, 
 Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
 Well, I am prepared. 
 
 [WERNER puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
 tearch fur some weapon. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 Oh ! do not look so. I 
 Will to the door ; it cannot be of import 
 In this lone spot of wintry desolation 
 The very desert saves man from mankind. 
 
 [She goes to the door. 
 Enter IDENSTEIN, 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
 
 And worthy what 's your name, my friend ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Are you 
 
 Not afraid to demand it ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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 't is still a palace) - 
 
 I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
 
 We do not know your name. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 My name is Werner 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 A goodly namn- a very worthy name, 
 As eV.r was gi't upon a trader's board ; 
 
 nave a cousin in the lazaretto 
 Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
 The 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 ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 To yours ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Oh, yes, we are, but distantly. 
 
 [Aside to WERNER 
 Cannot you humour the dull gossip, till 
 We learn his purpose? 
 
 IDENSTFIN. 
 
 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 drunk 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 1 would be alone ; but to your business ! 
 What brings you here ? 
 
 JDENSTEIN. 
 
 Why, what should bring me here? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I know not, though I think that I could guess 
 That which will send you hence. 
 
 JOSEPHINE (aside). 
 
 Patience, dear Werner '. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 You don't know what has happen'd, then ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 How should we F 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 The river has o'erflow'd. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Alas ! we have known 
 That to our sorrow, for these five days, since 
 It keeps us here. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 But what you don't know is, 
 That a great personage, who fain would cross 
 Against the stream, and three postilions' wishes, 
 Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
 A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Yes, of the monket 
 
 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'J 
 Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasant*. 
 And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
 Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
 The whirling river, have sent on to cravti 
 A lodging, or a grave, according as 
 It *na/ turn out with the live or dead both 
 
 JOS.~PHI.~E. 
 
 And whw e wU yo receive him ? Jwre, I & pe. 
 i If we can be ot service sav the word.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Here ! no , but in the prince's own apartment, 
 As fits a noble guest : 't is damp, no doubt, 
 Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
 But then lie comes from a much damper place, 
 So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if ho be 
 Still liable to cold and if not, why 
 He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'erthelcss, 
 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. 
 
 Intcndant, 
 Have you not learn'd his name 7 My Josephine, 
 
 [Aside to his wife. 
 Retire I 'U sift this <bol. [Exit JOSEPHINE. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 His name 7 oh Lord ! 
 Who knows if he hath now a name or no ; 
 T is time enough to ask it when he 's able 
 To give an answer, or if not, to put 
 His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought, 
 Just now you chid me for demanding names 7 
 
 WERXER. 
 True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 
 
 Enter GABOR. 
 
 OABOR. 
 If I intrude, I crave 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Oh ! no intrusion ! 
 
 This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
 Fourself ; I pray you make yourself at home: 
 But where 's his excellency, and hv fares he 7 
 
 GAEOK. 
 
 Wctly and wearily, but out of peril ; 
 He paused to change his garments in a cottage 
 (Where I dofF'd mine for these, and came on hither), 
 And h as almost recover'd from his drenching. 
 He will be here anon. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 What ho, there ! bustle ! 
 Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad ! 
 
 [Gives directions to different servants who enter. 
 A nobleman sleeps here to-night see that 
 All is in order in the damask chamber 
 Keep up the stove I will myself to the cellar 
 AnJ 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 do/en years ago. And then 
 His excellency will sup, doubtless 7 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Faith ! 
 
 I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
 Would please him better than the table, after 
 His sor.kiii in your river : but for fear 
 Your vinrms should be thrown away, I mean 
 To sup myself, and have a friend without 
 Who will do honour to your good cheer with 
 \ travel's appeti'e. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 But are you sure 
 
 His excellency but his name, what is it 7 
 
 GABOR. 
 I do not know. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 And yet you saved his life. 
 
 GABOR. 
 I help'd my friend to do so. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Well, that 's strange 
 To save a man's life whom you do not know. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
 I scarce should give myself the trouble. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Pray 
 
 Good friend, and who may you be ? 
 GABOR. 
 
 By my family, 
 Hungarian. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 Which is call'd ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 It matters little. 
 IDENSTEIN (aside). 
 
 I think that all the world are grown anonymous, 
 Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd ! 
 Pray, has his excellency a large suite 7 
 GABOR. 
 
 Sufficient, 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 How many ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I did not count them. 
 We came up by mere accident, and just 
 In time to drag him through his carriage window. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Well, what would I give to save a great man ! 
 
 No doubt you '11 have a swinging sum as recompense. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Perhaps. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Now, how much do you reckon on ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
 
 In the mean time, my best reward would be 
 
 A glass of your Hochheimer, a green glas.? 
 
 Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
 
 O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
 
 For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
 
 Run hazard of being drown'd (although I own 
 
 It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for y^u), 
 
 I '11 pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
 
 And think, for every bumper I shall quaff", 
 
 A wave the less may roll above your head. 
 
 IDENSTEIN (aside). 
 
 I don't much like this fellow close and dry 
 He seems, two things which suit me not ; however. 
 Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
 I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 
 
 [Exit IDENS-: c- v 
 GABOR (to WERNER.) 
 This master of the ceremonies is 
 The intendant of the palace, I presume. 
 T is a fine building, but decay 'd.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 389 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 The apartment 
 
 Designed 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 (quickly). 
 Sir! 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 Pray 
 Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 And that 's the reason I would have us less so ! 
 I thought our bustling guest without had said 
 You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart 
 Of me and my companions. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Then, as we never met before, and never, 
 It may be, may again encounter, why, 
 I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
 (At least to me) by asking you to share 
 The fare of my companions and myself. 
 
 WERNER. 
 Pray, pardon me ; my health 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Even as you please. 
 
 t nave been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
 (11 bearing. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I have also served, and can 
 Requite a soldier's greeting. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 In what service? 
 The Imperial ? 
 WERNER (quickly, and then interrupting himself). 
 
 I commanded no I mean 
 I served ; but it is many years ago, 
 When first Bohsmia raised her banner 'gainst 
 The Austrian. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Well, that's over, now, and peace 
 Has turn'd ran e thousand gallant hearts adrift 
 To live a? hey Vst may : and, to say truth, 
 Some tafce the shortest. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 What is that? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Whate'er 
 
 They my their hands on. All Silesia and 
 Lusatia's \\ooJt are tenanted by bands 
 Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
 Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 
 "'heir castle, walls beyond them 't is 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. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 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 enemies. 
 Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aiir 
 (While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but whoa 
 A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
 The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
 The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren. 
 You are poor and sickly I am not rich, but healthy , 
 I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
 Yoa seem devoid of this wilt share it ? 
 
 [GABOR pulls out his pwts. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Who 
 Told you I was a beggar ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 You yourself, 
 
 In saying you were a soldier during peace time. 
 WERNER (looking at him with suspicion). 
 You know me not ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I know no man, not ven 
 Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 
 Beheld, till half an hour since ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Your offer '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 WEKSEF. 
 
 GABOR (solus). 
 
 A goodly fellow, by his looks, though worn, 
 As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
 Which tear life out of us before our time : 
 I scarce know which most quickly ; but he seems 
 To have seen better days, as who has not 
 Who has seen yesterday? But here approaches 
 Our sage intendant, with the wine ; however, 
 For the cup's sake, I '11 bear the cup-bearer. 
 
 Enter IDENSTEIN. 
 
 'T is here ! the supernaculum ! twenty years 
 Of age, if 't is a day. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Which epoch makes 
 
 Young women and old wine, and 't is 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 wife. 
 
 [Takes the giast 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Fair ! Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal 
 To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 
 Neve rtheless. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Is not the lovely woman 
 I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
 An air, and port, and eye, which would hare bfttiw 
 Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 (Though in a garb adapted to its present 
 Abandonment), return'd my salutation 
 Is not the same your spouse ? 
 
 IDENSTXIIf. 
 
 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 And that 
 
 Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
 At least in beauty : as for majesty, 
 She has some of its properties which might 
 Be spared but never mind ! 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I don't. But who 
 
 May be this stranger. He too hath a bearing 
 Above his outward fortunes. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 There I differ. 
 
 He 's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
 Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
 Except his name (and that I only leam'd 
 To-night), I know not. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 But how came he here 7 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 In a most miserable old caleche, 
 
 About a month since, and immediately 
 
 Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 render and true! but why? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 That 's true ; but pity, as you know, does make 
 One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
 They had some valuables left at that time, 
 Which paid their way up to the 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 ! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 A * 
 
 fcxi ceding poor. 
 
 0ABOR. 
 
 And yet unused to poverty, 
 If 1 mist <IK<I not. Whither were they going ? 
 
 IDfcNSTEIN. 
 
 Oh ' Heaven knows where, unless to heaven itself 
 Sonio. days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
 Foj Werner. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Werner ! I have heard the name, 
 Bui it may be a feign'd one. 
 
 IDI.NSTEIN-. 
 
 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. 
 
 I dragg'd him 
 
 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, 
 All roaring, "Help !" but offering none ; and as 
 For duty (as you call it) I did mine then, 
 Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him heio! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 / cringe ! but I shall lose the opportunity 
 Plague take it ! he '11 be here, and I not there ! 
 
 [Exit IDENSTEIN, hastily. 
 Re-enter WERNER. 
 WERNER (to himself). 
 I heard a noise of wheels and voices. How 
 All sounds now jar me ! 
 
 (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. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 You seem rapt, 
 
 And yet the 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 
 Its lone inhabitants, show more respect 
 Than did the elements, is come. 
 
 IDENSTEIN (without'). 
 
 This way 
 
 This way, your excellence : have a care, 
 The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
 Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
 So high a guest pray take my arm, my lord ! 
 
 Enter STRALENHEIM, IDENSTEIX, and Attendants, 
 partly his own, and partly retainers of the domain of 
 which IDENSTEIN is Intendant. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I '!! rest me here a moment. 
 
 IDENSTEIN (to the servants). 
 Oh ! a chair ! 
 
 Instantly, knaves ! [STRALENHEIM sits down, 
 
 WERNER (aside). 
 'Tishe! 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I 'm better now. 
 Who are these strangers ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Please you, my good '; J, 
 One says he is no stranger. 
 
 WERNER (aloud and hastily). 
 
 Whn says thai ? 
 [They look at him
 
 WERNER. 
 
 391 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Why, no one spoke of you, or to ywt ! but 
 
 Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 
 
 To recognise. [Pointing to GABOR. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 I seek not to disturb 
 His noble memory. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I apprehend 
 
 This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
 I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 
 
 [Pointing to WERNER. 
 My state, when I was succour'd, must excuse 
 My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 
 
 IDKNSTEIN. 
 
 He ! no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue 
 Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
 Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
 From whence he never dream' d to rise. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Methought 
 That there were two. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 There were, in company ; 
 But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
 I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
 The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
 Was hi.i : it was his fortune to be first. 
 My will was not inferior, but his strength 
 And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
 your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
 Unto a nobler principal. 
 
 SI RALENHEIM. 
 
 Where is he ? 
 
 AN ATTENDANT. 
 
 My lord, he tarried in the cottage, where 
 \"our excellency rested for an hour, 
 And said he would be here to-morrow. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Till 
 
 That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
 
 And then 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
 So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 
 
 STRALENHEIM 
 
 (Fixing his eyes upon WERNER, then aside). 
 It cannot be ! and yet he must t>e look'd to. 
 'T is 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 who would have made assurance 
 If this be he or no '! I thought, ere now, 
 To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
 In haste, though even the elements appear 
 To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
 May keep me prisoner here till 
 
 [He pauses and 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 a<*ain, 
 Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary; 
 An error would spoil all. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Your lordship seems 
 
 Pensive. Will it not please you to piss on ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 'T is past fatigue which gives my weigh' d-dowi spins 
 An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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 devia'sh damp, but fine enough by torch-light; 
 And that 's enough for your right noble blood 
 Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
 So let their bearer sleep 'nealh something like on 
 Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 
 
 STRALENHEIM (rising and turning to GABOR'} 
 Good night, good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
 Will find me apler to requite your service. 
 In the mean time, I crave your company 
 A moment in my chamber. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I attend you. 
 
 STRALENHEIM * 
 
 (After a few steps, pauses, and calls WERNER). 
 Friend ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Sir? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Sir ! Lord ! oh, Lord ! Why don't yo,i SA 
 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. 
 
 STRALENHEIM (to IDENSTEIN). 
 
 Peace, intendant ! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 I am dumb. 
 
 STRALENHEIM (to WERNER). 
 
 Have you been long here ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Long? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I sought 
 An answer, not an echo. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 You may seek 
 
 Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
 Those whom I know not. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Indeed ! ne'ertheless, 
 Yon 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. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 The intendant said, you had been detain'd by sickles*. 
 If I could aid you -journeying the same way 7 
 
 WERNER (quickly). 
 I am not journeying the same way. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 . How know ve 
 That, ere you know my route ? 
 WEBNER. 
 
 Because there 11 
 But one way that the rich and poor must treaii
 
 392 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Together. You diverged from that dread path 
 Some hours ago, and I some days ; henceforth 
 Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
 Ail to one home. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Your language is above 
 Your station. 
 
 WERNER (bitterly). 
 Is it? 
 
 STRALFMIF.IM. 
 
 Or, at least, beyond 
 Your garb. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 T is well that it is not beneath it, 
 As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
 But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
 STRALENHEIM (startled). 
 
 I! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Yes you ! You know me not, and question me, 
 And wonder that I answer not not knowing 
 My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
 And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 1 knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Many have such : Have you none ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 None which can 
 Interest a mere stranger. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Then forgive 
 
 The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
 He wishes to remain so to the man 
 Who can have nought in common with him. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I will not balk your humour, though untoward : 
 I only meant you service but, good night ! 
 lutendant, show the way ! 
 
 (to GABOR). Sir, you will with me ? 
 [Exeunt STRALENHEIM and Attendants, IDEN- 
 STEIN and GABOR. 
 
 WERNER (solus). 
 
 'T is he ! I 'm taken in the toils. Before 
 
 I quitted Hamburgh, 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 
 
 1 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, 
 
 <V e met so rarely and so coldly in 
 
 Our youlli. But those about him ! Now I can 
 
 Divine the franlmess of the Hungarian, who, 
 
 Na doubt, is a mere tool and spy of Stralcnheim's 
 
 1 o sound ard to secure me. Without means ! 
 
 Sick, poor oegirt too with the flooding rivers, 
 
 Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
 
 All the appliances whi-h purchase modes 
 
 'If overpowering peril with men's lives, 
 
 How can I hope ? An hour ago, methought 
 My state beyond despair ; and now, 't is 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 IDENSTEIN and FRITZ in conversation. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Immediately. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 I tell you, 't is impossible. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 It must 
 
 Be tried, however ; and if one express 
 Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
 Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant, 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 I will do what I can. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 And recollect 
 
 To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
 Tenfold. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 The baron is retired to rest ? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
 Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
 He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
 When he will take himself to bed. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Before 
 An hour is past, I '11 do my best to serve him. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 Remember! [Exit FBJTZ 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 The devil take these great men ! they 
 Think all things made for them. Now here nust 1 
 Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
 From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
 Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towai is 
 Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
 Some hours ago might teach him 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Yes he 's dozing 
 
 And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
 Here is a packet for the commandant 
 Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
 But I must not lose time : good night ! 
 
 [Exit IDENSTEIH. 
 WERNER. 
 
 " To Frankfort !" 
 
 So, so, it thicl&ns ! Ay, " the commandant." 
 This tallies well with all the prior steps 
 Of this cool calculating fiend, who walks 
 Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
 He writes for a detachment to convey me 
 Into some secret fortress. Sooner than 
 
 This 
 
 [WERNER looks around, and snatches up o knift 
 lying on a table in a recess.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Now I am master of myself at least. 
 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 witn a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
 In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
 I nameless, or involving in my name 
 Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
 He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
 Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
 Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still ! 
 I '11 to the secret passage, which communicates 
 
 With the No ! all is silent 't was my fancy ! 
 
 Still as the breathless interval between 
 
 The flash and tnunder : I must hush my soul 
 
 Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 
 
 To see if still be unexplored the passage 
 
 [ wot of: it will serve me as a den 
 
 Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
 
 [WERNER draws a panel, and exit, doting it 
 after him. 
 
 Enter GABOR and JOSEPHINE. 
 
 QABOR. 
 
 Where is your husband ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Here, I thought : I left him 
 Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
 Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
 To accompany the intendant. 
 GABOR. 
 
 Baron Stralenheim 
 
 Put many questions to the intendant on 
 The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
 I have my doubts if he means well. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 What can there be in commc-n with the proud 
 And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 That you know best. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Or, if it were so, how 
 Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
 Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
 I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
 Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
 Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
 I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up, when 
 I find them practising against the weak : 
 This is my only motive. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 It would be 
 
 Not easy to persuade my consort of 
 Tour good intentions. 
 
 SABOR. 
 
 Is he so suspicious ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
 Made him what you beheld. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I 'm sorry for it. 
 
 Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 
 2 M 55 
 
 With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
 Good night. I trust to meet with him at a;iy-l>rc-,ik. 
 
 [Exit GABOR. 
 
 Re-enter IDENSTEIN and some peasants. JosEPHir 
 retires up the Hall. 
 
 FIRST PEASANT. 
 
 But if I 'm drown'd ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Why, you '11 be well paid for t. 
 And have risk'd more than drowning for as much. 
 I doubt not. 
 
 SECOND PEASANT. 
 
 But our wives and families ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
 Be better. 
 
 THIRD PEASANT. * 
 
 I have neither, and will venture. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
 A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
 In the prince's body-guard if you succeed ; 
 And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
 Two thalers. 
 
 THIRD PEASANT. 
 
 No more ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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 ti 
 The less I must have three. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Rave you forgot 
 Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 
 
 THIRD PEASANT. 
 
 No the prince v 
 And not the stranger's. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Sirrah ! in the prince's 
 Absence, I 'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
 My intimate connexion ; " Cousin Idenstein ! 
 (Quoth he) you '11 order out a dozen villains." 
 And so, you villains ! troop march march, I say 
 And if a single dog's ear of this packet 
 Be sprinkled by the Oder look to it ! 
 For every page of paper, shall a hide 
 Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
 Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
 Refractory vassals, who cannot effect 
 Impossibilities Away, ye earth-worms ! 
 
 [Exit, driving them 
 JOSEPHINE (coming forward). 
 I fain would shun these scenes, too oft repeated, 
 Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
 I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
 Even here, in this remote, unnamed, duii spo* 
 The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
 The insolence of wealth in poverty 
 O'er something poorer still (he uride cf ran*
 
 304 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 In servitude oV. something stilt 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 ineal, 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 't is to be amongst these sovereigns 
 My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth- 
 That twenty years of usage, such as no 
 Father, born in an humble state, could nerve 
 His soul to persecute a son withal, 
 Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 
 But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
 Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father ! 
 May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
 Look down on us, and our so long-desired 
 Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 
 What's that? Thou, Werner! can it be: and thus! 
 Enter WERNER hastily, with the knife in his hand, by 
 the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly after him. 
 WERNER (not at first recognising her). 
 
 Discover'd ! then I '11 stab (recognising her). 
 
 Ah! Josephine, 
 *Vhy art thou not at rest ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 What rest ? My God ! 
 vVhat doth this mean ? 
 
 WERNER (shelving a rouleau). 
 
 Here 's gold gold, Josephine 
 Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 And how obtam'd ? that knife ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 'T is bloodless yet. 
 Iway we must to our chamber. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 But whence com'st thou ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Ask not ! but let us think where we shall go 
 Tliis this will make us way. (showing the gold) 
 
 I 'II fit them now. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 dare not think thee guilty of dishonour. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Dishonour. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 I have said it. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Let us hence : 
 I' is the last night, 1 trust, that we need pass here. 
 
 JOSEPHINE 
 tnc 1 not the worst, I hopo 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Hope ! I make sure. 
 Jut let us to our chamber. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Yet one question ! 
 What hast thou done ? 
 
 WERNER {fiercely'). 
 
 Left one thing undone, whicn 
 lad made all well : let me not think of it. 
 Away! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 .4 Hall in the same Palace. 
 Enter IPENSTEIN and others. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings ! 
 
 A baron 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Oh ! that I ere 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 And so am I. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 But whom do you suspect? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Suspect ! all people 
 Without within above below Heaven help me ' 
 
 FRITZ. 
 Is there no other entrance to the chamber ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 None whatever. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Are you sure of that? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Certain. I have lived and served here since mybirtn, 
 And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
 Or seen it. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Then it must be some one who 
 Had access to the antechamber. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Doubtless. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 The man call'd Werner 's poor ! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Poor as a tniso , 
 
 But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
 By which there 's no communication with 
 The baron's chamber, that it can't be he : 
 Besides, I bade him " good night" in the halt 
 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.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 39.'. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 There 's another 
 The stranger 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 The Hungarian ? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 He who help'd 
 To fish the baron from the Oder. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Not 
 
 Unlikely. But, hold nyght it not have been 
 One of the suite ? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 How? We, Sir! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 No not yo, 
 
 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 
 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, 
 We scorn it as we do board-wages : then 
 Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
 Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
 His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
 Also the cabinet, if portable. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 There is some sense in that 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 No, sir ; be sure 
 
 T was none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
 Picker and stealer, vi ithout art or genius. 
 The only question is Who else could have 
 Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 
 
 IDENSTEIS. 
 
 You don't mean me ? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 No, sir ; I honour more 
 Four talents 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 And my principles, I hope. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Of course. But to the point : What 's to be done ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Nothing but there 's a good deal to be said. 
 We '11 offer a reward ; move heaven and earth, 
 And the police (though there 's none nearer than 
 Frankfort); post notices in manuscript 
 (For we've no printer); and set by my clerk 
 To rshd them (for few can, save he and I). 
 We'll ;end out villains to strip beggars, and 
 
 Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
 All gypsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
 Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit - 
 And for the baron's gold if 't is not found, 
 At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
 Of melting twice the substance in the raising 
 The ghost of this rouleau. Here 's alchymy 
 For your lord's losses \ 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 He hath found a better. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. , 
 
 Where? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 In a most immense inheritance. 
 The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 
 Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
 Is on his way to take possession. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Was there 
 No heir? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
 Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the worm 
 A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
 For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
 Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, theref**- 
 If living, he must chew the husks still, btu 
 The baron would find means to silence him, 
 Were he to re-appear : he 's politic, 
 And has much influence with a certain court. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 He's fortunate. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 'T is true, there is a grandson, 
 Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hand* 
 And educated as his heir ; but then 
 His birth is doubtful. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 His sire made 
 
 A left-hand love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
 With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
 Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
 A house as SiegendorPs. The grandsire ill 
 Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
 To see the parents, though he took the son. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
 Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
 Puzzle your baron to unravel. 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Why, 
 
 For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
 He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
 And grandsire's qualities, impetuous as 
 The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
 The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
 Some months ago. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 The devil he did' 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Why. ye*. 
 
 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 bv n-
 
 396 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I1>ENSTEIN. 
 
 fVas 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 That cannot be. 
 
 A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
 To risk his life and honours with disbanded 
 Soldiers and desperadoes ! 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Heaven best knows ! 
 But there are human natures so allied 
 Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
 That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
 I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
 Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
 Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
 Vour Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
 Your Bannicr, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
 Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
 And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
 They who would follow the same pastime must 
 Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
 The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
 Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
 But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
 Until this morning. 
 
 Enter STRALENHEIM and ULRIC. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 what 
 Your courteous courage did in my behalf. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 I pray you press the theme no further. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 8'*". madr for the service : I have served ; 
 
 Have rank by birth and soldiersnip, and friends 
 
 Who shall be yours. 'Tis true, this pause of peac# 
 
 Favours such views at present scantily ; 
 
 But 't will not last, men's spirits are too stirririg j 
 
 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 mean lime, 
 
 You might obtain a post, which would insure 
 
 A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
 
 To rise. I speak of Brandenburgh, whereiv 
 
 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, 't is with the same feeling which 
 Induced it. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Why, this is mere usury ! 
 I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
 The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
 To heap more obligations on me, till 
 I bow beneath them. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You shall say so, when 
 I claim the payment. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Well, sir, since you will iiol 
 You are nobly born ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 I 've heard my kinsmen say so 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Your actions show it. Might I ask your name? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Ulric. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Your house's ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 When I 'm worthy oi it, 
 I '11 answer you. 
 
 STRALENHEIM (dtide). 
 
 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 IDENSTE rf 
 So, sirs ! how have you sped in your researches ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Indifferent well, your excellency. 
 
 8TRALENHEIM. 
 
 Then 
 I am to deem the plunderer is caught? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Humph ! not exactly. 
 
 STRALENREIM. 
 
 Or at least suspected. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Who may he be? 
 
 IDEN8TEIW. 
 
 Why, don't you know, my lord '
 
 WERNER. 
 
 39: 
 
 STRALK.M1KIM. 
 
 How snould I ? I was fast asleep. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 And so 
 
 Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
 Than does your excellency. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Dolt! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Why, if 
 
 Four lordslup, 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 : 
 'T is only at the bar and in the dungeon 
 That wise men know your felon by his features ; 
 But I '11 engage, that if seen there but once, 
 Whether he be found criminal or no, 
 His face shall be so. 
 
 STRALENHEIM (to FRITZ). 
 
 Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
 What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Faith ! 
 My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects me 
 Just now materially), I needs would find 
 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-closed eyes, would soon 
 Leave bore your borough, Sir Intcndant ! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 True; 
 If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 
 
 OLRIC. 
 
 What is all this 7 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 You join'd us but this morning, 
 And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 
 
 DLRIC. 
 
 Some rumour of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
 The outer chambers of the palace, but 
 I know no further. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 It is a strange business : 
 The intendant can inform you of the facts. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Most willingly. You see 
 
 STRALENHEIM (impatiently). 
 
 Defer your tale, 
 
 Till certain of the hearer's patience. 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 That 
 
 Can only be approved by proofs. You see 
 
 gTRALENHEiM (again interrupting him, and address- 
 ing ULRIC). 
 
 In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
 My cabinet before me, with some gold 
 Upon it (more than I much like to lose, 
 Though in part only) : some ingenious person 
 Contrived to glide through all my own attendants 
 Besides those of the place, and bore away 
 2*2 
 
 A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
 
 I would be fain, and there 's an rnd ; perhaps 
 
 You (as I still am rather faint), vould add 
 
 To yesterday's great obligation, this, 
 
 Though slighter, yet not slight, o aid these men 
 
 (Who seem but lukewarm) in r ^covering it ? 
 
 DLRIC. 
 
 Most willingly, and without los < of time 
 (To IDENSTEIN). Come hither, Mynheer ! 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 But so much haste boclet 
 
 Right little speed, and 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Standing motionless. 
 None ; so let 's march, we '11 talk as we go on. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 But 
 
 DLRIC. 
 
 Show the spot, and then I '11 answer you. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Hence ! 
 DLRIC. 
 
 Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 
 
 [Exit with IDENSTEIN and FRIT* 
 
 STRALENHEIM (s&lus). 
 
 A stalwart, active, soldier-looking stripling. 
 
 Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour. 
 
 And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
 
 When in repose, till his eye kindle up 
 
 In answering yours. I wish I could engage him ; 
 
 I have need of some such spirits near me now, 
 
 For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
 
 And though I am not the man to yield without one, 
 
 Neither are they who now rise up between me 
 
 And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one : 
 
 But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 
 
 Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
 
 Champion his claims : that 's well. The father, whom 
 
 For years I 've track'd, as does the blood-hound, neve* 
 
 In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
 
 To fault, but here I have him, and that 's belter. 
 
 It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims it ; 
 
 And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
 
 Of my inquiries, still confirm it Yes ! 
 
 The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
 
 Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
 
 The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
 
 Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect: 
 
 Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
 
 As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 
 
 By secret instinct that both must be foes 
 
 Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 
 
 All all confirm it to my mind : however, 
 
 We '11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
 
 The order comes from Frankfort >r 'hese water* 
 
 Rise not the higher (and the weather favours 
 
 Their quick abatement), and I '11 have him sale 
 
 Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
 
 His real estate and name ; and there 's no harm c>>n. 
 
 Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 
 
 (Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 
 
 He 's poor, and that 's suswcious ho t unknown
 
 391 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And that ' defenceless, true, we have no proofs 
 Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence ? 
 Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 
 In other bearings, I should rather lay 
 The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
 Hath someth:'jig which I like not ; and alone 
 Of all around, except the intendant, and 
 The prince's household and my own, had ingress 
 Familiar to the chamber. 
 
 Enter GABOR. 
 
 Friend, how fare you ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 As those who fare well every where, when they 
 Have supp'J and slumber'd, no great matter how 
 And you, my lord ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Better in rest than purse : 
 Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 
 OABOR. 
 
 I heard 
 
 Of your late hss : but 't is a trifle to 
 One of your order. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 You would hardly think so 
 Were the loss yours. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 I never had so much 
 
 (At once I in mv whole life, and therefore am not 
 Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
 Your couriers are turn'd back I have outstrip! them, 
 In my return. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 You! Why? 
 
 6ABOR. 
 
 I went at day-break, 
 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. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Would the dogs were in it ! 
 Why dia tnev not, at least, attempt the passage 7 
 I nrder'a jus at all risks. 
 
 CABOR. 
 
 Could you order 
 
 The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
 The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
 Of the swoln stream), and be obcy'd, perhaps 
 They might have ventured. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I must see to it : 
 
 The knaves ! the slaves ! but they shall smart for this. 
 [Exit STRALENHEIM. 
 
 6ABOR (solus). 
 
 There goes my noble, feudal, self-will'd baron ! 
 Epitome of what brave chivalry 
 The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
 Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
 His lands I if he hath any), and, still dearer, 
 His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
 A.S would hav.e filled a bladder, while he lay 
 Gurgling and foaming halfway through the window 
 Of his o'erset ann water-logg'd conveyance ; 
 And now be storms at half a dozen wretches 
 
 Because they love their lives too ! Yet he 's righi 
 
 'T is strange they should, when such us he may pul 
 
 them 
 
 To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
 Thou art indeeda melancholy jest ! [Exit GABOB 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Apartment of WERNER, in the Palace. 
 Enter JOSEPHINE and ULRIC. 
 
 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 mother's thanks ! a mother's tears of joy ! 
 This is indeed thy work ! At such an hour too, 
 He comes not only as a son but saviour. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 If such 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. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 I know it. 
 
 But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
 If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
 My memory, by this oblivious transport 
 My son ! 
 
 Enter WERNER. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 What have we here ? more s'-rangers ? 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 No I 
 Look upon him ! What do you see ? 
 
 WERNEH. 
 
 A stripling, 
 
 For the first time 
 
 ULRIC ^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, Siegendorf ! 
 
 WERNER (starting). 
 
 Hush! boy 
 
 The walls may hear that name ! 
 ULRIC. 
 
 What then? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Why, hen 
 
 But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
 I must be known here but as Werner. Come! 
 Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st alJ
 
 WERNER. 
 
 39!) 
 
 should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
 Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
 Hut had 1 seen that form amid ten thousand 
 Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
 This for my son ! 
 
 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. 
 
 ULRKC. 
 
 My memory served me far more fondly : I 
 Have not forgotten aught ; and oft-times in 
 The proud and princely halls of (I '11 not name them, 
 As you say that 'tis perilous), but i' the pomp 
 Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
 To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
 And wept to see another 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 o:ik, worn, but still steady 
 Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
 Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three months since. 
 
 WER.NER. 
 Why did you leave him ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE (embracing ULRIC). 
 
 Can you ask that question? 
 Is he not here ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 True ; he hath sought his parents, 
 And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 All shall be better'd What we have to do 
 Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
 Or rather yours ; for I waive 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. 
 
 Hare you not heard of Stralenheim ? 
 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 fathers' lands : 
 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 7 
 His riyht must jield to ours. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Ay, if at Prague - 
 
 But here he is all-powerful ; and has soread 
 Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
 He hath escaped them, is by fortune not 
 By favour 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Doth he personally know you * 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
 As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
 But owe my temporary liberty 
 To his uncertainty. 
 
 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 chiefly 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. 
 
 WhU 
 More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Who taught you thus to brand an unknown being 
 With an infernal stigma ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 My own feelings 
 Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Who taught you, long-sought, and ill-found boy ! thai 
 It would 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. 
 
 That ruffian is thy father ! 
 
 Every thing ! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Oh, my son ! 
 
 Believe him not and yet ! (Her voice falters. } 
 
 ULRIC (starts, looks earnestly at WERNER, and tht* 
 says slowly). 
 
 And you avow it ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Ulric! before you dare despise your father, 
 Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
 Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap, 
 Is it for you to measure passion's force 
 Or misery's temptation ? Wait (not long, 
 I cometh like the night, and quickly) Wait! 
 Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted till 
 Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin , 
 Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
 Despair your bed- fellow then rise, but not 
 From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er 
 Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd
 
 00 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 f Iimstlf around all that it dear and noble 
 
 Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
 
 With but hit (bids between your steps and happiness, 
 
 When fce, who tires but to tear from you name, 
 
 Lands, life itself; Des at your mercy, with 
 
 Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
 
 The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
 
 Even to your deadliest foe ; and be as 'twere 
 
 Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
 
 Hu death alone can save you : Thank your God ! 
 
 If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 
 
 Vou turn aside 1 did so. 
 
 CLRIC. 
 
 But 
 
 WER5EH (abruptly). 
 
 I win not brook a hi 
 
 Hear me ! 
 irce dare 
 
 Listen to my own (if that be human still) 
 Hear me ! you do not know this man I do. 
 He 's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
 Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
 None are secure from desperation, few 
 From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
 Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
 A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
 An instant a mere motion the least impulse 
 Bad swept him and all (ears of mine from earth. 
 He was within my power my knife was raised- 
 Withdrawn and I 'm in his: are you not so? 
 Who tells you that he knows you not ? Who says 
 He hath not lured you here to end you, or 
 To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 
 
 [Hepautn. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Proceed proceed! 
 
 WERXER. 
 
 Me he hath ever known, 
 And hunte-1 through each change of time name 
 
 And why not you J Are you more versed in men ? 
 He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
 Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn' d 
 Even from my presence : but, in spurning now, 
 F9 only with fresh venom. Will you be 
 More patient ? Ulric ! Ulric ! there are crimes 
 Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
 Which nature cannot master or forbear. 
 
 CLRIC (look* Jim at kern, and that at JOSEPHINE). 
 My mother! 
 
 WERrER. 
 
 Ay ! I thought so : you have now 
 Only one parent. I have lost alike 
 Father and son, and stand alone 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 But stay! 
 
 [WERXER ruthe* out of the chamber. 
 JOSEPHINE (to CLRIC). 
 Follow him not, until this storm of passion 
 Abates. Thmk'st thou that were it well for him 
 I had not followed ? 
 
 CLRIC. 
 
 I obey you, mother, 
 
 Althoog> reluctantly. My first act shall not 
 8* one of disc bedience. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Oh ' he is jjooC . 
 
 Condemn him not from his mvn month, out trust 
 To me who hare borne sr> 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, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
 That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
 I may prepare to face him, or, at least, 
 To extricate you from your present perils. 
 I pledge myself to accomplish this but would 
 I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 
 JOSEPHI.NE. 
 
 Ay! 
 Hadst thou but done so ! 
 
 Enter GABOR and IDEJCSTEIJT, with Attendants. 
 6ABOR (to ULRIC). 
 
 I have sought you, comrade. 
 So this is my reward ! 
 
 ULRIC 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 OABOR. 
 
 'S death ! have I lived to these years, and for this ? 
 ( To iDEirsxEia). But for your age aad folly, I would- 
 
 IDE9STEIK. 
 
 Helj 
 Hands off I touch an intendant ! 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 Do not think 
 
 I '11 honour you so much as to save your throat 
 From the Ravenstone, 1 by choking you myself! 
 
 IDESSTE1N. 
 
 I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
 Those who have greater need of it than me. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 At once, then. 
 
 The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
 This worthy personage his deign'd to fix 
 His kind suspicions me ! whom he ne'er saw 
 Till yester evening. 
 
 IDENSTEIX. 
 
 Wouldst hart nw suspect 
 My own acquaintances ? You hi to learn 
 That I keep better company. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 You shaU 
 
 Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men 
 The worms ! you hound of malice ! 
 
 [GABOR teiza on him. 
 ULRIC (interfering). 
 
 Nay, no violence : 
 He 's old, unarm'd be temperate, Gabor ! 
 
 OABOR (UUiHg ^olDEXSTEIX). 
 
 True- 
 
 1 The Ravrnstone, " Rabenstein." the ttnu gibbet at 
 Germany, and so called from lUravpn pe-'hiuc on it
 
 WEE: 
 
 40! 
 
 lam a Cool to lose myself became 
 
 Fools dean me knave : k k their homage. 
 
 CLSUC 
 
 Fr TV; ? 
 
 How 
 
 I 1! BUT SO. 
 
 EH him! 
 
 OASOX. 
 
 I in nhn frrr im * 
 
 IDEjrtTZXJr. 
 
 Than TOO iba^ do, if lfaer be wif or 
 The baron rial cw:* ! 
 
 Poet kt abet yaa yoar 
 
 Does he not? 
 
 CASOB. 
 
 Tfam next tiiM let him 
 
 Butheb< 
 
 Wei w! 
 
 Si 
 
 MjaoUeloni, Inhere! 
 
 Dare w/'Ji TOO ? 
 
 0ABOB* 
 
 YOB faow hest, if j.BtodijV 
 Flood has Bot wasB*d away roar i 
 Bwi that's a trifle. I su 
 IB Bhrases not eqonoeal, hy JOB 
 
 Opprac'd kern by the*e 
 Toyo.fcr 
 
 To look fcr dneves at hocae vere part of It, 
 bat, oae vord, if I 
 
 " 1-* T"J^-I*. -T*. ^1 ^*r 1 !T-i-l 
 
 Worthy to be M of * warn Be KM. 
 
 I ittr ant irfr tV hirti. iiat IMMJIILI, 
 
 Of what I hate done for jou. and hat jou owe a% 
 
 TLii ^d ^ r ^.^ -M. \ v*-. af, -,- 
 Yowgoid. I abo koow that were I erea 
 The nBain I am dcon'd, the ccroce reader'd 
 So rceeadjr wodd act perawt jon to 
 
 v, -.-. lealfc, Bweyl dna^h =: H 
 
 Swdb worid leave yoar MtckeoB hot a IbdL 
 ; I demad of JTMI 
 
 From TOOT OWT, l~_n 
 
 Jll ttBdioB of their a 
 
 Yoa owe to t 
 
 Ad Mever thoa^t to hue aafcM *o i 
 
 'Sdeath! who, 
 M e'er had k? 
 
 Maybewf 
 
 Except soci 
 
 Art hot, sir. 
 
 Before the hreath of mi iili, and hearai 
 
 STBALKSHEEM. 
 
 We fcwad JM the Oder : 
 
 WowVi we hwl let ; there! 
 
 ISce*nr*dlBe; hwtawght km ean'd
 
 402 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 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. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Threat's! thou ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Not so much 
 
 As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
 And I retort it with an open warning. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 As you have said, 't is true I owe you something, 
 For which you seem disposed to pay yourseif. 
 
 OABOR. 
 Not with your gold. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 With bootless insolence. 
 [To his Attendant* and IDENSTEIN. 
 You need not further to molest this man, 
 But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 
 [Exit STRALENHEIM, IDENSTEIN, and Attendants. 
 
 OABOR (following). 
 
 I '11 after him, and 
 
 ULRIC (stopping him). 
 Not a step. 
 
 CABOR. 
 
 Who shall 
 Oppose me 7 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Your own reason, with a moment's 
 Thought. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 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 sharp sneers and words ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 't were 
 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, 
 You are not guilty. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Do I hear aright ? 
 rou, too! 
 
 'JLRIC. 
 
 I merely ask'd a simple question. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 (f foe judge ask'd me, I would answer " No " 
 T o you I answer thus. [He draws. 
 
 ULRIC (drawing). 
 
 Withal) my heart. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Without there ! Ho ! help ! help ! Oh ! God ! here 'i 
 
 murder ! [Exit JOSEPHINE, shrieking. 
 
 GABOR and VLRicJight. GABOR is disarmed just iu 
 
 STRALENHEIM, JOSEPHINE, IDENSTEIN, etc. re- 
 
 enter. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 Oh ! glorious Heaven ! he 's safe ! 
 
 STRALENHEIM (to JOSEPHINE). 
 
 Who's safe ? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 My 
 
 ULRIC (interrupting her with a stern look, and turning 
 afterwards to STRALENHEIM). 
 
 Both! 
 Here 's no great harm done. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 What hath caused all this ? 
 ULRIC. 
 
 FOK, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
 Is 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. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 These 
 Brawls must end here. 
 
 GABOR (taking his sword). 
 They shall. You have wrong'd me, U-nc, 
 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 
 Absurd insinuations Ignorance 
 And dull suspicion are a part of his 
 Entail will last him longer than his lands. 
 But I may fit him yet: you have vanquish'd me. 
 I was the fool of passion to conceive 
 That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
 Already proved by greater perils than 
 Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
 However but in friendship. [Exit G IBOR 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I will brook 
 
 No more ! This outrage following up his insult! , 
 Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
 I owed him heretofore for the so vaunted 
 Aid which he added to your abler succour. 
 Ulric, you are not hurt ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Not even by a scratcn. 
 
 STRALENHEIM (to IDENSTEIN). 
 
 Intendant ! take your measures to secure 
 Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
 He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort, 
 The instant that the waters have abated 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Secure him ! he hath got his swora again 
 And seems to know the use on 't ; 't is his tr&de 
 Belike : I 'm a civilian. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Fool ! are not 
 Yon score of vassals dogging at vour hecln
 
 WERNER. 
 
 403 
 
 Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! after him ! 
 
 umic. 
 Huron, f Jo beseech you ! 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I must be 
 Oley'd No words ! 
 
 iDiwrrxnr. 
 
 Well, if it must be so 
 
 March, vassals ! I 'm your leader and will bring 
 The rear up : a wise general never should 
 Kxpose his precious life on which all rests. 
 i like that article of war. 
 
 [Exit IDENSTEIN and Attendant*. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Come hither, 
 
 Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
 I recognise her, 't is the stranger's wife 
 Whom they name " Werner.!' 
 ULRIC. 
 
 'T is his name. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Indeed! 
 Is not your husband visible, fair dame? 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Who seeks him? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 No one for the present : but 
 I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
 Alone. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 I will retire with you. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Not so. 
 
 Ytu art. 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). 
 Fear not ! 
 
 [Exit JOSEPHINE. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Ulric, I think that I may trust you ? 
 
 You saved my life and acts like these beget 
 
 Unbounded confidence. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Say on. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Mysterious 
 
 And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
 To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
 This man obnoxious perhaps fatal to me. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Who? Gabor, the Hungarian? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 No this "Werner" 
 Witn the false name and habit. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 How can this be 7 
 
 He is the poorest of the poor and yellow 
 Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
 The map is helpless. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 He is 't is no matter 
 But f h<? be he man I deem (and that 
 fie is so, all around us here and much 
 Thai is not hf;re confirm my apprehension), 
 
 He must be made secure, ere twelve hrurs further. 
 
 .LKIC. 
 And what have 1 to do with this ' 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 escoit but this cursed flood 
 Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 It is abating. 
 
 8TRALENHEIM. 
 
 That is well. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 But how 
 Am I concem'd ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 ! 
 The 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 ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 He stands 
 
 Between me and a brave inheritance. 
 Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I hope so, 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
 Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
 The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
 Have skimm'd it lightly : o that no-.v, besides 
 Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
 Confronted with whole realms afar and near 
 Made deserts. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 You describe it faithfully. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Ay could you see it, you would say so but 
 As I have said, you shall. 
 
 ULKIC. 
 
 I accept the omen. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 wayworn stranger stands between you and 
 This paradise? (As Aciam did between 
 The devil and his.) [Aside.] 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 He doth. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Hath he no right 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Right! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
 
 Who for these twenty years disgraced his lireage 
 
 In al! his acts- hut chiefly by his Tnai -iage.
 
 404 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And living amidst commerce- fetching burghers, 
 And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 He has a wife, then ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 You 'd be sorry to 
 
 Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
 He callt his wife. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Is she not so ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 No more 
 
 Than he 's your father : an Italian girl, 
 The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
 On lo v e and poverty with this same Werner. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 They are childless, then ? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 fled, 
 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 ! 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 
 
 STRALEXHEIM. 
 
 You have harp'd the very string next to my heart. 
 I may depend upon you ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 'T were too late 
 To doubt it, 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Let no foolish pity shake 
 Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
 Is pitiful) he is a wretch, as likely 
 To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
 Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
 He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
 Without approach to mine ; and, to say truth, 
 I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
 To deem he would descend to such an act ; 
 Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
 Once though too rash. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 And they, my lord, we know 
 By your experience, never plunder till 
 They knock the brains out first which makes them 
 
 heirs, 
 Not thieve? The dead, who feel nought, can lose 
 
 notning, 
 
 Nr e'er be robb'd : their spous are a bequest 
 No more. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 Go to : you are a wag. But say 
 i may he sure you Ml keep an eye on this man, 
 And let me know his slightest movement towards 
 Ooncflment or escape? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Ycu may be sure 
 
 You yourself could not watch him more than I 
 Will be his sentinel. 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 By this you make me 
 Yours, and for ever. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Such is my intention. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A. Hall in the tame Palace, from whence the secret 
 Passage leads. 
 
 Enter WERNER and GABOR. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Sir, I have told my tale ; if it so please you 
 To give me refuge for a few hours, well 
 If not I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 How 
 
 Can I, so wretched, give to misery 
 
 A shelter? wanting such myself as much 
 
 As e'er the hunted deer a covert 
 
 6ABOR. 
 
 Or, 
 
 The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
 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, being much disposed to do 
 The same myself; but will you shelter me ? 
 I am oppress'd like you and poor like you- 
 Disgraced 
 
 WERNER (abruptly). 
 Who told you that I was disgraced 7 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
 Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
 I said / was so and would add, with truth, 
 As undeservedly as you. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Again ! 
 As/? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 Or any other honest man. 
 
 What the devil would you have ? You don't believe m* 
 Guilty of this base theft ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 No, no I cannot, 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Why, that 's my heart of honour ! yon young gallant- 
 
 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 widely 
 
 Than theirs ; but thus it is you poor and Kelp.e**- 
 
 Both still more than myself
 
 WERNER. 
 
 40* 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 How know you that ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 f ou 're i ight ; I asx for shelter at the hand 
 
 W hjch 1 call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
 
 1 were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
 
 The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
 
 By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
 
 Of the New World, the Spaniard boasts about, 
 
 Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
 
 Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 
 
 Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
 
 Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
 
 Upon his heart o' nights. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 6ABOR. 
 
 Just what I say ; I thought my speech was plain: 
 You are no thief nor I and, as true men, 
 Should aid each o'her. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 It is a damn'd world, sir. 
 OABOR. 
 
 So is the nearest of the two next, as 
 The priests say (and no doubt they should know best), 
 Therefore 1 'U stick by this as being loth 
 To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
 An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
 It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
 To-morrow I will try the waters, as 
 The dove did, trusting that they have al> ed. 
 
 WERNER. 
 Abated ? is there hope of that ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 There was 
 
 \t noontide. 
 
 WERNER. 
 Then we may be safe, 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 Are you 
 In peril? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Poverty is ever so. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 That I know by long practice. Will you not 
 Promise to make mine less ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Your poverty ? 
 GABOR. 
 
 No you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
 I meant my peril only : you 've a roof, 
 And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Rightly ; for how should such a wretch as I 
 Have gold ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, 
 Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 
 
 WERNER. 
 Dare you insinuate ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 What? 
 
 To whom you speak ? 
 
 2N 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Are you aware 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 No ; and I am not used 
 Greatly to care. (A noise heard -without). Bat far- -V' 
 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. 1 do assure you, 
 If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
 Think if it were your own case ! 
 
 WERNER (aside). 
 
 Oh, just God ! 
 Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I see you 're moved ; and it shows well in you : 
 I may live to requite it. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Are you not 
 A spy of Stralenheim's ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 Not I ! a.-.d if 
 I were, what is there to espy in you ? 
 Although I recollect his frequent question 
 About you and your spouse, might lead to some 
 Suspicion ; but you best know what and why : 
 I am his deadliest foe. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Ya*? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 After such 
 
 A treatment for the service which in part . 
 I render'd him I am his enemy ; 
 If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 
 
 WERNER 
 
 Iwffl. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 But how ? 
 
 WERNER (thawing the paneT). 
 There is a secret spring ; 
 Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
 And used it but for safety. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Open it, 
 And I wiH use it for the same. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I found it, 
 
 As I have said : it leads through winding walls, 
 (So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
 Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness) 
 And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
 I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
 Give me your word. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 It is unnecessary : 
 
 How should I make my way in darkness, through 
 A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 
 
 WERNEK. 
 
 Yes, but who knows to what place it may lead 7 
 / know not (mark you !) but who knows it might no* 
 Lead even into the chambers of your foe ? 
 So strangely were contrived these galleries 
 By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
 When man built less against the elements
 
 106 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 fhan his next neighbour. You must not advance 
 Beyond the two first windings ; if you do, 
 (Albeit I never pass'd them), I '11 not answer 
 For what you may be led to. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 But I will. 
 A thousand thanks ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 You '11 find the spring more obvious 
 On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
 [t yields to the least touch. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I '11 in farewell ! 
 [GABOR goes in by the secret panel. 
 
 WERNER (solus). 
 
 What have I done ? Alas ! what had I done 
 Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
 Still some atonement that I save the man, 
 Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own 
 They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 
 Enter IDENSTEIN, and others. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
 
 Thiough the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 
 
 Of pictured sam's, upon the red and yellow 
 
 C asements, through which the sunset streams like sunrise 
 
 On long pearl-colour'd beads and crimson crosses, 
 
 And gilded crosiers, 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 wind proclaims 
 
 As frail as any other life or glory. 
 
 He ' gone, however. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Whom do you seek ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 A villain ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Why need you come so far, then ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 In the search 
 Of him who robb'd the baron. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Are you sure 
 You have divined the man ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 As sure as you 
 Stand there ; but where 's he gone ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Who? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 He we sought. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 MI see he a not here. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 And yet we traced him 
 Up to this hall : are you accomplices, 
 Or deal vou in the black art 7 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I deal plainly, 
 fo manv men the blackest. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 It may be 
 
 I have a question or two for yourself 
 Hereafter ; but we inuct continue now 
 Our search for t' other. 
 
 WERNER 
 
 You had best Degin 
 Your inquisition now ; I may not be 
 So patient always. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 I should like to know, 
 In good sooth, if you really are the man 
 That Stralenheim 's in quest of? 
 WERNER. 
 
 Insolent ! 
 Said you not that he was not here ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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 are at fault. 
 
 [Exit IDENSTEIN and Attendant* 
 
 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 '11 nought to do with blood. 
 Enter ULRIC. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 I sought you, father. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Is 't not dangerous 7 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
 Or any of the ties between tis : 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 at 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 nistl ^ 
 In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread : 
 Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so ; 
 We '11 overfly, or rend them. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Show me how ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Can you not guess 7 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I cannot, 
 ULRIC. 
 
 That is strange. 
 Came the thought ne'er into your mind Last night 1 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I understand you not. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Then we shall never 
 
 More understand each other. But to change 
 The topic
 
 WERNER. 
 
 407 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 You mean to pursue it, as 
 T is 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, bastardized 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. 
 Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
 For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
 And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
 With hissing snakes, who 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 ! 
 
 The only fear were if we fled together, 
 For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
 The waters only lie in floods between 
 This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour. 
 The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
 Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
 A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
 The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
 The frontier, and you 're safe. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 My noble boy ! 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Hush ! hush ! no transports : we '11 indulge in them 
 In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold: 
 Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 
 And have look'd through him) : it will answer thus 
 A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold 
 No jewel : therefore, it could not be his ; 
 And then, the man who was possess'd of this 
 Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
 The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
 This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
 Bv his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
 In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
 And Iden*tcm will serve you. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I will follow 
 In all things your direction. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I would have 
 
 Spared you the trouble ; but had I appea r'd 
 To take an interest in you, and still more 
 By dabbling with a jewel in your favour, 
 All had been known at once. 
 
 WERNER 
 
 My guardian angel ! 
 
 This overpays the past ! But how wilt thou 
 Fare in our absence ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Stralenheim knows nothing 
 Of me as aught of kindred with yourself! 
 I will but wait a day or two with him 
 To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 To part no more ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I know not that ; but at 
 The least we '11 meet again once more. 
 WERNER. 
 
 My boy ! 
 
 My friend my only child, and sole preserver ' 
 Oh, do not hate me ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Hate my father ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Ay, 
 
 My father hated me : why not my son ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Your father knew you not as I do. 
 
 WERNEK. 
 
 Scorpions 
 
 Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? In this gui 
 Thou canst not know me I am not myself 
 Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I '11 wait I 
 
 In the mean time be sure that all a son 
 Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
 
 Further that you despise me. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Wherefore shouid I > 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Must I repeat my humiliation 7 
 ULRIC. 
 
 No! 
 
 I have fathom'd it, and you. But let us talk 
 Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
 Not now; your error has redoubled all 
 The present difficulties of our houst, 
 At secret war with that of Stralenheim ; 
 All we have now to think of is to baffle 
 HIM. 1 have shown one way. 
 WERNER. 
 
 The only ane, 
 And I embrace it, as I did my son, 
 Who show'd himself and father's taftty in 
 One day. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You shall be safe : let that suffice. 
 Would Stralenheim's appearance in Ronemit 
 ' Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
 i Admitted lo our lands ?
 
 108 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Assuredly, 
 
 Situate as we are now, although the first 
 Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
 Espcci.illy the 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 ; 
 T will sink into his venial 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 the 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 aud sweetest feeling of our hearts, 
 At such an hour too ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Yes, curse it will ease you ! 
 Htrc is the intendant. 
 
 Enter IDENSTEIH 
 
 Master Idenstein, 
 
 How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
 The rogue"? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 No, faith ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Well, there are plenty more : 
 You may have better luck another chase. 
 Where is the baron ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Gone back to his chamber : 
 And, now I think on 't, asking after you 
 With nobly-born impatience. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Your great men 
 
 Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
 Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
 'T is well they have horses, too, for if they had not, 
 I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
 Thev sav kings die' Sesostns. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Who was he 7 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 An old Bohemian an imperial gipsy. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 A gipsy or Bohemian, 't is the same, ' 
 
 For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I 've heard so ; but I must take leave. Intendant, 
 Your servant ! Werner (to WERNER, slightly), if tlia. 
 
 be your name, 
 Yours. [Exit ULRIC. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 That 's well- 
 That 's very well. You also know your place, too, 
 And yet I don't Know that 1 know your place. 
 
 WERNUR (shelving the ring). 
 Would this assist your knowledge ? 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 How! What! Eh! 
 A jewel ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 T is your own, on one condition. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 Mine! Name it! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 That hereafter you permit ra 
 At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 
 A family ring. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 A family ! your* / a gem ! 
 I 'm breathless ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 You must also furnish me, 
 An hour ere daybreak, with all means to qun 
 This place. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 But is it real ? let me look on it : 
 Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 
 WERNER. 
 
 Come, 1 11 trust you j 
 
 You havo gucss'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
 My present seeming. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 I can't say I did, 
 
 Though this looks like it ; this is the true breeding 
 Of gentle blood ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 I have important reasons 
 For wishing to continue privily 
 My journey hence. 
 
 IDENSTEIN. 
 
 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.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 409 
 
 Be you the man or no, 't is not my business ; 
 
 Besides, I never should obtain the half 
 
 From this proud niggardly noble, who would raise 
 
 The country for some missing bits of coin, 
 
 And never offer a precise reward 
 
 But this ! Another look ! 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Gaze on it freely ; 
 At day-dawn it is yours. 
 
 IDEXSTEIN. 
 
 Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
 Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
 Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
 Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou load-star 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, attracted 
 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 ? 
 
 WERITER. 
 
 Call me Werner still: 
 You may yet know me by a loftier title. 
 
 IDEirSTEl* 
 
 I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
 Of whom I long have dream'd, in a low garb. 
 But come, I '!! serve thee ; thou shall be as free 
 As air, despite the waters : let us hence 
 I '11 show thee I am honest (oh, thou jewel !) 
 Thou shall be furnish'd, 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, skill'd in precious stones how many 
 Carats may it weigh? Come, Werner, I will wing thee. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 STRALENHEIM'S Chamber. 
 STRALENHEIM and FRITZ. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 A\l 's remdy, my good lord ! 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 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 throush, nor yet 
 Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
 'Twist earth and heaven, like envy between man 
 And man, an everlasting mist ; I will 
 I7nto my pillow. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 May you rest there weD ! 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I feeC, <ind fear, I shall. 
 
 2 jr 2 57 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 And wherefore fear? 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 I know not why, and therefore do fear more, 
 
 Because an undescribable but 't is 
 
 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." 
 
 STRALENHEIM. 
 
 You think ! you supercilious slave ! what right 
 
 Have you to tax your memory, which should be 
 
 Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
 
 Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
 
 Whose daily repetition marks your duty 
 
 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 scare* 
 
 Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
 
 Mere words on you. Call me betimes. 
 
 FRITZ. 
 
 Good night ! 
 I trust U.-morrow will restore your lordship 
 To renov ted strength and temper. 
 
 [The scene closet 
 
 SCENE ra. 
 
 The tecret Passage. 
 
 GABOR (solus}. 
 
 Four 
 
 Five sue hours have I counted, like the guard 
 Of out-posts, on the never-merry clock : 
 That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
 It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
 With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell, 
 Though for a marriage feast it rings : each stroke 
 Peals of a hope the less ; the funeral note 
 Of love deep-buried without resurrection 
 In the grave of possession ; while the knoH 
 Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
 Totriple time in the son's ear. 
 
 I 'm cold- 
 
 I 'm dark I 've blown my fingers number'd o'er 
 And o'er my steps and knock'd my head against 
 Some fifty buttresses and roused the rats 
 And bats in general insurrection, till 
 Their cursed pattering feet and whirring wings 
 Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
 A light ! It is at distance (if I can 
 Measure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 
 As through a crevice or a key-hole, in 
 The inhibited direction ; I must on, 
 Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
 A distant lamp-light is an incident 
 In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
 To nothing that may tempt me ! Else Heaven aid m 
 To obtain or to escape it J Shining still ' 
 Were it the star of Lucifer himself.
 
 no 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Or lie himself girt with its beams, I could 
 
 Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 
 
 That corner 's turn'd so ah ! no, right ! it draws 
 
 Nearer. Here is a darksome angle so, 
 
 That's weather' d. Let me pause. Suppose it leads 
 
 Into some greater danger than that which 
 
 .1 hive escaped ? no matter, 't is a new one ; 
 
 And novel perils, iike fresh mistresses, 
 
 \Vear more magnetic aspects : I will on, 
 
 And be it where it may I have my dagger, 
 
 Which may protect me at a pinch. Burn still, 
 
 Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 
 
 My stationary Will o' the wisp ! So ! so ! 
 
 He hears my invocation, and fails not. 
 
 [The tcene closes. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Garden. 
 
 Enter WERNER. 
 
 [ could not sleep and now the hour 's at hand ; 
 All's ready. Idenstein has kept his word: 
 And, station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
 Ifpon 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 horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
 Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
 Hut not dishonour'd : and I leave them with 
 A stain, 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 Sicgendorf, 
 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 '11 pause 
 Upon the method the first hour of safely. 
 The madness of my miser '{ 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 ! what 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 ! 
 
 fhrioe welcome now ! this filial 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Stop! before 
 
 We approach, tell me 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Why look you so ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Do I 
 
 rtchold my father, 01- 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 What? 
 
 C I.Kit:. 
 
 An assassin . 
 
 WURWEU. 
 
 uvsttn<% 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 7 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Did you not this night (as the night before) 
 Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 
 
 Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 
 
 [ULRic 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Proceed. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Died 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 hell 
 Such thoughts if e'er they glared a moment thiouga 
 The irritation of my oppress'd spirit 
 May Heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
 As from mine eyes ! 
 
 UT.RIO. 
 
 But Stralenheim is dead. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 'T is horrible ! 't is hideous, as 't is 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 jwlice. His chamber has, 
 Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
 If nature 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 
 Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
 Above our house ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 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 '11 face it, Who shall dare suspect me ? 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Tec 
 
 You had no guests no visitors no life 
 Breathing around you, save my mother's 7 
 WERNER. 
 
 Ah!
 
 WERNER. 
 
 411 
 
 1'he Hungarian ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 H 1 ? is gone ! he disappear'd 
 Ere sunset. 
 
 WERNER, 
 
 No ; I hid him in that very 
 Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 There I '11 find him. 
 
 [ULRIC is going. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 It us too late : he had left the palace ere 
 
 I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
 
 Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
 
 Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the silent 
 
 And favourable moment to escape 
 
 The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
 
 Dogging him yester-even. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You re-closed 
 The panel ? 
 
 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 [He 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 ? 
 
 WARNER. 
 
 Could I shun it? 
 
 A man pursued by my chief 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, thrust him forth. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
 (t is too late to ponder this : you must 
 Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
 Trace out the murderer, if 't is possible. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 
 Suspicion, two n,ew victims, in the lieu 
 W one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
 
 Who seems the culprit, and 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Who seems! Who else 
 Csc bo so? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Not /, th"ugh just now vou 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 of such 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 't is 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 '11 make all easy. Idenstein 
 Will, for his own sake and his jewel's, hold 
 His peace he also is a partner in 
 
 Your flight moreover 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Fly ! and leave my name 
 
 Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd, as poorest, 
 To bear the brand of bloodshed? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Pshaw ! leave any thing 
 Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles, 
 For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
 What name 1 You leave no name, since that you bo 
 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, 't is 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 vtflage) are all in abeyance 
 With the late general war of thirty years, 
 Or crush'd, or rising slowly front the dust, 
 To which the march of armies: trampled them. 
 Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
 Here, save as such withou'. 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, w ; ihout a scutcheon. 
 Is all he '11 have, or wants. If / discover 
 The assassin, 't will be well if not, believe me, 
 None else, though all the full-fed train of menial* 
 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 4on 
 The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
 Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
 You shall not answer Pardon me. that I
 
 412 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Am peremptory ; "t is your son that speaks, 
 
 Your long-lost, late-found son Let 's call my mother ! 
 
 Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
 
 To me ; 1 11 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 sfieed be with you! 
 
 WERNER. 
 This counsel 's safe but is it honourable ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 To save a father is a child's chief honour. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near Prague, 
 Enter ERIC and HENRICK, retainers of the Count. 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 So, better times are come at last ; to these 
 Old walls new masters and high wassail, both 
 A long desideratum. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 Yes, for masters, 
 
 It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
 Though made by a new grave: but as for wassail, 
 Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
 His feudal hospitality as high 
 As e'er another prince of the empire. 
 ERIC. 
 
 Why, 
 
 For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
 Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
 And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
 The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
 Even of the narrowest, 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 The old count loved not 
 The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 As yet he hath been courteous as he 's bounteous, 
 And we all love him. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 His reign is as yet 
 
 Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
 And the first year of sovereigns is bridal ; 
 Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
 And moods of mind. 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 
 Then his brave son, Count Ulric there 's a knight! 
 Pity the wars are o'er ! 
 
 HENRICK. 
 Why so ? 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 Look on him ! 
 And answer that yourself 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 He 's very youthful, 
 
 And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 
 
 ERIC. 
 That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 But 
 
 Perhaps 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. 
 
 What? 
 
 RENRICK. 
 
 The war (you lo"* so much) leaves living ; 
 Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 
 
 ERIC 
 
 Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows, 
 Such as old Tilly loved. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 And who loved Tilly? 
 
 Ask that at Magdebourg or, for that matter, 
 Wallenstein either they are gone to 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 Rest; 
 But what beyond, 't is not ours to pronounce. 
 
 HENRKIC. 
 
 I wish they had left us somet'.iing 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 marauder* t 
 
 ERIC. 
 You'd better ask himself. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 I would as soon 
 Ask of the lion why he laps not mik. 
 
 ERIC. 
 And here he comes ! 
 
 IIENRICK. 
 The devil ! you '11 hold your tongue 7
 
 WERNER. 
 
 EK1C. 
 
 Why do you turn so pale ? 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 'T is nothing but 
 Be silent ! 
 
 ERIC. 
 
 I will, upon what you have said. 
 
 HENRICK. 
 
 I assure you I meant nothing, a mere sport 
 
 Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise) 
 
 He is to espouse the gentle baroness, 
 
 Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress, 
 
 And she no doubt will soften whatsoe'er 
 
 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 ULRIC and RODOLTH. 
 
 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 the 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 recovered 
 The toils of Monday : 't was a noble chase 
 You spear'd four with 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 point* 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 
 mount. [Exit HENRICK. 
 
 Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
 Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
 T is 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, will permit and cover 
 My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
 Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
 Whom Wolffe leads keep the forests on your route 
 You know it well ? 
 
 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 tetter. 
 
 [Gitr* a letter. 
 
 Add further, that I have sent this slight aclditior. 
 To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald 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, 
 Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 I ill ought 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 't were that of Venus ; but I love her, 
 As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 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 tilings 
 We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Rodo'ptr 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 On my return, however, I shall find 
 
 The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Sicgendorf! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Perhaps : my father wishes it, and sootn, 
 'T is 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 vOgctnci 
 Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
 And do as I have said. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 I will. But to 
 Return 't was a most kind act in the count, 
 Your father, to send up to Eonigsburg
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Foi >ti;s fa r orphan of tne boron, and 
 To n Ji hoi us his daughter. 
 
 ULRJC. 
 
 Wondrous kind ! 
 Espeua..y as little kindness till 
 Ther grew between them. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 The late baron died 
 Of a fever, did he not? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 How should I know? 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 I have h?ard it whisper'd there was something strange 
 About his death and even the place of it 
 Is scarcely known. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Some obscure village on 
 The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 He 
 
 Has left no testament no farewell words ! 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I am neither confessor nor notary, 
 So cannot say. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 Ah ! here 's the lady Ida. 
 Enter IDA. STRALEWHEIM. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 V u are early, my sweet cousin ! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Not too . rly, 
 
 Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
 Why do you call me " cousin ?" 
 
 ULRIC (smiling). 
 
 Are w Aot so ? 
 
 IDA. 
 
 rw, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
 A. sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
 flur pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 
 
 ULRIC (starling). 
 Blood! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Ay! doth it? 
 , IDA. 
 
 I 1 doth but no ! it rushes like a torrent 
 K ven to your brow again. 
 
 ULRIC (recovering himself). 
 And if it fled, 
 
 [t only was because your presence sent it 
 Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin 
 
 IDA. 
 Cousin" again! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Nay, then I '11 call you sister. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 like that name still worse would we kad ne'er 
 Been aught of kindred ! 
 
 ULRIC (gloomily). 
 
 Would we never had ! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Oh Haavon : And can you wish that ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Dearest Ida ! 
 
 )id I not echo your own wish ? 
 IDA. 
 
 Yes, UL-ic, 
 Jut then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
 Lnd scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
 ister or cousin, what you will, so that 
 still to you am something. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You shall be 
 All all 
 
 IDA. 
 
 And you to me care so already ; 
 Jut I can wait. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Dear Ida ! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Call me Ida, 
 iTour Ida, for I would be yours, none else's 
 'ndeed I have none else left, since my poor father 
 
 [She pause*. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You have mine you have me. 
 IDA. 
 
 Dear Ulric ! how I wist 
 My father could but view our happiness, 
 Which wants but this ! 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 You would have loved him j 
 He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
 His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
 Proud (as is birth's prerogative), but under 
 This grave exterior would you had known each other! 
 Had such as you been near him on his journey, 
 He had not died without a friend to soothe 
 His last and lonely moments. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Who says that J 
 
 IDA. 
 
 What? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 That he died alone. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 The general rumour, 
 And disappearance of his servants, who 
 Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
 Which swept them all away. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 If they wwe near him, 
 He could not die neglected or alone. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
 When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
 It loves ? they say he died of a fever. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Say! 
 It was so. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 I sometimes dream otherwise. 
 
 CLRIC. 
 
 All dreams are fii te. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 And yet I see hiir u 
 I see YOU.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 IDA. 
 
 In sleep I see him lie 
 Palo, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
 Reside him. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 But do you not see htsface J 
 
 IDA (looking at Aim). 
 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 : your weakness 
 Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
 Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
 Prithee, sweet child, change 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Child, indeed ! I have 
 
 Full fifteen summers ! [A bugle founds. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 
 IDA (peevishly to RODOLPH). 
 Why -iced you tell him that ? Can he not hear it, 
 Willful 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 knight. 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. 
 
 'T is nothing ; but if 't were, the air 
 Would soon restore me. I 'm the true cameleon, 
 And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
 In castle halls, and social banquets, r.ur^e not 
 My spirit I 'm a forester, and breather 
 Of the stecn mountain-tops, where I love all 
 The eagle loves. 
 
 IDA. 
 Except his prey. I hoim. 
 
 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, then ? You shall not go T 
 Come ! I will sing to you. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Ida, you scarcely 
 Will make a soldier's wife. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 1 do not wish 
 
 To he so ; for I trust these wars are over, 
 And you will live in peace on your domains. 
 
 Enter WERNER, a* COUNT SIEGENDORF. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
 With such brief greeting You have heard our bugle ; 
 The vassals wait. 
 
 SIEGE.NDORF. 
 
 So let them you forget 
 To-morrow is the appointed festival 
 In Prague, for peace restored. You are apt to fullt/w 
 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 
 The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You, count, 
 
 Will well supply the place of both I am not 
 A lover of these pageantries. 
 
 SIEGE.NDORF. 
 
 No, Ulric ; 
 It were not well that you alone of all 
 
 Oar young nobility 
 
 IDA. 
 
 And far the noblest 
 In aspect and demeanour. 
 
 SIEGE.NDORF (lO IDA). 
 
 True, dear child, 
 
 Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel. 
 But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
 So lately reinstated in our honours. 
 Believe me, 't would 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 LUDWIU. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 And so 
 
 You yield at once to him, what 1 for hours 
 Might supplicate in vain. 
 
 SIEGENBOKF (*ff tiing). 
 
 You arc rot jealous 
 Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
 Would sanction disobedience against all
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Except thyself? But fear not, thou shall rule him 
 Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 But I should like to govern note. 
 
 6IEGENDORF. 
 
 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 '11 come and hear me ? 
 ULBJC. 
 
 By and by. 
 IDA. 
 
 Be sure I 'U sound it better than your bugles ; 
 Then pray you be as punctual to its notes: 
 I '11 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 music, 
 Could aught of his sound on it ; but come quickly ; 
 Your mother will be eager to receive you. 
 
 [Exit IDA. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 My time 's your vassal. [4fide to RODOLPH. 
 
 Rodolph, hence ! and do 
 As I directed ; and by his best speed 
 And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 Count Siegendorf, command you aught? I am bound 
 Upon a journey past the frontier. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (starts). 
 
 Ah! 
 Where ? on what frontier ? 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 The Silesian, on 
 
 My my (aside to ULRIC). When shall I say ? 
 ULRIC (aside, to RODOLPH). 
 
 To Hamburgh. 
 (Aade to himtdf). That 
 Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
 His further inquisition. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 Count, to Hamburgh. 
 SIEGENDORF (agitated). 
 Hamburgh ! DO, I have noughi to do there, nor 
 Am aught connected with that city. Then 
 God speed you ! 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 
 Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 
 
 [Exit RODOLPH. 
 
 8IEGKNDORF. 
 
 Chic, this man, who has just departed, is 
 One of those strange companions, whom I fain 
 Would reason with you on. 
 
 ULBJC. 
 
 My lord, he is 
 
 Noble by birth, of one of the first house* 
 In Saxony. 
 
 EIEGENUORF. 
 
 I talk not of his birth, 
 But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
 
 ULK1C. 
 
 So they will do of most men. Even the monarch 
 Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
 The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
 Great and ungrateful. 
 
 (IEGENDORF. 
 
 If I must be plain, 
 
 The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph : 
 They say he is leagued with the " black bands" who stil 
 Ravage the frontier. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 And will you believe 
 The world ? 
 
 SIEGEXDORF. 
 
 In this case yes. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 In any case, 
 
 I thought you knew it better than to take 
 AD accusation for a sentence. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Son! 
 
 I understand you : you refer to but 
 
 My destiny has so involved about me 
 He r spider web, that I can only flutter 
 Like the poor fly, 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 moment* 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 by a father ! I was not 
 By mine, and you behold me ! 
 ULB.IC. 
 
 I behold 
 
 The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
 Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 
 By those he rules, and those he ranks with. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
 For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
 All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me- 
 But if my son's is cold ! 
 ULRIC. 
 Who dare say thai ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 None else but I, who see it -fed it keener 
 Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 
 Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
 The wound. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 You err. My nature is not given 
 To outward fondling ; how should it be so, 
 After twelve years' divorcement from my parents T 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 And did not I too pass those twelve torn years 
 In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge you 
 Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance, 
 Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
 That these young violent nobles of high same, 
 But dark deeds (ay, the darken, if : U rumour
 
 WERNER. 
 
 417 
 
 Reports be true), with whom thou consortest, 
 
 W ill lead thee 
 
 CLRIC (impatifntly). 
 1 'U be led by no man. 
 
 SIEGE.XDORF. 
 
 Nor 
 
 be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
 To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
 And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
 Th:it thou should'st wed the lady Ida more, 
 As thou appear'st to love her. 
 ULHIC. 
 
 I have said 
 
 I will obey your orders, were they to 
 Unite with Hecate can a son say more ? 
 
 SIEGEJfDORF. 
 
 He says too much in saying this. It is not 
 
 The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood. 
 
 Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
 
 Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
 
 The 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, 
 
 Some master fiend, is in thy service, to 
 
 Misrule the mortal who believes him slave. 
 
 And makes his every thought subservient ; else 
 
 Thou 'dst say at once, " I love young Ida, and 
 
 Will wed her," or, " I love her not, and all. 
 
 fhe powers of earth shall never make me." ? i 
 
 Would I have answer'd. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Sir, you teed for love 
 
 BIEGENDORF. 
 
 I did, and it has been my only refuge 
 In many miseries. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Which miseries 
 Had never been but for this love-match. 
 
 SIEGE.NDORF. 
 
 Still 
 
 Against your age and nature ! who at twenty 
 E'er answer'd thus till now ? 
 CLRIC. 
 
 Did you not warn me 
 Against your own example ? 
 
 EIEGENDORF. 
 
 Boyish sophist ! 
 In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 What matters it, if I am ready to 
 Obey you in espousing her ? 
 
 SIEGEXDORF. 
 
 As far 
 
 As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
 She 's young all-beautiful adores you is 
 Gndow'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, 
 ')r wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
 Deserted by the bird sjie thought a nightingale, 
 
 According to the orient tale. She is 
 
 2O 58 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 The daughter of dead Stralenhcim, your ioe ! 
 I 'U wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 
 Just now I am not violently transported 
 In favour of such unions. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 But she loves you. 
 
 CLRIC. 
 
 And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 
 
 SIEGEXDORF. 
 
 Alas ! Love never did so. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Then 't is time 
 
 He should begin, and take the bandage from 
 His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
 He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 But you consenl ' 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 I did and do. 
 
 SIEGEKDORF. 
 
 Then fix the day. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 T is usual, 
 And, certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady. 
 
 SIEGEXDORF. 
 
 / wiH engage for her. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 So will not / 
 
 For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
 I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
 Her answer, I '11 give mine. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. < 
 
 But 't is 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, the ladv Ida is 
 What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
 For manly sports beyond the castle wails, 
 And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
 To pick up gloves, and fans, and knittins-needles, 
 And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
 And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
 The eyes of feminie, 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 ULRIO, 
 
 SIEGEM/ORF (iolux). 
 
 Too much I 
 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 
 Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
 Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thought* 
 Xe'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
 To see my child again, and now I have found him ' 
 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 rittov* 
 Of our young nobles : though, to do him justice, 
 He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures ; 
 Yet there 's some tie t ctween them which I
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Umavi-l. 1'h" / look u| to him consult him 
 Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
 He hatii no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
 After what ! doth my father's curse descend 
 Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
 To shed more blood, or oh ! if it should be ! 
 Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
 To witner him and his who, though they slew not, 
 ti nlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'T was 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 mino. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
 Tbou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's doom, 
 Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
 As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
 His orphan Ida cherish'd her as one 
 Who will be mine. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 8IEOENDORF. 
 
 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 True, father : and to avert those pangs from one, 
 Who, though of our most faultless, holy church, 
 Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
 Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
 1 have *.o otfer humbly this donation 
 In masses for his spirit. 
 
 | SIEGENDORF qffert the gold which he had taken 
 Jrom STRALENHEIM. 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Count, if I 
 
 Reusive it. 't is because I know too wel 
 Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
 
 The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
 And every mass no less sung for the deaf 1 
 Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours. 
 Which has of old endovv'd it ; but from you 
 And yours in all meet things 't is fit we obey. 
 For whom shall mass be said ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF (faltering). 
 
 For for the aeax 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 His name. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 'T is from a soul, and not a nam 
 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Secret ! I have none ; but, father, he who 's gone 
 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 But he, who 's gone, was not my friend, but foe, 
 The deadliest and the staunchest. 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Better still ! 
 
 To employ our means to obtain heaven for the sod 
 Of our dead enemies, is worthy those 
 Who can forgive them living. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 goW too ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Father, 't is not my gold. 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Whose then ? you said it was no legacy. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 
 T is yours, or theirs. 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Is there no blood upon it ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 No : but there 's worse than blood eternal charr.e . 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Did he who own'd it die in his bed ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Alas! 
 He did. 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
 If you tegret your enemy's bloodless death. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 His death was fathomlessly deep in blood.
 
 WERNER. 
 
 41!) 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Vou said he died in his bed, not battle. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 He 
 
 Died, I scarce Know out ne was stabb'd i' the dark, 
 
 And now you have it perish'd on his pillow 
 
 Hy a cut-throat ! ay ! you may look upon me ! 
 
 / am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point, 
 
 As I can one day God's. 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Nor did he die 
 By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 No ! by the God who sees and strikes 
 
 RIOR ALBERT. 
 
 Nor know you 
 Who slew hin 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (eagerly), 
 
 Oh! ami? say! 
 
 PRIOR ALBERT. 
 
 You have said so, and know best. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Father ! I have spoken 
 
 The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole : 
 Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
 'Jf this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
 Though by the Power who abhorrcth human blood, 
 ( did not ! nay, once spared it, when I might 
 And could ay, perhaps should (if our self-safety 
 He e'er excusable in such defences 
 Against the attacks of over-potent foes) ; 
 But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
 For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
 ( 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 cairn as innocence. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 smooth 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. Tak<> comfort, and forget 
 Such tnings, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A large and magnificent Gothic. Hall in the Castle <f( 
 Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Banners, anil 
 Arms of that family. 
 
 Enter ARNHEIM and MEISTER, Attendants of 'Cons? 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 ARNHEIM. 
 
 Be quick ! the count will soon return : the ladies 
 Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
 The messengers in sevch of him he seeks for? 
 
 MEISTER. 
 
 I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
 As far as the man's dress and figure could 
 By your description track him. The devil take 
 These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
 (If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
 I 'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 
 
 ARNHEIM. 
 
 Go to ' my lady countess comes. 
 
 MEISTER. 
 
 I 'd rather 
 
 Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
 Than follow in the train of a great man 
 In these dull pageantries. 
 
 ARNHEIM. 
 
 Begone, and rail 
 Within. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the COUNTESS JOSEPHINE, SIEGENDORF, and 
 IDA STRALENHEIM. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 How can you say so ! Never have I dreamt 
 Of aught so beautiful ! The flowers, the boughs, 
 The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
 The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
 The coursers, and the incense, and the sun, 
 Streaming 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 from heaven 
 Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
 Rolling on high like a 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 JOSEPHIKJC 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 My beloved child ! 
 For such, I trust, thou shall be shortly. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 It does, my love ; and never may t throb 
 With aught more bitter ! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Never shall it do so ! 
 
 How should it? What should make us grieve? I he 
 To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
 Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
 The count, and Ulric, and vour daughter, Ida.
 
 t20 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Pooi 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 '11 not hear 
 
 A word against a world which still contains 
 You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
 Aught like him 7 How he tower'd amongst them all ! 
 How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster 
 Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
 Than before all the rest, and where he trod 
 I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
 Will wither. 
 
 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. 
 \Vhy so ? he loves you well. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 But I can never 
 
 Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
 Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 How so 7 
 
 IDA. 
 
 A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
 Yet he says nothing. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 It is nothing : all men, 
 Especial! y 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, 
 
 Hot Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
 When all knelt, and I-wcpt ? 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 
 :if heaven, although I look'd on Uiric. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 Come, 
 
 I.K5t us retire : they will be here anon, 
 he banquet. We will lay 
 
 Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 
 Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
 Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
 Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeunt 
 
 Enter COUNT SIEOENDORF in full dress, from Ihr 
 solemnity, and LUDWIG. 
 
 SIEOENDORF. 
 
 Is he not found ? 
 
 I.UDWIG. 
 
 Strict search is making every where ; and if 
 The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 
 
 SIEGENDOKF. 
 
 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 heard his excellency, with his train, 
 Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 
 
 Enter ULRIC, splendidly dressed. 
 
 SIEOENDORF (to LuDWIG). 
 
 See they cease not 
 Their quest of him I have described. [I'.xit LUL'SVIG. 
 
 Oh! Ulric, 
 
 How have I long'd for thce ! 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Your wish is granted 
 Behold me ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I have seen the murderer. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Whom? Where? 
 
 SIEOENDORF. 
 
 The Hungarian, who slew Straleriheim. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 You dream. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I live ! and as I live, I saw him 
 Heard him ! He dared to utter even my name. 
 
 U.LRIC. 
 What name? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Werner ! '< was mine. 
 ULRIC. 
 
 It must be so 
 No more : forget it. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Listen! The church was throng'd; the hymn was raised' 
 " Te Z)eum" peal'd from nations, rather than 
 From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praise ' 
 For one day's peace after thrice ten dread fears. 
 Each 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 gaU"v I
 
 WERNER. 
 
 421 
 
 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 thousands, 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 ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 S'EGENDORF. 
 
 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, 
 Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
 Than the late cannon's volume, this word " Werner /" 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Ctter'd by 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 HIM ! I turn'd and saw and fell. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 The officious care 
 
 Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
 Seeing my faintness, 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 1 11 aid you now. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 In xvliat ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 In searching for this man, or when he 's found, 
 
 2 o 2 
 
 What shall we do with him ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I know not that. 
 ULRIC. 
 Then wherefore seek ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Because I cannot rest 
 
 Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
 And ours, seem intertwisted ; nor can be 
 Unravell'd, till - 
 
 Enter cm ATTENDANT. 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 A stranger, to wait on 
 Your Excellency. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Who? 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 He gave no name. 
 
 HEOENDORF. 
 
 Admit him, ne'ertheless. 
 
 [The ATTENDANT introduce* GABCR, and ef 
 terwards exit, 
 
 Ah! 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 'T is, then, Werner ! 
 SIEGENDORF (haughtily). 
 The same you knew, sir, by that name ; and you J 
 
 OABOR (looking round). 
 I recognise you both ; father and son, 
 It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
 Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 
 
 SIECENDORF. 
 
 I have sought you^ and have found you ; you are charge* 
 (Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
 A crime as - [He paute* 
 
 6ABOR. 
 
 Give it utterance, and then 
 1 '11 meet the consequences. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 You shall do so- 
 Unless - 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 First, who accuses me ? 
 
 SIEG'JNDORF. 
 
 All things, 
 
 If not all men : the universal rumour 
 My own presence on the spot the place the time- 
 And every speck of circumstance, unite 
 To fix the blot on you. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 And on me only 1 
 
 Pause ere you answer: is no other name, 
 Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Trifling villain . 
 
 Who play'st with thine own guilt ? Of all that breath* 
 Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
 'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slandct . 
 But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
 Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
 And without quibbling, to my charge. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 Who says so 7 
 
 8IEGENDORF.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 GABOR. 
 I. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 And how disprove it? 
 GABOR. 
 
 By 
 
 Tht. presence of the murderer. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Name him! 
 GABOR. 
 
 He 
 
 May hare more names than one. Your lordship had so 
 Once on a time. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 If you mean me, I dare 
 Your utmost. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 You may do so, and in safety : 
 I know the assassin. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Where is he ? 
 GABOR (pointing to ULRIC). 
 
 Beside you ! 
 
 [ULRic rushes forward to attack GABOR ; 
 SIEGENDORF interposes. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
 
 These w&Jls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
 
 [He turn* to ULRIC. 
 Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
 Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
 1 could not deem it earth-born : but, be calm ; 
 It will refute itself. But touch him not. 
 
 [ULRic endeavours to compote himself. 
 
 OABOR. 
 I xx>k at him, and then hear me. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 (First to GABOR, and then looking at ULRIC). 
 I hear thee. 
 
 My God! you look 
 
 ULRIC. 
 How? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 As on that dread night 
 When we met in tne 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 the people in the church, I dream'd not 
 To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
 Of senators and princes ; but you have call'd me, 
 Apd w have met. 
 
 8IEGENDORF. 
 
 Go on, sir. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 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. 
 
 SIIGENEORF. 
 
 These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
 To me than to my 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 't 
 Dare you command me ? 
 
 [SIEGENDORF Jirst looks at the Hungarian, ami 
 then at ULRIC, who has unbuckled his sabre, and 
 is drawing lines u,-ith it on the floor still in u 
 sheath. 
 DLRIC (looks at his father, and says) 
 
 Let the man go or ! 
 GABOR. 
 
 I am unarm'd, count bid your son lay down 
 His sabre. 
 
 ULRIC (offers it to him contemptuously). 
 Take it. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 No, sir ; 't is enough 
 
 That we are both unarm'd I would not choose 
 To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
 Blood than came there in battle. 
 
 ULRIC (casts the sabre from him in contempt). 
 
 It or some 
 
 Such other weapon, in my hands spared yours 
 Once, when 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 mine own. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Proceed. 
 
 The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
 But is it of my father to hear further ? 
 
 [To SlEGENDOltl. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (takes his son by the hand). 
 My son ! I know mine own innocence and doubt not 
 Of yours but I have promised this man patience ; 
 Let him continue. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 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 forestj 
 Which skirt Bohemia even into Lusatia. 
 Many amongst them were reported of 
 High rank and martial law slept for a time, 
 At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
 And placed beneath the civil jurisdictian
 
 WERNER. 
 
 423 
 
 Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fat< , 
 I know no more. 
 
 8IEGE3DORF. 
 
 And what Is this to Ulric ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Amongst them there was said to be one man 
 Of wonderful endowments : birth and fortune, 
 Youth, strength, and bea'ity, almost superhuman, 
 Ant! courage as unrivall'd, 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. 
 
 SIEGENUORF. 
 
 And did you so ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 You 'U hear. Chance favour 5 d me : 
 A popular affray in the pubkc square 
 Drew crowds together it was one of those 
 Occasions, where men's souls look out of them, 
 And show them as they are even in their faces: 
 The moment my eye met his I exclaim'd 
 "This is the man !" though he was then, as since, 
 With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
 I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly : 
 I noted down his form his gesture features, 
 Stature and bearing and amidst them all, 
 *Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
 I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
 And gladiator's heart. 
 
 ULRIC (smiling'). 
 
 The tale sounds well. 
 GABOR. 
 
 And may sound better. He appear'd to me 
 One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
 As she doth to the daring and on whom 
 The fates of others oft depend ; besides, 
 An indescribable sensation drew me 
 Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
 Was to be fix'd by him There I was wrong. 
 
 SIEGESDORF. 
 
 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 concealed, 
 
 And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 
 
 The verge dare you hear further ? 
 
 SIEGEKDORF. 
 
 I must do so 
 Or I have heard too much. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I saw in you 
 
 \ man above his station and if not 
 So high, as now I find you, ir mv then 
 Conceptions 't was that I had rarely seen 
 Men such as you appear'd in heignt of mind, 
 In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
 I'oor even to aH save rajis I would have ihared 
 
 My purse, though slender, with you ycu refused it. 
 
 SIEGESDOKF. 
 
 Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
 That thus you urge it ? 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Still you owe me something, 
 Though not for that and I owed you my safetv, 
 At least my seeming safety when the slaves 
 Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
 That 1 had robb'd him. 
 
 SIEGEXDORF. 
 
 I conceal'd you I, 
 Whom, and whose house, you arraign, reviving vip ' 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 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 / '11 be merciful. 
 
 SIEGEJiDORF, 
 
 You merciful ! 
 You ! base calumniator ! 
 
 GABOR. 
 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 watching 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 open'd to the chamber, where, 
 With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
 As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
 I look'd through, and beheld a purple bed, 
 And on it Stralenheim ! 
 
 8IEGENDOKF. 
 
 Asleep ! And yet 
 You slew him wretch ! 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 He was already slain, 
 And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
 Blood became ice. 
 
 SIEGtNDORF. 
 
 But he was all alone ! 
 
 You saw none else ! You did not see the 
 
 [He pauses front agitation. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 No; 
 
 77e, whom you dare not name nor even I 
 Scarce dare to recollect was not then in 
 The chamber. 
 
 SJEGEXDORF (to ULISIC). 
 
 Then, my boy ! thou art guiltless still- 
 Thou bad'st me say / was so once Oh ! now 
 Do thou as much ! 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Be patient ! I can not 
 Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
 Which frown above us. You remember, or 
 If not, your son does, that the locks were change* 
 Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
 Whi-:h led to this same night : how he had enter'd 
 He best knows but within an antechamber. 
 The door of which was half ajar I saw 
 A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
 With stern and anxious glance gazed back UDOO
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 llie bleeding body but it moved no more. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Oh ! God of fathers ! 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 I beheld his features 
 
 As I see yours but yours they were not, though 
 Resembling them behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
 Distinct as I beheld them though the expression 
 Is not now what it then was ; but it was so 
 When I first charged him with the crime : so lately. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 This is so 
 
 GABOR (interrupting him). 
 Nay but hear me to the end ! 
 Now you must do so. I conceived myself 
 Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
 There was some tie between you) into this 
 Pretended den of refuge, to become 
 The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
 Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
 (Having left my sword without), I was no match 
 For him at any time, as had been proved 
 That morning either in addiess or force. 
 I turn'd, and fled i' the dark : chance, rather than 
 Skill, made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
 And thence the chamber where you slept if I 
 Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
 What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
 But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief sleep 
 The stars had not gone down when I awoke 
 Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father 
 And now my dream is out ! 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 'T is not my fault, 
 
 [f I have read it. Well ! I fled and hid me 
 Chance led me here after so many moons 
 And show'd me Wemer in Count Siegendorf ! 
 Werner, whom I had sought in huts 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (after a pause). 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 is it revenge or justice which inspires 
 Your meditation ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Neither I was weighing 
 The value of your secret. 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 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 offer'd you 
 My puise you would not share it : I '11 be franker 
 With you ; you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
 The imperial nowers ycu understand me 7 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Noi quite. You think me venal, and scarce true : 
 'T is no less true, however, that my fortunes 
 Have made me both at present ; you shall aid me ; 
 1 wnuM have aided you and also have 
 
 Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
 
 Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I hare said. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
 Deliberation ? 
 GABOR (costs his eye on ULRIC, who is leaning agtinsl 
 
 a pillar). 
 If I should do so ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
 
 This tower. [Opens a turret door. 
 
 OABOR (hesitatingly). 
 This is the second safe asylum 
 You have offer'd me. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 And was not the first so ? 
 
 OABOR. 
 
 I know not that even now but will approve 
 The second. I have still a further shield. 
 I did not enter Prague alone and should I 
 Be put to rest with Stralenheim-*-there are 
 Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
 Be brief in your decision ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I will be so 
 My word is sacred and irrevocable 
 Within these walls, but it extends no further. 
 
 GABOR. 
 I '11 take it for so much. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (points to Ui-Ric's sabre, still upon 
 the ground). 
 
 Take also that 
 I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
 Distrustfully. 
 
 OABOR (takes up the sabre). 
 I will ; and so provide 
 To sell my life not cheaply. 
 
 [GABOR goes into the turret, which SIEGENDORF dote*. 
 SIEGENDORF (advances to ULRIC). 
 
 Now, Count Ulric ! 
 For son I dare not call thee What say'st thou ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 His tale is true. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 True, monster ! 
 CLRIC. 
 
 Most true, father ; 
 
 And you did well to listen to it : what 
 We know, we can provide against. He must 
 Be silenced. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Ay, with half of my domains ; 
 And with the other half, could he and thou 
 Unsay this villany. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 It is no time 
 
 For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
 His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 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
 
 WERNER. 
 
 42A 
 
 Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
 Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
 Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, Werner, 
 The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
 Havfl 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Parricide ! no less 
 
 Than common slabber ! 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 you were tortured 
 Could / be calm ? Think you that I have heard 
 This fellow's tale without some feeling ? you 
 Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
 For whom or what else did you ever teach it? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Oh ! my dead father's curse ! 't is working now. 
 
 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 ! If you condemn me, yet 
 Remember who 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 humarity secured 
 By his nerves only 1 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 who 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 or wrong, and now must only ponder 
 Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
 Whose life I saved, from impulse, as, unknown, 
 I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew, 
 Known as our foe but not from vengeance. He 
 Was a rock in our way, which I cut through, 
 As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
 And our true destination but not idly. 
 As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
 His life; 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 you show'd the path : now trace me that 
 Of safety or let me ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I have done with life ! 
 
 I7LRIC. 
 
 Let us have done with that which cankers life- 
 Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
 Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
 59 
 
 No more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 
 And have within those very walls men who 
 (Although you know them not) dare venture all thing* 
 You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
 Will not excite her too gre?t curiosity : 
 Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
 Stir not, and speak not ; leave the rest to me : 
 We must have no tliird babblers thrust between us. 
 
 [Exit ULRIC. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (solus). 
 
 Am I awake ? are these my father's halls ? 
 
 And yon my son ? My son ! mint who have ever 
 
 Abhorr'd both mystery and blowl, 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, dosing the door after hint. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Interior of the Turret. 
 
 GABOR and SIEGENDORF. 
 
 GABOR. 
 Who calls? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I Sie'gendorf ! Take these, and fly T 
 Lose not a moment ! 
 
 [Tear* qff" a diamond star and other jewel*, an.1 
 thrusts them into GABOR'S hand. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 What am I to do 
 With these ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 
 And prosper ; but delay net or you are lost ! 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 You pledged your honour for my safety ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 And 
 
 Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
 It seems, of my own castle of my own 
 Retainers nay, even of these very walls, 
 Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
 Or you '11 be slain by 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 Is it even so ? 
 
 Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
 You sought this fatal interview ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 I did: 
 Let it not be more fatal still : Begone ! 
 
 GABOR. 
 By the same path I enter'd ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Yes ; that 's safe st& . 
 But loiter not in Prague ; you do *ot know 
 With whom you have to deal.
 
 426 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 GABOR. 
 
 I know too well 
 
 And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
 Karewei) ' [Exit GABOR. 
 
 SIEGENDORF (solus and listening') . 
 
 He 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 seat, mir the wall 
 of the tower, in a drooping postart. 
 
 Enter ULKIC, with others armed, and with weapons 
 drawn. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 Despatch ! he 's there ! 
 
 LUDWIO. 
 
 The count, my lord ! 
 ULRIC (recognising SIEGENDORF). 
 
 You here, sir ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Yea : if you want another victim, strike ! 
 
 ULRIC (seeing him stript of his jewels). 
 Where is the ruffian who hath plundr'd you ? 
 Vassals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
 *T was as I said, the wretch hath stript my father 
 Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom! 
 Away ! I '11 follow you forthwith. 
 
 [Exeunt all but SIEGENDORF and ULRIC. 
 
 What's this 7 
 Where is the villain ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 There are two, sir ; which 
 Aie you in quest of? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Let us hear no more 
 
 f If this : he must be found. You have not let him 
 Escape ? 
 
 SIEOENDORF. 
 
 He 's gone. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 With your connivance ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 With 
 M fullest, freest aid. 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Then fare you well ! 
 
 [ULRIC t going. 
 
 MEGENPORF. 
 
 iNop ! I command entreat implore ! Oh, Ulric ! 
 Will you then leave me ? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 What ! remain to be 
 
 Denounced dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
 !?y your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
 Seltish remorse, and temporising pity, 
 Tliac sacrifices your whole race to save 
 A vrctch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
 Henceforth you have no son ! 
 
 SI1.GENDORF. 
 
 I never had one ; 
 A 'irt would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 
 
 Where will you go ? I would not ser-d you forth 
 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. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 The foresters ! 
 
 With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frank 
 fort? 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Yes men who 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 U ; d 
 With Wallenstein ! 
 
 Enter JOSEPHINE and IDA. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 What is 't we hear ? My SiegonJorf 
 Thank Heaven, I see you safe ! 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Safe! 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Yes, dear fvher 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 No, no ; I have no children : never more 
 Call me by that worst name of parent. 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 What 
 Means my good lord ? 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 That you have giver* J ' < 
 To a demon ! 
 
 IDA (taking ULRIC'S hand). 
 Who shall dare say this cf U" ... I 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that har.d 
 
 IDA (stooping to kiss it). 
 I 'd kiss it off, though it were mine ! 
 
 SIEGENDOKF. 
 
 Il a n 
 
 ULRIC. 
 
 Away ! it is your father's ! [1: xit ULRIC. 
 
 IDA. 
 
 Oh, great trod ! 
 And I have loved this man ! 
 
 [!DA falls senseless JOSEPHINE stands speecfuef 
 with horror. 
 
 SIEGENDORF. 
 
 The wretch hath 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 grare ; 
 Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
 In mine ! The race of Siegendorf is past ,'
 
 ( -127 ) 
 
 EvaustotrmcU; 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Tliis production is founded partly on the story of a 
 Novel, called " The Three Brothers," published many 
 vears ago, from which M. G. 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 the opening chorus of the third. The 
 rest may perhaps appear hereafter. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 STRANGER, afterwards CJDSAR. 
 ARNOLD. 
 BOURBON. 
 PHILIBEKT. 
 CELLINI. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 BERTHA. 
 OLIMPIA. 
 
 Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, 
 Peasants, etc. 
 
 THE 
 
 DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 SCENE I. A Forest. 
 Enter ARNOLD and his mother BERTHA. 
 
 OUT, hunchback ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 I was born so, mother ! 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 Out! 
 
 Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons 
 The sole abortion ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Would that I had been so, 
 ^pfi fov er seen the light ' 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 I would so too ! 
 
 But as thou hast hence, hence and do thy best. 
 That back of thine may bear its burthen ; 't is 
 More high, if not so broad as that of others. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Tt fours its burthen ; but, my heart! will it 
 Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 
 
 I love, or at the least, I loved you : nothing, 
 Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
 You nursed me do not kill me. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 Yes I nursed then 
 
 Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
 If there would be another unlike thee, 
 That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence. 
 And gather wood ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 I will : but when I bring it, 
 Speak to me kindly, Though my brothers are 
 So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
 As the free chase they follow, do not spum me : 
 Our milk has been the same. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 As is the hedgehog's 
 
 Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
 Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
 The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
 Call not thy brothers brethren! call me not 
 Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
 As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
 Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 
 
 [Exit BERTHA 
 
 ARNOLD (solus). 
 
 Oh mother ! She is gone, and I 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 Jhis ht 
 
 wounds 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 km, 
 No kind nor made like other creatures, or 
 To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too, 
 Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
 Would rise a snake to sting them as they have stung mp ' 
 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 still reconcile me 
 Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
 1'he wound. 
 
 [ARNOLD goes to a spring, and scoops to wasa 
 
 his hand : he starts back. 
 
 They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me 
 What she hath made me. I will not look on u 
 Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wreirn 
 That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
 My horrid shadow like a demon placed 
 Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
 From drinking therein. He pause* 
 
 And shall I live on
 
 128 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 A burtuen ti> the earth, myself, and shame 
 Unto wha*. brought me "nto life ? Thou blood, 
 Which flowest so freel/ 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, 
 Ana make a world for myriads of new wormsT 
 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 't is set, 
 
 And 1 can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
 On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
 Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
 In vain. The birds how joyously they sing ! 
 Sc 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, 
 
 las 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 mis*. ! no more ? 
 
 [A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 
 
 gazing upon it ; it is dispelled, and a tall 
 
 black man comes towards him. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 What would you ? Speak 1 
 Spirit or man 7 
 
 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 
 
 Wliich is so caa'd or thought, that you n.ay add me 
 To which you please, wiihout much wrong to either. 
 But comp :, 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 
 
 V mi wert tho demon, out that your approach 
 W as Ike one. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Unless you keep company 
 iVith him (and you seem scarce usfd to such high 
 Society), you can't tell how h 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 darp jffrn 
 To taunt me with my born deformity ? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
 
 Cloven foot of thine, or the switt dromedarv 
 
 With thy sublime of humps, th unimals 
 
 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 fierce and fair of the same kind 
 
 With thee. Thy form is natural : 't was 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 helmless dromedary : and I '11 bear 
 Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 I will. 
 
 ARNOLD (with surprise). 
 Thou const? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Perhaps. Would you aught else t 
 
 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 wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
 To petty burghers, who leave once a-year 
 Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
 Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, 
 Now / can 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 rot so easily recall'd to do 
 Good service. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 What wilt thou do for me 7 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Change 
 
 Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you j 
 Or form you to your wish in any shape. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
 Nought else would wittingly wear mine.
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 429 
 
 STRANGKll. 
 
 I'llshowthee 
 
 fhc brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
 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. 
 
 T is an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 
 
 In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: 
 
 Must it be sign'd in blood ? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Not in your own. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Whose blood then? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 We will talk of that hereafter. 
 But I 'II 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 ! 
 
 [The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
 turns to ARNOLD. 
 A little of your blood. 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 For what 7 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
 And 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 caste 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. 1 
 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 
 
 1 Thi is a well-k:.own German superstition- 
 nadow |irnliiff<! by reflection on the Brocken. 
 2P 
 
 gigantic 
 
 Such his desire is, [Pointing to ARNO LI/- 
 
 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 
 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, n.nA 
 pass in succession before tlie Stranger ami 
 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. Could I 
 Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. 
 You see his aspect choose it or reject. 
 I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
 Must be long sought and fought for. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 I will fight too. 
 
 But not as a mock Caesar. 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 Casar disappear*. 
 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, 't is no more than your*, 
 Except a little longer and less crooked 
 I' the sun. Behold another ! 
 
 [A second Phantom paste* 
 
 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 beautiful ' 
 
 HTRAN3EK. 
 
 Such was the curled son of Clinist . wnul<jt %<
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 InTcst thce with his form ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Would that I had 
 
 Been ";K>rn with it ! But since I may choose further, 
 f wiL iiak Airther. 
 
 [The Shade of Alcibiadet disappears. 
 
 8TRAN1ER. 
 
 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. 
 Rut you reject him ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 If his form could bring mo 
 That which redeem'd 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 vra> 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 rises. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 What 's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard 
 
 And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
 
 Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
 
 Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
 
 Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
 
 As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
 
 For whom he had fought. 
 
 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 I find not 
 That which he exchanged the earth for. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Since so far 
 You eem congenial, will you wear his features ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
 If but to sec the heroes I should ne'er 
 Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
 Whence they float back before us. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Hence, Triumvir 
 1 hv C1-- jpatra 's waiting. 
 
 [2 fie Shade of Antony disappears ; another rises. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Who is this? 
 
 TViif truly lookcth 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, 
 
 he wears as the sun his rays a something 
 
 'Vhich shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
 Emanation of a thing more glorious sill. 
 SVas he e'er human only J 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Let the earth speak, 
 'f there be atoms of him left, or even 
 Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 (Vho was this glory of mankind ? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 The shame 
 
 3f Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war. 
 Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
 Taker of cities. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Yet one shadow more. 
 STRANGER (addressing the Shadow). 
 Get thee to Lamia's lap ! 
 
 [The Shade of Denietrius Poliorcetes ranisfle* 
 another rises. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 I '11 fit you still, 
 Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadow of 
 That which existed please not your nice taste, 
 [ '11 animate the ideal marble, till 
 Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Content ! I will fix here. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 I must commend 
 Your choice. The god-like son of the sea-goddeu. 
 The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
 As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
 Of rich Pactolus loll'd o'er sands of gold, 
 Softened by intervening crystal, and 
 Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
 All vow'd to Sperchius as they were behold them I 
 And Aim as he stood by Polyxena, 
 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 u|K>n him as 
 Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
 Ere Paris' arrow flew. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 I gaze upon him as 
 
 As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
 Envelop mine. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 You have done well. The greatest 
 Deformity should only barter wi;h 
 The extremes! beauty, if the proverb 's true 
 Of mortals, that extremes meet. 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Come! BeqirtH 
 I am impatient. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 As a 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 pity. But a word or two :
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Hi* nature is twelve cubits : would 700 so far 
 Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or 
 (To talk cincmcally) was a son 
 Of Aaak? 
 
 ABKOLD. 
 
 Why not 7 
 
 Glonous ambition ! 
 
 I lore the* most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
 Philistine stature would hare gladly pared 
 His own Goliath down to a slight David; 
 Bat thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a shot* 
 Rather than hero. Thou shall 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 eulverins and so forth, would find way 
 Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
 Than the adulterer's arrow through his bed 
 Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
 In Styx. 
 
 Jk&KOLD. 
 
 Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 
 
 I Had she exposed n.-e, like the Spartan, ere 
 
 I 1 knew the passion ale pan of life, I b& 
 Been a ciod W the valley, happier nouung 
 Than what 1 am. tJut even thus, the lowest, 
 Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what couragt 
 And perseverance could hare dne, perchance. 
 Had made me something as a has made ntroes 
 Of the same mould as mine. Vou lately saw MM 
 Blaster of my own file, awl quick to quit a; 
 And be who is so is the master of 
 
 Whaterer dreads to die. 
 
 STKAXGEK. 
 
 Decide between 
 
 What you have been, * will be. 
 AXSOLD. 
 
 I hare done so. 
 
 Ton hare opra'd brighter, prospects to my eyes, 
 And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
 I might be fear'd, admired, respected, tared, 
 Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
 Would be beloved. As thou sho west me 
 A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
 Hae! haste! 
 
 Thou shall be beauteous as the thing thon see'st, 
 And strong as what it was, and 
 
 AE90LD. 
 
 lasknot 
 
 Far valour, since deformity is oaring. 
 [t is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
 By heart and sod, and make itself the eqcal 
 Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
 A spar m its hah movements, to become 
 All that the others cannot, in such things 
 As still are free to both, to compensate 
 For stepHame Nature's avarice at first. 
 They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
 And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 
 
 SKAXCEK. 
 
 Wei spoken! And thou doobtless wut remain 
 Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
 Of shadow, which most turn to flesh, to encase 
 This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
 
 Without it'? 
 
 AKSOLD. 
 
 Had no power presented me 
 The possibuhy of change, I would 
 Hare done the best which spirit may, to make 
 Its way, with aB deformity's duB, deadly. 
 Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
 In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders 
 A hateful and unsightly mole-bin to 
 The eyes of happier man. I would hare bok'd 
 On beauty in that sex which is the type 
 Of afl we know or dream of beauts&l 
 Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh 
 Nat of lore, but despair; nor sought to win, 
 rhongh to a heart sfl love, what could not lore M 
 In turn, because of this rile crooked dog, 
 Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could hare home 
 It all, had not my mother spnrn'd me from her. 
 Tne she-bear beks her cubs into a sort 
 Of shane : rav dam beheld my shaoe was 1 
 
 And what shall /wear? 
 
 AAXOLD. 
 
 ^'jrr^iV he 
 
 Who can command al fir ms, wffl choose the highest 
 Something superior even o that which was 
 Pebdes now before us. ferhaps te. 
 Who slew Urn, that of Paris : or still higher 
 The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
 
 STKAMEK. 
 
 Fof I too lore a change. 
 
 AKXOLD. 
 
 Tour aspect is 
 Dusky, but not uncomely. 
 
 If I chose, 
 I might be whiter; hut I have a penchant 
 For black it is so honest, and besides 
 Can neither bliwh with shame nor pale wdh fear 
 But I hare worn it king enough of late, 
 And now I Tluke your figure. 
 AKXOLD. 
 
 Tes. Ton 
 
 Shal change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha 
 Tear mother's oftsprsag. People hare their tastes , 
 Ton hare yours I mine. 
 
 AKSfOLD. 
 
 Despatch! despatch! 
 
 Even &. 
 
 [TV Stranger take* m* etrlk and m4* 
 Utitmg die baf; W Aem mOrttta * 
 
 Of TheuVsboy! 
 Who sleeps m the i 
 Whose grass grows o er Tror :
 
 132 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 From the red earth, like Adam, 1 
 
 Thy likeness I shape, 
 As the Being who made him, 
 
 Whose actions I ape. 
 Thou clay, be all glowing, 
 
 Till the rose in his cheek 
 Be as fair as, when blowing, 
 
 It wears its first streak ! 
 Ye violets, I scatter, 
 
 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 earth to be found ! 
 Elements, near me, 
 
 Be mingled and stirr'd, 
 Know me and hear me, 
 
 And leap to my word ! 
 Sunbeams, awaken 
 
 This earth's animation ! 
 'T is done ! He hath taken 
 
 His stand in creation ! 
 [ARNOLD falls senseless ; his soul passes into 
 
 the shape of Achilles, which rises from the 
 
 ground i while the phantom has disappeared, 
 
 part by part, as the figure was formed from 
 
 the earth. 
 
 ARNOLD (in his new form). 
 I love, and I shall be beloved ! Oh life ! 
 At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Stop! 
 
 What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
 Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
 Which late you wore, or were ? 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Who cares 7 Let wolves 
 And vultures .ake it, if they will. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 And if 
 
 1 hey do, and are not scared by it, you '11 say 
 It must be peace time, and no better fare 
 Abroad i' the fields. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Let us but leave it there, 
 N" matter wnat becomes on 'u 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 That 's ungracious, 
 If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
 
 1 Adam means "red earth," from which the first man was 
 
 It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Ay, 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 they 
 Who make men without women's aid, have long 
 Had patents for the same, and do not love 
 Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
 Not make them, though he reap the benefit 
 Of the original workmanship : and therefore 
 Some one must be found to assume the shape 
 You have quitted. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Who would do so ? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 That I know not. 
 And therefore I must. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 You! 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 I said it, ere 
 You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 
 
 ARNCLD. 
 
 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 (to theloteform of ARNOLD, extended on 
 
 the eartli). 
 Clay ! not dead, but soulless ! 
 
 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 ive ; 
 
 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 fis>h, beast, bird, nor worni. 
 
 Save the worm which dieth not, 
 Can preserve a moment's form, 
 
 But must with thyself be blent : 
 
 Fire ! man's safeguard and his slauglitet . 
 
 Fire ! creation's first-born daughter, 
 And destruction's threaten'd son, 
 When Heaven with the world hath ] n 
 
 Fire ! assist me to renew 
 
 Life in what lies in my view
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 433 
 
 Stiff and cold ! 
 
 His resurrection rests with me a::d you! 
 One little marshy spark of flame 
 And he again shall seem the same ; 
 But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
 [An ignis-fatuuA Jtils through the. wood, and rest* 
 on the brow of the hody. The Stranger disap- 
 pears : the body rises. 
 
 ARNOLD (in his new form). 
 Oh' horrible! 
 
 STRANGER (in ARNOLD'S late shape). 
 
 What ! tremblest thou ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Not so 
 
 . 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 ? 
 
 8TRANGER. 
 
 Wherefore not ? 
 Four betters keep worse company. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 My betters ! 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your new form : 
 I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful loo ! 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 '11 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 working. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 That 's to say, where there is war 
 And woman in activity. Let 's see ! 
 Spain Italy the new Atlantic world 
 ACic with all its Moors. In very truth, 
 There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
 Tugging as usual at each others' 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 ? 
 
 STRANGFR. 
 
 Like gallants on good coursers. 
 What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better, 
 Ktice Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
 O.-r pages too! 
 
 Enter two Pagis, with four coal-black Horses. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 A noble sight ! 
 2 p * 60 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 And of 
 
 A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
 Or your Kochlani race of Araby, 
 With these! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 The mighty stream, which volumes high 
 From their proud nostrils, burns the very air ;" 
 And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
 Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
 Round common steeds towards sui.set. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Mount, my lord. 
 They and I are your servitors. 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 And these, 
 Our dark-eyed pages what may be their names? 
 
 STRANGEU. 
 
 You shall baptize them. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 What! in holy water 7 
 
 STB ANGER. 
 
 Why not ? The deeper sinnor, better saint. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 They are beautiful, and cnnnot, sure, be demons 1 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 True ; the devil 's always ugly ; and your beauty 
 Is never diabolical. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 I '11 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, 
 Pie shall be Memnan, from the Ethiop king, 
 Whose statue turns a harper once a-day. 
 An<I you ? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 I have ten thousand names, and twice 
 As many attributes ; but as I wear 
 A human shape, will take a human name. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 More human than the shape (though it was mine once) 
 I trust 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Then call me Caesar. 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Why, that name 
 
 Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
 By the world's lords. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 And therefore fittest for 
 The devil in disguise since so you deem roe, 
 Unless you call me pope instead. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Well then, 
 
 Caesar thou shall be. For myself, my name 
 Shall be plain Arnold still. 
 
 CfSAR. 
 
 We '11 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.
 
 BYRON'S \VORKS. 
 
 CfSAR 
 
 T horse 1 Jolorse! my coal-black steed 
 Paws e ground and snuffs the air ! 
 
 fr.ene's i,e: a foil c:~ Arab's breed 
 More kiiowi whom be most bear ! 
 
 Oft the bkl be will not tire, 
 
 Swifter as it waxes higher ; 
 
 ( ibe am nh he w9 not Mi^V^n, 
 
 On the plain he overtaken : 
 
 in the wave be win not sink, 
 
 Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 
 
 In the race he will not pant, 
 
 IB the combat be 11 not faint; 
 
 On ihe su-T.es he w;'.'. no: s:t:mble, 
 
 Time nor toil shal make him humble : 
 
 In Ike stall be will not stiffen, 
 
 But S? M :r.^c--: as a crirnn, 
 
 OrJy flyinj \v;'.h his fee: : 
 
 And will not such a voyage be sweet? 
 
 Merrily! merrily! never unsound, 
 
 Sbafl oar bonny bJack horses skim OTW the pxwnd! 
 
 FVoni the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 
 
 For we Tl leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
 mcmt tkar fanes, ad rfiiajjiar. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 AJLXOLD d C.KSAJU 
 
 Too ire w(^l er.'.er'd i 
 
 Has been o'er i 
 Of blood. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Ay; but ypath 
 
 seyes are full 
 
 UHAB. 
 
 Then wipe them, and see dearly. Why! 
 Ttoa art a conqueror; the chosen knight 
 And tree companion of the gaDant Bourbon, 
 Late constable of France ; and now to be 
 Lord of the cky which bath been earth's lord 
 
 L hermaphrodite of i 
 L*ty of the world, 
 
 ARKOLD. 
 
 BowoU? What! are there 
 
 A'wo.lds7 
 
 Toy**, Tool find then are such shortly, 
 By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
 From one **/ of the world named a ** new one, 
 Because you know no better than the duB 
 And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 
 
 Do! They wfll deceive you sweetly, 
 And that is better than the bitter troth ! 
 
 AJLMOLD. 
 
 Dog! 
 
 Devil 
 
 CJCSAK. 
 
 Your obedient, humble ..'ii vanu 
 
 AR50LD. 
 
 Say mmrttr rather. Thou hast lured me . 
 Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 
 
 CESAR. 
 And where would* tho* be ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Oh, at peace in peace 
 CJESAR. 
 
 And where is that which is so? From the star 
 To the winding worm, all life is motion, and 
 In fife cimsiio'uu is the extremes! 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 waj 
 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 fii'd necessity : against her edict 
 Rebellion prospers not. 
 
 AR50LD. 
 
 And when it prospers 
 
 CJTSAK. 
 
 a no rebeffion. 
 
 iRJtOLD. 
 
 Will it prosper now ? 
 
 The Bourbon hath given orders for the assauit, 
 And by the dawn there will be work. 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 And shaD 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). 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 T is there, and shall be. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 What? 
 
 CJESAA. 
 
 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 boo and his titsky rebels 
 Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
 In the arena (as right well they mi?ht. 
 When they had left no human foe uncx.iH.w4. 
 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 pastinie, and " Pass or 
 To a new gladiator !" Must ii fol! 1
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 CMMAM, 
 
 The city or the amphitheatre ? 
 
 The church, or one, or all 7 for you confound 
 
 Both them and me. 
 
 AKVOLD. 
 
 To-morrow sounds the assault 
 With <ht first cock-crow. 
 
 CCSAB. 
 
 Which, if it end with 
 The evening's first nightingale, will be 
 Something new in the annals of great sieges : 
 For men must have their prey after long toil. 
 
 AKXOI.D. 
 
 The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
 More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
 On the day Remus leapt her walL 
 
 C.ESAE. 
 
 I saw him. 
 
 ABHOLD. 
 Fou! 
 
 CvESAK. 
 
 Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 
 Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
 And a worse name. I 'm Cesar and a hunchback 
 Now. Well ! the first of Cesars was a bald-head, 
 And loved his laurels better as a wig 
 (So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
 The world runs on, but we 11 be merry stifl. 
 I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
 Slay his own twin, quick-bom of the same womb, 
 Because he leapt a ditch ('t was then no watt, 
 Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earliest cement 
 Was brother's Mood ; and if its native blood 
 Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
 As e'er 't was yellow, it wifl 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. 
 
 AR9COLD. 
 
 But what have these done, their far 
 Remote descendants, who hare lived in peace. 
 The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
 Piety ? 
 
 CXSAK. 
 
 And what had they done whom the old 
 Romans o'ers wept ? Hark ! 
 
 AS.5OLD. 
 
 They are soldiers 
 
 A reckless roundelay, upon the ere 
 Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 
 
 CUBUB. 
 
 And why should they not sing as well as 
 They are black ones, to be sure. 
 
 see, too. 
 
 So, you are learn'd, 
 
 In my grammar, certes. I 
 Waw 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 Uiaa 
 Your alphabet. 
 
 ABVOLD. 
 And wherefore do yoa not? 
 
 C/ESAK. 
 
 It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
 Back into hieroglyphics. lake your 
 And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 
 Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
 More Babels without new dispersion, .uan 
 The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze. 
 Who fail'd and fled each other. Why ? why, raarrr 
 Because no man could understand his neighbour. 
 They are wiser now, and will not separate 
 For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
 Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
 Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
 
 They build more 
 
 AB3OLD (interrupting lam). 
 
 Oh ! thou everlasting sneerar ' 
 Be silent! How the soldiers' rough strain seen* 
 Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
 Listen! 
 
 C.KSAB. 
 
 Yes. I hare heard the angels sing. 
 
 And demon* howL 
 
 CJUAB, 
 
 And man too. Letushsten. 
 
 I love all i 
 
 Song of tiie toldien wiOaM. 
 
 The Black Bands came over 
 
 The Alps and their snow, 
 With Bourbon, the rover, 
 
 They pass'd the broad Po. 
 We hare beaten all fbemen, 
 
 We hare captured a king, 
 We have turn'd back oa BO 
 
 Aad so let us sing ! 
 Here's the Bourbon for ever! 
 id, 
 
 Wei hare < 
 
 At yonder old walL 
 With the Bourbon we *U gather 
 
 At day-dawn before 
 The gates, and together 
 
 Or break or climb o'er 
 The wall: on the ladder, 
 
 As woDts each firm foot, 
 Oar skoal shall grow gladder. 
 
 And death only be mute. 
 With the Bourbon we 11 mount c' 
 
 The waDs of old Rome, 
 Aad who then shall count o'er 
 
 The spoils of each dome? 
 Up! up! with the lily! 
 
 And down with the keys. 
 IB old Rosftp, the Seren-hiHy, 
 
 We 11 revel at ease : 
 Her streets shall be gory, 
 
 Her Tiber aH red, 
 And her temples so noaiy 
 
 ShaS dang with our tread. 
 Oh! the Bourbon! the Bourboa' 
 
 The Bourbon for aye! 
 Of our song bear the burthen! 
 
 Aad fire, fire away ! 
 With Spain far the r aagoard. 
 
 Our Yvicd host co0M0
 
 4.3b 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 And next to the Spania-d 
 
 Beat Germany's drums ; 
 And Italy's lances 
 
 Are couch'd at their mother ; 
 But our leader from France is, 
 
 Who warr'd with his brother. 
 Oh, the Bourbon! the Bouibon! 
 
 Sans country or home, 
 We '11 Ibllow the Bourbon, 
 
 To plunder old Rome. 
 
 C.KSAR. 
 
 An indifferent song 
 for those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes 
 The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
 A goodly rebel ! 
 
 Enter the Constable BOURBON, "cumsuts," etc. t etc., etc. 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 How now, noble prince, 
 You mre not cheerful ? 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 Why should I be so? 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 Upon the e\e of conquest, such as ours, 
 Most men would be so. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 If I were secure ! 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant, 
 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 
 Their 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 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 They are but men who war with mortals. 
 
 BOjRBON. 
 
 True : but those walls have girded in great ages, 
 And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
 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 ! 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 So let them ! Wilt thou 
 Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows 7 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 They do not menace me. I could have faced, 
 Methinks, a Sylia's menace ; but they clasp 
 And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
 And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 
 Fascinate mine. Look there ! 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 I look upon 
 
 \ loftv battlement. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 And there ! 
 
 PRILIBERT. 
 
 Not even 
 
 A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
 Shelter'd by the gray parapet, from some 
 Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who migiV 
 Practise in a cool twilight. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 You are blind. 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
 Be so. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 A thousand years have mann'd the walk 
 With all their heroes, the last Cato stands 
 And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
 The liberty of that I would enslave ; 
 And the first Caesar with his triumphs flits 
 From battlement to battlement. 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 Then conquer 
 The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 True : so I will, or perish. 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 You can not. 
 
 In such an enterprise, to die is rather 
 The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 
 
 Count ARNOLD and CJESAR advance. 
 
 C8AR. 
 
 And the mere men do they too sweat beneath 
 The noon of this same ever-scorching 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 both ere morning. 
 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CfSAR. 
 
 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 vours, were you ftie devil. 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 And if I were, I might have saved myself 
 The toil of coming here. 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 Why so? 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 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 jrou- 
 
 Slight crooked friend's as snake-like in mi irordr 
 AM his deeds.
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 437 
 
 C.CSAR. 
 
 Your highness much mistakes me. 
 Fha first snake was a flatterer I am none ; 
 And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 ?i/u are brave, and that 's enough for me : and quick 
 In speech as sharp in action and that 's more. 
 I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
 Comrade, 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 They are but bad company, your highness ; 
 And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
 More permanent acquaintance. 
 
 PHILIBERT. 
 
 How now, fellow ! 
 
 Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
 Of a buffoon. 
 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 You mean, I speak the truth. 
 I '11 lie it is as easy ; then you 'U praise me 
 For calling you a hero. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 Philibert ! 
 
 Let mm alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
 Been first with that swart face and mountain shoulder 
 In field or storm ; and patient in starvation ; 
 And for his tongue, the camp is ful 1 of license, 
 And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
 Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
 The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
 Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave, 
 Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
 And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
 With which he deems him lich. 
 
 C2E8AR. 
 
 It would be well 
 
 It the earth's princes ask'd no more. 
 BOURBON. 
 
 Be sileru! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with w tda I 
 You have few 
 
 Wnat means the audacious prater? 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 To prate, like 'j'Jier prophets. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 Pnilibert! 
 
 Why will yuu vex him ? Have we not enough 
 To think on ? Arnold! I wi)'. lead the attack 
 To-morrow. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 I have heaid as much, my lord. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 nd you will follow 7 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Since I must not lead. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 Tis necessary, for the further daring 
 Of our too needy army, that their chief 
 Flan', the nist foot upon the foremost ladder's 
 First step . 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 Upon its topmost, let us hope t 
 So shall he have his full deserts. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 The world's 
 
 Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
 Through every change the seven-hill'd city liath 
 Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
 But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
 Unto the pontiff's. 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 ! 
 'T was their turn now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
 That we will fight as well, and i ule much better. 
 
 CJESAF . 
 
 No doubt, the camp 's the school of civic rights. 
 What would you make of Uome ? 
 
 BOt'RBON. 
 
 That wnich it was, 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 In Alaric's time ? 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 No, slave ! In the first Caesar's, 
 Whose name you bear like other curs. 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 And kings. 
 
 'T is a grea' name for blood-hounds. 
 BOURBON. 
 
 There 's a demon 
 
 In that lierce rattle-snake thy tongue. Wilt never 
 Be seaous ? 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 On the eve of battle, no ; 
 Tnat were not soldier-like. 'T is 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. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 You may sneer, since 
 T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
 Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
 Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury. 
 But, Philibert, we '11 in to council. Arnold ! 
 We would request your presence. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Prince ! my set-rice 
 Is yours, as in the field. 
 
 BOURBON. . 
 
 In both, we prize it, 
 And yours will be a post of trust at day-break. 
 
 C-ESAR. 
 And mine? 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
 Good night ! 
 
 ARNOLD (to C.ESAK). 
 Prepare our armour for the assault. 
 And wait within my tent. 
 
 [Exeunt BOURBON, ARNOLD, PHILIBEJI < , *u. 
 
 C.ESAR (solus), 
 
 Within thv fent!
 
 438 
 
 BYRON'S WOKKS. 
 
 Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence? 
 
 Or that this crooked cofler, which contain'd 
 
 Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
 
 Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
 
 Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards { 
 
 Tliis is the consequence of giving matter 
 
 The 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 : 't is 
 
 The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
 
 When I grow weary of it, I have business 
 
 Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
 
 Were made for them to look at. T were a jest now 
 
 To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 
 
 Onto 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 ! [Exit CJESAR. 
 
 PART H. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Before the walls of Rome. The assault ; the army in 
 motion, with ladders to scale the walls; BOURBON, 
 with a ichite scarf over his armour, foremost. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits in the air. 
 
 1. 
 
 'T is the mom, but dim and dark. 
 Whither flies the silent lark ? 
 Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
 Is the day indeed begun ? 
 Nature's eye is melancholy 
 O'er the city high and holy ; 
 But without there is a din 
 Should arouse the saints within, 
 And revive the heroic ashes 
 Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
 Oh ! ye seven hills ! awaken, 
 Ere your very base be shaken ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Hearken to the steady stamp ! 
 Mars is in their every tramp ! 
 Not a step is out of lune, 
 As the tides obey the moon ! 
 On they march, though to self-slaughter, 
 Regular as rolling water, 
 Whose high waves o'ersweep tho 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 : 
 Ijxjk on each step of each ladder, 
 As the stripes that streak an adder. 
 
 3. 
 
 lxK>k upon the bristling wall, 
 Mann'd without an interval! 
 Hound and round, and tier on tier, 
 Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
 )..>! match, boll-tnouth'd musquetoon, 
 4>ap>ng t: De 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 locust's crew. 
 Shade of Remus ! 't is a time 
 Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
 Christians war against Christ's shrine:- 
 Must its lot be like to thine ? 
 
 4. 
 
 Near and near 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 who wept o'er Carthage burning, 
 Weep not strike ! for Rome is mourning ! 
 
 5. 
 
 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 with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
 Rouse thee, thou eternal city ! 
 Rouse thee ! Rather give the porch 
 With thy own hand to thy torch, 
 Than behold such hosts pollute 
 Your worst dwelling with their foot. 
 
 6. 
 
 Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
 Ilion's children find no Hector ; 
 Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
 Roma's 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 ! 
 
 7. 
 
 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 
 
 1 Scipio, the second Africnnus. is said to have repeated 4 
 veree of Homer, and wept over the burning of Carthrjo. B 
 had better have granted it a capitulation.
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 8. 
 
 Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 
 Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's ! 
 Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 
 Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 
 Though the son who slew his mother, 
 Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
 'T was 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 ! 
 
 BOURBON, ARNOLD, C.SAR, and others, arrive at the 
 foot of the wall. ART* OLD 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 
 Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 
 
 [BouRBON plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
 Now, boys ! On ! on ! 
 
 [A shot strikes him, and BOURBON falls. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 And off! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Eternal powers ! 
 Fhc host will be appall'd. But vengeance ! vengeance! 
 
 BOURBON. 
 T is nothing lend me your hand. 
 
 [BOURBON takes ARNOLD by the hand and rises : 
 but, 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 ; 
 L;t not the soldiers see it. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 You must be 
 rtrmotea ; me aici of-. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 No, my gallant boy ; 
 Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
 The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
 &.eep them yet ignorant that 1 am but clay, 
 Till they are conquerors then do as you may. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 Would not your highness choose to kiss the cross 7 
 We have no priest here, but tne hill of sword 
 May serve instead : it did the same for Bayard. 
 
 BOURBON. 
 
 Thou bitter slave ! Jo name him at this time ! 
 But I deserve it. 
 
 ARNOLD (to C.KSAR). 
 Villain, hold your peace ! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 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 
 France but hark ! hark ! the assault grows warmer 
 
 Oh! 
 
 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 'U 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. 
 
 BOUSBON. 
 
 You must farewell Up ! up ! the world is winning. 
 
 [BOURBON diet 
 CXSA.V. (to ARNOLD). 
 Come, count, to business. 
 
 . ARNOLD. 
 
 True. I 'll weep hereafter. 
 [ARNOLD covers BOURBON'S body with a mantle, ana 
 
 mounts the ladder, crying, 
 The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is ours ! 
 
 C^:SAR. 
 
 Good night, Lord Constable ! thou went a man. 
 [C.SSAR follows ARNOLD ; they reach the battlement; 
 
 ARNOLD and CJESAR are struck down. 
 A precious somerset ! Is your countship injured ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 No. [Remounts the luddei. 
 
 C.3ESAR. 
 
 A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated ! 
 And 't is 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 7 
 
 [A ntanfatU 
 
 The first bird of the covey ! he has fall'n 
 On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow T 
 
 THE WOUNDED JAN. 
 
 A droo of water !
 
 440 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Blood 's the only liquid 
 Nca'e* than Tiber. 
 
 WOUNDED MAW. 
 
 I have died for Rome. 
 
 CfSAR. 
 
 And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
 
 Oh, these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
 
 But I must after my young charge. He is 
 
 By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 
 
 [CAESAR mounts the ladder ; the Scene closes. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 T7ie City. Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged 
 in the streets. Inhabitants flying in confusion. 
 
 Enter C.ESAR. 
 
 CAESAR. 
 
 I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
 With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
 Yhe fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
 What have we here ? A cardinal or two, 
 Tnat do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
 How the old red-shanks scamper! Could they doff 
 Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 't would bo 
 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, 
 
 fian 1 in hand with the mild twins Gore and Glory. 
 Holla ! hold, count ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Away ! they must not rally. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 1 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. 
 Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 
 
 [ARNOLD rushes into the combat. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 A precious sample of humanity ! 
 Well, his blood 's up, and if a little 's shed, 
 'T will serve to curb his fever. 
 
 | ARNOLD engages with a Roman, who retires towards 
 a portico. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Yield thee, slare 
 I urumise quarter. 
 
 ROMAN. 
 That 's soon said. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 And done- 
 My word is known. 
 
 ROMAN. 
 
 So shall be my deeds. 
 [They re-engage. CAESAR comes forwara, 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Why, Arnold ! Hold thine own ; thou hast in hand 
 A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor ; 
 Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
 Not so, my musqueteer ; 't was he who slew 
 The Bourbon from the wall. 
 
 , ARNOLD. 
 
 Ay, did he so? 
 Then he hath carved his monument. 
 
 ROMAN. 
 
 I yet 
 
 May live to carve your better's. 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 
 Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
 Who slays Cellini, will have work'd as hard 
 As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 
 [ARNOLD disarms and wounds CELLINI, but shghtiy ; 
 the latter draws a pistol, and fires ; then retires and 
 disappears through the portico. 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, methinks, 
 Of red Bellona's banquet. 
 
 ARNOLD (ftaggers). 
 
 'T is a scratch. 
 Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 
 
 CAESAR. 
 Where is it ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 In the shoulder, not the sword arm 
 And that 's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 
 A helm of water ! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 That 's a liquid now 
 In requisition, but by no means easiest 
 To come at. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 And my thirst increases ; but 
 I '11 find a way to quench it. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Or be quench'd 
 Thyself? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 The chance is even ; we will throw 
 The dice thereon. But I lose time prating ; 
 Prithee, be quick. [C^SAR binds on the *usrf. 
 
 And what dost thou so >dly V 
 Why dost not strike ? 
 
 C.XSAR. 
 
 Your old philosophers 
 Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
 The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
 Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Ay, 'gainst an oak. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 A forest, when it suite me. 
 I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
 Meantime, pursue thy sport, as I do mine :
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 44' 
 
 Which is just now to gaze, since all these labourers 
 Will reap my harvest gratis. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Thou art still 
 
 A iiend ! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 And thou a man. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Whv, such I fain would show me. 
 
 ^| CSAR. 
 
 True as men are. 
 ARWOLD. 
 
 4nd what is that ? 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Thou feelest and thou see ? u 
 [Exit ARNOLD, joining in the combat which till 
 continues between detached parties. Che Scene 
 clones. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Si. Peter's. The Interior of the Chur h. The Pope 
 it the Altar. Priests, etc. crowding in confusion, 
 md Citizens flying far refuge, pursued by Soldiery. 
 
 Enter CfSAR. 
 
 A SPANISH SOLDIEU. 
 
 >, vn with them, comrades ! seize upon those lamps ! 
 Cleave yon bald paled shaveling t < the chine ! 
 Ilia rosary 's of gold ! 
 
 LUTHERAN SOL 'HER. 
 
 Revenge ! Revenge ! 
 
 Plunder hereafter, but for veng- ance now 
 Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 
 
 CJESAR (into posing). 
 
 How now, schismatic ! 
 What wouldst thou ? 
 
 LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 
 
 In th<j holy name of Christ, 
 Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 
 
 r.CSAR. 
 
 Yea, a disciple that wo\Jd make the founder 
 
 Of your belief renounce it, could ne see 
 
 Such proselytes. Be^t stint thyself to plunder. 
 
 LUTI'ERAN SOLDIER. 
 
 I say he is the devil. 
 
 O0AJU 
 
 Hush ! keep that secret, 
 Lest he should re< ognise you for his own. 
 
 I UTHERAN SOLDIER. 
 
 Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
 The devil, or tl-o devil's vicar upon earth. 
 
 CjESAR. 
 
 And that 's th<; reason ; would you make a quarrel 
 With your b st friends ? You had far best be quiet : 
 His hour is not yet come. 
 
 LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 
 
 That shall be seen ! 
 
 [The ) utheran Soldier rushes forward : a shot strikes 
 liim from one of the Pope's guards, and he fallf at 
 the foot of the altar. 
 
 I 'old you so. 
 
 CJESAR (to the LUTHERAN). 
 
 LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 
 
 And will you not avenge me ? 
 
 CJCSAR. 
 
 Not I ! You know that " vengeance is the Lord's * n 
 You see he loves no interlopers. 
 
 LUTHERAN (dying). 
 Oh'! 
 
 Had I but slain him, 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. 'T is 
 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 diet. 
 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
 Well done, old Babel ! 
 
 [The Guards defend themselves desperately, whilt 
 the Pontiff" escapes, by a private passage, to tin 
 Vatican and the Castle of St. Angela. 
 
 CKSAR. 
 
 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. Bait the Romans had the best then ; 
 Now they must take their turn. 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 He hath escaped ! 
 Follow ! 
 
 ANOTHER SOLDIER. 
 
 They have barr'd the narrow passage up, 
 And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. - 
 
 , CJESAR. 
 
 I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank me for 't 
 In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd 
 'T were worth one half our empire: his indulgence* 
 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, 
 And you, too, Catholics ! Would ye return 
 From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
 The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
 Sec how they strip the shrines ! 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 By holy *eter ! 
 
 He speaks the truth ; the heretics will be*. 
 The best away. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 And that were shame ! Go to . 
 Assist in their conversion. 
 
 [The Soldiers disperse; many qwt the Cl* 
 others enter. 
 
 CJESATl. 
 
 They are gone. 
 
 And others come ; so flows the wave on wav 
 Of what these creatures call eternity, 
 Deeming themse!"* the breakers rf the ocean
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
 That foam is their founaation. So, another ! 
 
 Enter OLIMPIA, Jiying from the pursuit She springs 
 upon the Altar. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 She 's mine. 
 
 ANOTHER SOLDIER (opposing the former). 
 
 You he, I track'd her first ; and, were she 
 The pope's niece, I '11 not yield her. [They fight. 
 
 THIRD SOLDIER (advancing towards OI.IMPIA). 
 You may settle 
 
 Your claims ; I '11 make mine good. 
 OLIMPIA. 
 
 Infernal slave ! 
 You touch me not alive. 
 
 THIRD SOLDIER. 
 
 Alive or dead ! 
 
 OLIMPIA (embracing a massive crucifix). 
 Respect your God ! 
 
 THIRD SOLDIER. 
 
 Yes, when he shines in gold. 
 Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 
 
 [As he advances, OLIMPIA, with a strong and sudden 
 effort, casts down the crucifix- it strikes the Soldier, 
 who fall*. 
 
 THIRD SOLDIER. 
 
 Oh, great God ! 
 
 OLIMPIA. 
 
 Ah ! now you recognise him. 
 
 THIRD SOLDIER. 
 
 My brain 's crush'd ! 
 Comrades, help, ho ! All 's darkness ! [He dies. 
 
 OTHER SOLDIERS (coming up). 
 Slay her, although she had a thousand lives : 
 She hath kill'd 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 ! 
 
 C.KSAR (aside, and laughing). 
 Ha ! ha ! here 's equity ! The dogs 
 Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 
 
 SOLDIERS. 
 Count, she hath slain our comrade. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 With what weapon ? 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; behold him 
 Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
 l'i>on his head. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Even so ; there is a woman 
 Worthy a orave man's liking. Were ye such, 
 Yu would have honour'd her. But get ye hence, 
 And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
 For yow existence. Had vou touch' J a haur 
 
 Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
 Your ranks- more than the enemy. Awav ' 
 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 datum). 
 
 Mutineer ! 
 Rebel in hell you shall obey on earth ! 
 
 [The Soldier&isxault ARNOLD. 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 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 arms. 
 
 SOLDIERS. 
 
 Mercy ! mercy ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Then leam to grant it. Have I taught you who 
 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 ftx'd 
 In the Colonna palace. 
 
 OLIMPIA (aside). 
 
 In my father's 
 House ! 
 
 ARNOLD (to the soldiers). 
 Leave your arms ; ye have no further need 
 Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
 You keep your hands clean, or I '11 find out a stream 
 As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 
 
 SOLDIERS (deposing their arms and departing). 
 We obey. 
 
 ARNOLD (to OLIMPIA). 
 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 the 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. 
 
 Go ! Thou hast only sack'd my native land 
 
 No injury ! and made my father's house 
 
 A den of thievw 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 fit robe round her, 
 
 and prepares to dash herself down on the fide f \h 
 
 Altar, opposite to that where AJTOL
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 443 
 
 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 know'st 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, 't is all thou e'er shall have of me ! 
 And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
 Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
 I offer him a blood less holy 
 But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
 A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
 The saints have sanctified ! 
 
 [OLIMPIA waves her hand to ARNOLD with disdain, and 
 dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Eternal God ! 
 
 I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 
 CAESAR (approaches). 
 
 I am here. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Thou ! but oh, save her ! 
 
 C.ESAR (assisting him to raise OLIMPIA). 
 She hath done it well ; 
 The leap was serious. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Oh! she is lifeless ! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 If 
 
 She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
 The resurrection is beyond me. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Slave! 
 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : methinks 
 Good words however are as well at times. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Words! Canst thou aid her? 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 I will try. A sprinkling 
 Of that same holy water may be useful. 
 
 [He brings some in his helmet from the font. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 T is mix' J with blood. 
 
 In Rome. 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 There is no cleaner now 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
 \live or dead, thou essence of a'l beauty, 
 I love but thee ! 
 
 CJESA . 
 
 Even so Achilles loved 
 \Vnthesilea; with his form it seems 
 tfou have his .jcari, and vot it was no soli one. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 She breathes ! But no, 't was nothing, or tne last 
 Faint flutter life disputes with death. 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 She breathes. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Thou say'st it ? Then 't is truth. 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 You do me right- 
 The devil speaks trutn much oftener than he 's deem'd : 
 He hath an ignorant audience. 
 
 ARNOLD (without attending to him). 
 
 Yes ! her heart beats. 
 Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
 I ever wish'd to beat with mine, should vibrate 
 To an assassin's pulse 
 
 C2ESAR. 
 
 A sage reflection, 
 
 But somewhatlate i' the day. Where shall we bear he 1 
 I say she lives. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 And will she live ? 
 
 As dust can. 
 
 As much 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Then she is dead ! 
 C.ESAR. 
 
 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 wiU 
 
 Convey her unto the Colonna palace, 
 Where I have pitch'd my banner. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Come then ! raise her up ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Softly! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 As softly as they bear the dead, 
 Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 But doth she live indeed? 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Nay, never fear ! 
 But if you rue it after, blame not me. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 Let her but live ! 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 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 : 't is not oft 
 I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
 How staunch a friend is what you call a neno 
 On earth you have often only fiends for friend* , 
 Now / desert not mine. Soft ' bear her hence. 
 The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
 I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
 Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Thou!
 
 444 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 I. but fear not. I '11 not be /our rival. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Rival! 
 
 CSAR. 
 
 I could be one right form' JaWe ; 
 But since 1 slew the seven husb utds of 
 Tobia's future bride (and after Jl 
 'Twas suck'd out but by some incense) I have laid 
 Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely wo. ill the trouble 
 Of gaining, or what is moro difficult- 
 Getting rid of your prize agriin ; for there 'a 
 The rub ! at least to mortals. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Prithee, peace ! 
 Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 
 
 C CSAR. 
 
 lake stars, no doubt ; f r that 's a metaphor 
 For Lucifer and Venus. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 To the palace 
 Colonna, as I told y< .u ! 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Oh ! I know 
 My way through Home. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Now onward, onward ! Gently ! 
 [Exeunt, bearing OLIMPI A. The Scene closes. 
 
 PART HI. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but 
 smiling country. Chorus of Peasants singing before 
 the Gatts. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 1. 
 
 The wars are over, 
 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 
 Have sought their home : 
 fhey arc happy, we rejoice, 
 Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 
 
 2. 
 
 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. 
 
 S. 
 
 Ar.d when the spring comes with her host 
 Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
 Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
 Hi-r heavenly odour and virgin hues. 
 
 Pluck the others, but still remember 
 Tliir herald out of dim December 
 
 The morning-star of all the flowers, 
 The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
 Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget 
 The virgin, virgin violet, 
 
 Enter C.SAR. 
 
 C8AR (singing). 
 The wars arc 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 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 But the hound baycth 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, 
 
 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 might, 
 Then 't was sport for the strong 
 
 To embrace him in fight ; 
 To go forth, with a pine 
 
 For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
 Or strike through the ravine 
 
 At the foaming behemoth ; 
 While man was in stature 
 
 As towers in our lime, 
 The first-bom of Nature, 
 
 And, like her, sublime ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 But the wars are over, 
 
 The spring is come ; 
 
 The bride and her lover 
 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Peasantry, singing.
 
 ( 445 ) 
 
 anir Sartfi; 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VL 
 And it came to pan. ... that the ions of Got aw the daughters of men that the; were fair, and thtj 
 
 took them wiie* of aJl which they chow. 
 And woman wailinr. ft-r her demoo loTer. COLERIDGE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 ANGELS. 
 SAMIASA. 
 AZAZIEL. 
 RAPHAEL, the Archangel, 
 
 MEN. 
 
 NOAH, and hit Son*, 
 IEAD. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 AHAH. 
 AHOLIBAMAR. 
 
 vhorus of Spirits of the Earth. Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A. woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat, 
 TIM E midnight, 
 
 Enter AHAH and AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 AMAH. 
 
 OCR 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 ! 
 
 AHOLIBAMAR. 
 
 Let us proceed upon 
 
 Our invocation. 
 
 ABAH. 
 
 But the stars are hidden. 
 
 AHOLIEAMAK. 
 
 So do I, but not with fear 
 Of aught save their delay. 
 
 AH AH. 
 
 My rister, 
 
 [ love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 
 What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 A n * where is the impiety of loving 
 Celestial natures? 
 
 A ir AH. 
 
 But, Aholibarnah, 
 
 I lo\ our God less since his angel loved me : 
 Phis cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
 That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
 Which are not ominous of right. 
 2 o. a 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 Then wed thee 
 
 Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
 There 's Japhet bves thee well, hath loved thee term i 
 Marry, and bring forth dust ! 
 
 AMAH. 
 
 I should have loved 
 Azaziel not less were he mortal : yet 
 I am glad he is not. I cannot outlive him. 
 And when I think that his immortal wings 
 Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
 Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
 As be 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. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 Rather say. 
 
 That he vriH single forth some other daughter 
 Of earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 
 
 AMAH. 
 
 And if it should be so, and she so loved him. 
 Better thus than that he should weep for me. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
 
 AD seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 
 
 But to our invocation ! *T is the boor. 
 
 AX AH. 
 
 Seraph! 
 
 From thy sphere! 
 Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
 In the eternal depths of heaven 
 Albeit thou watchest with "the seven, " 
 Though through space infinite and hoary 
 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 there thou must 
 Acknowledge that more loving dust 
 Ne'er wept beneath the slue*. 
 Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 
 The face of Him who made thee great, 
 
 1 The arefcancefc. said to ke Mvc* la
 
 446 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 As H< hath made me of the least 
 Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
 Yet, seraph dear! 
 
 Oh hear! 
 
 For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
 Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
 1 hat thou forget'st in thine eternity 
 
 Her whose heart death could not keep from o'erflowing 
 For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
 Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
 And such I feel are waging in my heart 
 A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
 Forgive, my seraph ! that such thoughts appear. 
 For sorrow is our element ; 
 
 Delight 
 
 An Eden kept afar from sight, 
 Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
 
 The hour is near 
 
 Which tells me we are not abandon' d quite. 
 Appear! appear! 
 
 Seraph ! 
 
 My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
 And leave the stars to Uieir own light. 
 
 AHTLIBAMAII. 
 
 Samiasa ' 
 VVheresou'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, 
 Whose tenants, dying while their world is falling, 
 Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
 Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
 Thou deignest to partake their hymn 
 
 Samiasa ! 
 i call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 
 
 Many worship thee that will I not : 
 If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
 Descend and share my lot ! 
 Though I be form'd of clay, 
 
 And thou of beams 
 More bright than those of day 
 
 On Eden's streams, 
 Thine immortality cannot repay * 
 
 With love more warm than mine 
 My love. There is a ray 
 
 In me, which, though forbidden yet to snme, 
 I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
 It may he 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 time, 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, 
 1 kiiow not, nor would know ; 
 1'tiat secret rests with the Almighty giver 
 Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and woe. 
 
 But thee and me He never can destroy ; 
 lihange us He may, but not o'erwhe'm ; we are 
 u 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 m", 
 And shall 1 shrink from thine eternity 1 
 
 Nb ! though the serpent's sting should pierce m* 
 
 through, 
 
 And thou thyself wert like the serpent, .oil 
 Around me still ! and 1 will smile 
 
 And curse thee not ; but hold 
 Thee in as warm a fold 
 
 As but descend ; and prov>: 
 
 A mortal's love 
 
 For an immortal. If the skies contain 
 More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 
 
 AMAH. 
 
 Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
 Their bright way through the parted ni^ht. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 The clouds from off their pinions flinging 
 As though they bore to-morrow's light. 
 
 ANAH. 
 
 But if our father see the sight ! 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 He would but deem it was the moon 
 Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
 An hour too soon. 
 
 ANAH. 
 
 They come ! he comes ! Azaziel ! 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 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. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 
 
 ANAH. 
 
 My Azaziel ! 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Enter IRAD 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 ? 
 They cannot aid thee. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 But they soothe me au 
 Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
 Methinks a being that is beautif-il 
 Becometh more so as it looks on beauty,
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 44' 
 
 The eternal beauty of undying things. 
 Oh, Anah ! 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 But she loves thee not. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 And proud \holibamah spurns me also. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 1 feel for thee too. 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 Let her keep her pride : 
 Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn ; 
 It may be, time too will avenge it. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Canst thou 
 Find joy in such a thought ? 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 Nor joy, nor sorrow. 
 
 I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
 Had love been met with love : as 't is, 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 1 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 That I know not ; but her air, 
 If not her words, tells tne she loves another. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
 What can it profit thee ? 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Tme, nothing ; but 
 I love. 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 And so did I. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 And now thou lovest not, 
 Or think'st thou lovest not, art thou happier ? 
 IRAD. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 I pity thee. 
 
 IRAD. 
 Me! why? 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 For being happy, 
 Deprived of that which makes my misery. 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 i take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
 And would not feel as thou dost, for more shekels 
 Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
 Against the metal of the sons of Cain 
 The yellov dust they try to barter with us, 
 As if sucn useless and discolour'd trash, 
 The refuse of the earth, could be received 
 
 For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and ail 
 Our flocks and wilderness afford. Go, Japiiet, 
 Sigh to the stars, is wolves howl to the moon 
 I must back to my rest. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 And so would 1, 
 If I could rest. 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 Thou wilt not to our tents, then 1 
 
 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 10 ? 
 What wouldst thou there ? 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Soothe further my sad spi/if 
 With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
 And I am hopeless. 
 
 IRAD. 
 
 But 't is dangerous ; 
 
 Strange sounds and sights have peopled it wiub terror* 
 I must go with thee. 
 
 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 ; neithei , fra J : 
 I must proceed alone. 
 
 IRAD. 
 Then peace be with thee ! 
 
 [Exit In AD 
 
 JAPHET (snlu*). 
 
 Peace ! I have sought it where it should be found, 
 
 In love with love loo, 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 calnr 
 
 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 have proclaim'd 
 
 A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
 
 To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
 
 When the dread hour denounced shal! open wide 
 
 The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
 
 Have lam within this bosom, folded from 
 
 The ekments ; this bosom, which in vain 
 
 Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vaim\ 
 
 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 tney obscure it for an hour. My Ana> 
 How would I have adored ihee, but thou wouldst n 
 And still would I redeem thee see thee Hve 
 When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
 By rock or shallow, the leviathan.
 
 448 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Lord of the shoreless sea and^watery world, 
 Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 
 
 [Exit JAPHET. 
 
 Enter NOAH and SHEM. 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 VT bero w thy brother Japhet ? 
 
 8HEM. 
 
 He went forth, 
 
 According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
 He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
 Towards Anah's tents, round which 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 
 [Tpon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
 Than even wicked men resort there : he 
 Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
 Although he could not wed her- if she loved him, 
 And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
 Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
 The destiny and evil of these days, 
 And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
 In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
 He must be sought for ! 
 
 SHEM. 
 
 Go not forward, father : 
 I will seek Japhet. 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 Do not fear for me : 
 
 AH evil things are powerless on the man 
 Selected by Jehovah let us on. 
 
 SHEM. 
 
 To Ihe tents of the father of the sisters ? 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 
 
 [Exeunt NOAH and SHEM. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The mountains. A cavern, and the rocks of Caucasus. 
 
 JAPHET (solus). 
 
 Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and thou cave, 
 Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
 So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
 Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
 And topling trees that twine their roots with stone 
 In perpendicular places, where the foot 
 Of man would tremble, could he reach them yes, 
 Ye looV eternal ! Yet, in a few days, 
 Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
 Before the mass of waters : and yon cave, 
 Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
 Shall have its depths 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, 
 
 Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 
 
 Aias ! 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, 
 
 Sraro 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 / 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 his kind to be prolong'd, 
 
 To kiss 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 wr tld ! 
 
 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 me love 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 pauttt, 
 
 [A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shout* 
 
 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 (laughs). 
 
 Ha! ha' 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
 Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
 The deep which will lay open all her fountains I 
 The heaven which will convert her clouds to soas, 
 And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
 Thou, unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
 Yet awful thing of shadows, speak to me ! 
 Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Why weep'st iho * 
 JAPHET. 
 
 For earth, and all her children. 
 SPIRIT. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Spirit vanish*!, 
 
 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
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 445* 
 
 How the eurth 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 cavern. 
 
 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, 
 
 Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
 
 motion, 
 
 Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
 Earth shall be ocean ! 
 
 And no breath, 
 
 Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
 Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
 Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 
 
 Shall lift its point to save, 
 
 Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
 After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
 For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
 All shall be void, 
 
 Destroy'd ! 
 Another element shall be the lord 
 
 Of life, and the abhorr'd 
 
 Children of dust be quench'd ; ariti 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 : 
 Ail merged within the universal fountain, 
 Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
 
 And sea and sky 
 Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
 
 Upon the foam 
 Who shall erect a home ? 
 
 JTAPHET (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 ; 
 
 Hence ! haste ! 
 Back to your innr caves ! 
 Until the waves 
 Shall search you in yout secret place, 
 
 And drive your sullen race 
 Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds 
 In restless wretchedness along all space ! 
 
 SPIRIT 
 
 Son of the saved ! 
 When thou and tnme have braved 
 The wide and warring element ; 
 When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
 Bhall thou and thine be good or happy? No! 
 Thy new world and new race shall be of 
 62 
 
 Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
 Less than the glorious giants, who 
 Yet walk the world in pride, 
 The sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
 Thine shall be nothing of the past, save lean. 
 And art thou not ashamed 
 
 Thus to survive, 
 And eat, and drink, and wive 1 
 With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
 As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
 Without such grief and courage, as should rather 
 
 Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave. 
 Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father, 
 And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth'* gi rel 
 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. 
 There is not one who hath not left a throne 
 
 Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
 Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
 
 Go, wretch ! and give 
 A life like thine to other wretches live ! 
 And when the annihilating waters roar 
 Above what they !>ave done, 
 Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
 And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
 
 Thyself for being his son ! 
 Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
 
 Rejoice ! 
 
 No more the human voice 
 Shall vex our joys in middle air 
 
 With prayer j 
 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'u 
 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 lurii 
 In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
 The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 
 
 Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
 Shall 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
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 JAPHET (interrupting them). 
 
 The eternal will 
 
 Shall deign to expound this dream 
 Of good and evil ; and redeem 
 
 Unto himself all times, and things ; 
 Ajid, 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. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 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 ; 
 New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
 The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
 Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 
 
 But the same moral storms 
 Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
 Ii a few hours the glorious giants' graves. ' 
 
 Chorus of Spirits. 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 Mortal, farewell ! 
 
 flark ! 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 tiwt 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 cliffs ; 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, 
 Unanswer'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 luudiy lift each superhuman voice 
 All die. 
 
 Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed 
 
 The seed of Scth, 
 
 Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death 
 But of the sons of Cain 
 
 None shall remain ; 
 And all his goodly daughters 
 Must "ic 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 1 
 
 And to the universal h.unan ciy 
 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 ! 
 
 [The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards, 
 
 JAPHET (solus). 
 
 God hath proclaim'd the destiny of earth ; 
 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 th^ir doom ; which, though so nigh, 
 Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
 Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose, 
 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 clay 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 
 Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. 
 What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and ai: 1 
 No all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
 
 1 And there were giants in those Jays, ami after; mighty 
 men, wtjicn were o' old men of reeown." Genesis 
 
 1 The Book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, is taid 
 by them to be anterior to the flood
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 I cannot tra e their features ; but their forms, 
 How lovelily they move along the 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 
 
 E'nJfT SAMIASA, AZAZIEL, ANAH, <Z7ul AHOLIBAMAH. 
 ANAH. 
 
 Japhet ! 
 
 SAMIASA. 
 
 Lo! 
 
 A son of Adam ! 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 What doth the earth-bom here, 
 While all his race are slumbering ? 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Angel! what 
 Dost thou on earth when them shouldst be on high ? 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 Know'st thou not, or forget'st 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 ! 
 Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hoars 
 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. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
 We know thee not. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 The hour may come when thou 
 May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
 Me 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 
 Say'st 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 
 That ye too know not 7 Angels ! angels ! ye 
 
 Save shared man's sin, and, it may b<, nor/ must 
 Partake his punishment: or at the least 
 My sorrow. 
 
 SAMIASA. 
 
 Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
 To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 And hath not the Most High expounded them ? 
 Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 So be it ! 
 
 If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
 More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
 An immortality of agonies 
 With Samiasa ! 
 
 ANAH. 
 
 Sister ! sister ! speak not 
 Thus. 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 Fearest thou, my Anah ? 
 
 ANAH. 
 
 Yes, for thee ; 
 [ would resign this greater remnant of 
 This little life of mine, before one hour 
 Of thine eternity should know a pang. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 It is for him, then ! for the seraph, thou 
 Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
 Left thy God too! for unions like to these, 
 Between a mortal and immortal, cannot 
 Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
 Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
 Are made to minister on high unto 
 The Highest ; but if he can save thee, soon 
 The hour will come in which celestial aid " 
 Alone can do so. 
 
 ANAR. 
 
 Ah 1 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 halh"been found 
 Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
 His power were greater of redemption ! or 
 That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
 Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
 The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
 The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
 The seed of Seth ! 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 And dost thou think that we, 
 With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's blood 
 Warm in our veins, strong Cain, who was begotte 
 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 thue, Aholibamah ! 
 
 Too much of the forefather, wnom thou vaumcst 
 
 Has come down in that haughty blood which spring*
 
 452 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
 But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
 Albeit thou art not ; 't is 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). 
 And wouidst thou have her like our father's foe 
 In mind, and 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 7 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Thou spcakcst well: his God hath judged him, and 
 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 father's father : 
 The ek'est born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
 And mos. 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 number'd. 
 AIOLIBAMAH. 
 
 Be it so ! but while yev their hours endure, 
 I glory in my brethren an \ our fathers ! 
 
 JAPKET. 
 
 My sire and race but glory if. their God, 
 Anah ! and thou ? 
 
 ANAH. 
 
 Whate'er our God decrees. 
 The God of Seth as Cain, I must ob<*v, 
 And will endeavour patiently to obey ; 
 But could I dare to pray in this dread ho~t 
 Of universal vengeance (if such should be,. 
 It would not be to live, alone exempt 
 Ol all 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 
 The thingj which sprung up with me, like the stars, 
 Making my dim existence radiant with 
 Soft lights which were not miife? Aholibamah ! 
 Oh ! if there should be mercy seek it, find it: 
 I abhor death, because that thou must die. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 What ! hatn this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
 The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, 
 Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
 Ol -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 wore, of dreams, the phantasies engender'd 
 
 Btr hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
 
 Shall snake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
 
 And bid those clouds and w 'Jiers take a shape 
 Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
 Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
 Who shall do this? 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 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 7 
 Turn to thy seraphs j 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. 
 
 'T is said so. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 It is even so. 
 
 Enter NOAH and SHEM. 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 Japhet! What 
 
 Dost thou here with these children of the wicked ? 
 Dread'st thou not to partake their coming dorm 7 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
 To save an earth-born being ; and behold, 
 Thes are 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 f 
 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 
 i\> we but imitate and emulate 
 Hi- love unto created love ? 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 I am 
 
 But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
 Far less tho sons of .God ; but as our God 
 Has deign'd u* commune with me, and reveal 
 Hit judgments, I reply, that the descent 
 Of seraphs from heir everlasting sen* 
 Unto a perishable and perishing, 
 Even on the very ew of perishing, world, 
 Cannot be good. 
 
 AZ-tZIEl.. 
 
 What ! uiough it were to saw '
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 453 
 
 JtOAH. 
 
 Not ye in all your felory can redeem 
 
 What He who mado you glorious hath condemn'd. 
 
 Were your immortal mission safety, 't would 
 
 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 shall 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 shall not ; He 
 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. And lo ! his mildest and 
 Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 
 
 Enter RAPHAEL the Archangel. 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 Spirits ! 
 Whose seat is near the throne, 
 
 What do ye here ? 
 Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown 
 
 Now that the hour is near 
 When earth must be alone? 
 
 Return ! 
 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 speak'st thou of destruction near? 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
 In their 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 ; 
 2R 
 
 And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 
 
 As they wax proud within ; 
 For blindness is tlie 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 ! awa.v ' 
 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 Go<? ! 
 Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 
 
 That which I came to do : till now we trod 
 Together the eternal space together 
 
 Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die < 
 Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
 
 And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
 Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
 Without involving ever some vast void 
 In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
 
 In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
 Our brother Satan fell, his burning will 
 
 Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 
 
 But ye who still are pure ! 
 Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 
 
 Think how he was undone ! 
 And think if tempting man can compensate 
 
 For heaven desired too late ? 
 Long have I warr'd, 
 Long must I war 
 
 With him who deem'd it hard 
 
 To be created, and to acknowledge Him 
 
 Who 'midst the cherubim 
 Made him as sun to a dependent star, 
 Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
 
 I loved him beautiful he was : oh Heaven ! 
 Save His who made, what beauty and what powef 
 Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
 
 In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
 The wish is impious : but oh ye ! 
 Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 
 
 With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 
 He hath not tempted you, he cannot tempt 
 The angels, from his further snares exempt ; 
 
 But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
 And ye to woman's beautiful she is, 
 The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
 The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will drat* 
 A second host from heaven, to break Heaven's law. 
 Yet, yet, <3h 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 tong outlast the sun whim gave mem atf 
 Think how your essence differeth from theirs
 
 454 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 In all but suffering ! Why partake 
 
 The agony to which they must be heirs 
 
 Bom to be plough'd with tears, and sown with cares, 
 
 And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? 
 
 Even had their days been left to toil their path 
 
 Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
 
 Still they are evil's prey and sorrow's spoil. 
 
 AIIOLIBAMAH. 
 
 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 
 In 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, when the fatal waters are allay'd, 
 Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
 Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
 Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
 
 Our portion is to die, 
 And yours to 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, 
 'T is 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 ? 
 Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 
 
 Thy prophecies were true, 
 And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
 Fhe blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
 But yet depart ! 
 
 Ah, why ? I 
 
 V et let me not retain thee fly ! 
 My pangs can be but brief: but thine would be 
 Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
 Too much already hast thou deign'd 
 
 Tc one of Adam's race ! 
 Ou. doom is sorrow ! not to us alone, 
 But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
 To love us, cometh anguish witli disgrace. 
 
 The first who taught us knowledge hath been htirlM 
 From his once archangelic throne 
 Into some unknown world t 
 And thou, Azaziel ! No 
 Thou shall not suffer woe 
 For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
 
 Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
 t Mav'st suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
 Her whom the surges of the all-strangling dep 
 
 Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
 Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Gh 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 T 
 
 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 't is 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 gravo- 
 Were graves permitted to the seed of Cam. 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine 's a crime ' 
 Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye, 
 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. 
 
 Say'stthou? 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 He hath said it, and I sav, A taea > 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 Again ! 
 
 Then from this hour, 
 Shorn as ye are of all celestial power.
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 456 
 
 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 J 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 w*ve, 
 
 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 ! 
 lis 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 break. 
 
 NOAH. 
 
 And lo ! yon flash of light, 
 Phe 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 Jehovah's wrath ? 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 
 
 NOAH. 
 Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even now ? 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy brow : 
 
 Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink ; 
 fle knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
 
 With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
 But be, when passion passeth, good as thou, 
 Nor perish like Heaven's children with man's daugh- 
 ters. 
 
 AHOLIBAMAH. 
 
 Hie tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite 
 
 For lh> annihilation of all life. 
 
 Unequal is tne strife 
 Bel ween our strength and the eternal might ! 
 
 SAMIASA. 
 
 But ours is with thee : we will bear ye far 
 
 To some untroubled star, 
 Where thou and Anah shall partake pur lot : 
 
 And if thou 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 notg 
 Who shall dry up my tears ? 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 Thy spirit-lord. 
 
 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 
 Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword, 
 Which chased the first-born out of paradise, 
 Still flashes in the angelic hands. 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
 And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds ! 
 What 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. 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 The heavens and earth are mingling God ! oh God ! 
 
 What have we done ? Yet spare ! 
 
 Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their prayei ' 
 The dragon crawls from out his den, 
 To herd in terror innocent with men ; % 
 
 And the birds scream their agony through air. 
 
 Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
 
 Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 
 
 Hear not man only but. all nature plead ! 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of clay, 
 I cannot, must not aid you. 'T is decreed ! 
 
 [Exit RAPHAEL. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 Some clouds sweep on, as vultures for their prey, 
 While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
 At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
 No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
 Nor spangled stars be glorious : death hath risen . 
 In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
 Hath wound itself around the dying air. 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 Come, Anah ! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
 
 To which the elements again repair, 
 
 To turn it into what it was : beneath 
 
 The shelter of these wings thou shall be safe, 
 
 As was the eagle's nestling once within 
 
 Its mother's. Let the coming chaos chafe 
 
 With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
 
 A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breatnt, 
 
 Ethereal life, will we explore : 
 
 These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 
 
 [AZAZIEL and SAMIASA fly off", and disappt* 
 with ANAH and AHOLIBAMAH,
 
 456 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 JAPHET. 
 
 They are gone ' They have disappear'd amidst the roar 
 Of tho forsaken world ; and never more, 
 WheUier they live, or die with all earth's life, 
 Now near its last, can aught restore 
 Anah unto these eyes. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
 What, will ihou leave us all all all behind ? 
 While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
 Thou sit'st within !hy guarded ark? 
 
 A MOTHER (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 clinging 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 which we are betray'd ! 
 
 JAPBET. 
 
 Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but for prayer ! 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 For prayer ! ! ! 
 And where 
 Shall prayer ascend, 
 WTien the swoln 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 sire ! 
 We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 
 
 But, as we know the worst, 
 
 Whv should our hymns be raised, our knees be bent 
 Betore 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 louring skk, 
 
 They meet the seas, 
 5 nd shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
 
 fly, son of Noah, fly, and take thine ease 
 In thine allotted ocean-tent; 
 \nd view all floating o'er the element, 
 
 The corpses of the world of thy young dtys : 
 Then to Jehovah raise 
 Thy song of praise ! 
 
 A WOMAN. 
 Blessed are the dead 
 Who die in the Lord ! 
 
 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 he 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 noon-day bent, 
 And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
 The little rivulet which freshen'd alj 
 Our pastures green, 
 No more are to be seen. 
 When to the mountain cliff" I climb'd this mom. 
 
 I turn'd to bless the spot, 
 And not a leaf appear'd abo,ut 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 dv ecban , 
 many are overtaken by the waves ; the Choru* 
 of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the 
 Mountains; JAPHET remains upon *oefc, 
 while the Ark floats towards him tn tJte dis- 
 tance.
 
 ( 457 ) 
 
 })rojfflm> of 
 
 'T is the sunset of life gjves me mystical lore, 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 I A r>v ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
 
 Where I was born, but where I would not die, 
 
 Of the great poet-sire of Italy 
 I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
 Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
 
 THOU art the cause ; and, howsoe'er I 
 
 Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
 Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
 Thou, in the pride of beauty and of youth, 
 
 Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
 Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
 
 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 
 ihe summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author 
 that, having composed something on the subject of 
 Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's 
 exile the tomb of the poet forming one of the princi- 
 pal objects of interest in that city, both to the native 
 and to the stranger. 
 
 " On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
 following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
 reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
 purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos 
 to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader 
 is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in 
 the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Corn- 
 media and his death, and shortly before the latter event, 
 foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensu- 
 ing centuries. In adopting this plan, I have had in my 
 mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, 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 Mr. Hayley, 
 of whose translation I never saw but one extract, 
 quoted in the notes of Caliph Vathek ; 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 bor- 
 rowed, and most probably taken in vain. 
 
 Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pres- 
 ent day, it is difficul* for any who have a name, good 
 "r bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune 
 ID see the fourth canto of Childe HaroW irans'atcd 
 2 n2 63 
 
 into Italian versi sciolti that is, a poem written in the 
 Spengerean stanza into blank verse, without regard \n 
 the natural divisions of the stanza, or of the sense. If 
 the present poem, being on a national topic, should 
 chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the 
 Italian reader to remember, that when I have failed in 
 the imitation of his great " Padre Alighier," I have 
 failed in imitating that which all study and few under- 
 stand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what 
 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 de- 
 cided the question. 
 
 He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
 not quite sure that he would be pleased with my suc- 
 cess, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, 
 are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a na- 
 tion their literature j and, in the present bitterness of 
 the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to 
 permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, with- 
 out finding some fault with his ultramontane presump- 
 tion. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what 
 would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of 
 Milton, or if a translation of J'tonti, or Pindemonte, or 
 Arici, should be held up to th rising generation, as a 
 model for their future poetical ssays. But I perceive 
 that I am deviating into an addr ss to the Italian readei, 
 when my business is with the E iglish one, and, be the* 
 few or many, I must take my leave of both. 
 
 PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 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 cries 
 Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
 Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 
 
 Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
 'Midst whom my own bright Beatrce uless'd 
 My spirit with her light ; and to the base 
 
 Of the Eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 
 
 Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
 Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
 
 Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
 
 From star to star to reach the almighty throu 
 Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod
 
 453 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 So long hath p;ess'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, 
 
 ! fad wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
 Relieved her wing till.found ; without thy -ight 
 My paradise had still been incomplete. 2 
 
 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 conflict hath been spent 
 
 In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
 Which 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. 
 
 Hut tho sun, though not overcast, must set, 
 And the night cometh ; I am old in days, 
 And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 
 
 I Jestruction face to face in all his ways. 
 The world hath left me, what it found me pure, 
 And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 
 
 I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
 Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
 May form a monument not all 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 b-eath the wind that blows 
 Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
 With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 
 
 In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
 I would have had my Florence great and free : 3 
 Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 
 
 Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
 Wept over : " but thou wouldst not ;" as the bird 
 Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 
 
 Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
 My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
 Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 
 
 Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
 \nd doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
 Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
 
 \ <j him who for that country would expire, 
 But did not merit to expire by her, 
 And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 
 
 The day may come when she will cease to err, 
 The day may come she would be proud to hare 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, 4 and transfer 
 
 Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
 But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
 L'.e where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 
 
 Me bicath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
 Mo forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
 My indignant bones, because her angry gust 
 
 Forstx>lh is over, and repeal'd her doom. 
 
 No,--Khe deni"* me what was mine my roof^ 
 A.nl liau not have what is not hers my tomb. 
 
 Too long her armed wrath hath k<-pt aloof 
 
 The breast which would huvo b'sd for her, the heart 
 That beat, the mind that wao te:,iptation-projf. 
 
 The man who fought, toil'd, Ira-, ell' J, and each p.M 
 Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
 For his reward the GueiPs ascendant art 
 
 Pass his destruction even into a law. 
 
 These things are not made for forgetfulness 
 Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 
 
 The wound, too deep the wrong, and t'.ie distrw 
 Of such endurance too prolong'd, to make 
 My pardon greater, her injustice less, 
 
 Though late repented ; yet yet for her sake 
 I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 
 My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 
 
 Vengeance upon the land which once was min^, 
 And still is hallowed by thy dust's return, 
 Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, 
 
 And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
 
 Though, like old Marius from Minturnae's marsh 
 And Carthage' ruins, my lone breast may burn 
 
 At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
 And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
 Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch 
 
 My brow with hopes of triumph, let them go ! 
 Such are the last infirmities of those 
 Who long have sufir'd more than mortal woe, 
 
 And yet, being morta still, have no repose 
 But on the pillow of' Revenge Revenge, 
 Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 
 
 With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 
 When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
 Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 
 
 O'er humbled heads and sevsr'd necks Great God 
 Take these thoughts from me to thy hands I yield 
 My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 
 
 Will fall on those who smote me, be my shield ' 
 As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
 In turbulent cities, and the tented field 
 
 In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
 For Florence. I appeal from her to Thee ' 
 Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 
 
 Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
 And 'ive 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 comes back. 
 Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 
 
 The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
 Long day, and dr'eary 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 wrcck'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 7 
 I am not of this people, nor this age, 
 And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
 
 Which shall preserve these times, when not a pago 
 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 : 't is Uie doouj 
 Of spirits cf my order to be rarVil
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 459 
 
 in iifc, to wear iheir 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 things 
 That make communion sweet, and soften pain 
 
 To feel me in the solitude of kings, 
 Without the power that makes them bear a crown 
 To envy every dove his nest and wings 
 
 Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
 On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
 Within my all-inexorable town, 
 
 Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,' 
 
 Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
 Destruction for a dowry this to see 
 
 And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
 A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
 I hi-.ve not vilely found, nor basely sought, 
 
 They made an exile not a slave of me. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 THE spirit of the fervent days of old, 
 
 When words were things that came to pass, and 
 thouglu 
 
 Fiasn'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
 Their children's children's doom already brought 
 
 Forth from the abyss of lime 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 them, and is on me, 
 And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 
 
 Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed, 
 
 This voice from out the wilderness, the sin 
 Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
 
 The only guerdon I have ever known. 
 
 Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 
 Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
 
 With dim sepulchral light, bid me fbrg> I 
 
 In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 
 We can have but one country, and even Tet 
 
 Thou 'rt mine my bones shall be wit in thy breast, 
 
 My soul within thy language, which cace set 
 W ith our old Roman sway in the wide west ; 
 
 But I will make another tongue arise 
 
 As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 
 
 lie here's ardour, or the lover's sighs, 
 
 Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
 
 That every word, as brilliant as thy skTes, 
 Shall realize a poet's proudest dream, 
 
 And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 
 
 So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
 Flip note "f meaner birds, and everv tongue 
 
 coniess us barUa'isin when comuared with thine. 
 
 This shall thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 
 
 Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
 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 ; 
 The elements await but for the word, 
 " Let there be darkness !" and thou grow'st a tomD ! 
 
 Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shall feel 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, would suffice 
 
 For the world's granary ; thou whose sky heaven gild* 
 With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
 Thou, in whose pleasant places summer builds 
 
 Her palace, in whose cradle empire grew, 
 And form'd the eternal city's ornamenls 
 From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 
 
 Birth-place of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 
 Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
 Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paint?, 
 
 And finds her prior vision but portray'd 
 In feeble colours, when Ihe eye from ihe Alp 
 Of horrid show, 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 't were, 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 wilher to each tyrant's will : 
 
 The Goth hath been, the German, Frank, and Hm-, 
 Are yet to come, and on ihe Imperial hill 
 
 Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
 
 By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
 Throned on the Palatine, while, lost and won, 
 
 Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
 Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
 Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 
 
 And deepens into red the saffron 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 minislry : the nations takn their prey, 
 Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 
 
 And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
 Are ; these but gorge tlie flor;h 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 a.iJ 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 liveo, perchance 
 Thou hadst been spared, but his involvod thy iau> 
 
 Oh ! Rome, the spoiler of the spoil of France, 
 fr'rom Brennus to the Bourbon, never nevtr
 
 4CO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Shall foreign sUndard to thy walls advance, 
 But Tiber shall bocome a mournful river. 
 
 Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
 
 Crush them, ye rocks ! floods, whelm them, and for 
 
 ever! 
 Why slee\> the idle avalanches 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 
 Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway 
 
 Roll'd o'er Pharaoh and his thousands, why, 
 
 Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 
 And yov, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
 
 Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
 
 Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 
 The dead whose tomb oblivion never knew, 
 
 Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
 
 Their passes more alluring to the view 
 Of an invader? is it they, or ye 
 
 That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
 
 And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 
 Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
 
 And makes your land impregnable, if aarth 
 
 Could be so : but alone she will not war, 
 Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth, 
 
 In a soil where the mothers bring forth men ! 
 
 Not so with those whose souls are 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 those 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. 
 On ' my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
 
 So long tne 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 thee, 
 
 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 HI. 
 
 F ROM out the mass of never-dying ill, 
 The plague, the prince, the, stranger, and the sword, 
 Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 
 
 And flow again, I cannot all record 
 That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
 And ocean written o'er would not afford 
 
 Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
 
 Yes, all. though not by human pen, is graven, 
 There wnere the farthest suns an-1 stars have birth. 
 
 Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
 The blnody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
 Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 
 
 Airwart the sound of archangelic songs, 
 
 And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 
 
 Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
 Omnipotence and mercy evermore ; 
 
 Like to a harp-string stricken by the wind. 
 
 The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
 The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
 
 Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
 
 Earth's dust by immortality refined 
 To sense and suffering, though the vain may scofl 
 
 And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
 
 Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
 To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
 
 I lovfid and love, devote the mournful lyre 
 
 And melancholy gift high powers allow 
 To read the future ; and if now rny fire 
 
 Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ' 
 
 I but foretell thy fortunes then expire ; 
 Think not that I would look on them and live. 
 
 A spirit forces me to see and speak, 
 
 And for my guerdon grants 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 nigh. 
 
 And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
 Leans sculptured beauty, which death cannot bHgni : 
 
 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, 7 
 
 Discoverers of new worlds, .vhich 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 7 
 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 
 By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
 
 Yet through this cenluried eclipse of woe 
 
 Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen , 
 Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
 
 And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
 
 Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow 
 And raise their notes as natural and high ; 
 
 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 facs with eagle's gaze 
 
 All free and fearless as the feathered king, 
 But fly more nar the earth : how many a phrase 
 
 Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prmcu 
 
 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 dutv.
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 \ 
 
 He who once enters in u tyrant's hall 9 
 
 As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 
 
 A.nd the first day which sees the chain enthral 
 A captive sees his half of manhood gone 10 
 The souPs 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 the 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 sonnetteers 
 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 further 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 arc 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 caught, 
 Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
 And art itself seem into nature wrought 
 
 By the transparency of his bright dream. 
 The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
 Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
 
 He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
 Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 
 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 doomt me but death or banishment, 
 
 Yrrara him a pi"*nce and a cell, 
 Harder to be- and less deserved, for I 
 Had ctun^ tl factions which I strove to quell ; 
 
 But thif n^e't ^tn, who with a lover's eye 
 Will '.jo* >"A t rth and heaven, and who will deign 
 1o e>.iP-d>j H.ih 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 'U love, and is not love in rain 
 
 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 on* 
 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 stuff, 
 
 These birds of paradise but long to flee 
 Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
 Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 
 
 And die, or are degraded, for the mind 
 Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
 And vulture passions, flying close behind, 
 
 Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
 
 And when at length the winged wanderers stoop. 
 Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share 
 
 The spoil, o'crpower'd ai length by one fell swoop. 
 Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to boai , 
 Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 
 
 Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
 And task most hopeless ; but some such have been. 
 And if my name amongst the number were, 
 
 That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
 
 Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest ; 
 The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 
 
 Than 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. 
 
 MANY are poets who have never penn'd 
 Their inspiration, and perchance the best . 
 They felt, and loved, and died, but would ov iwi 
 
 Their thoughts to meaner beings; tley compress' 
 The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
 Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 
 
 Than those who arc degraded by the jars 
 Of passion, and their frailties link'd to lame. 
 Conquerors of high renown, but full of scats 
 
 Many are poets, but without the name ; 
 For what is poesy but to create
 
 462 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 From overfeeli.ig good or ill ; and aim 
 At an exten i 1 life beyond our fate, 
 
 And be tl e new Prometheus of new men, 
 
 Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 
 Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
 
 Ana vultures to the heart of the bestower. 
 
 Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 
 Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ! 
 
 So be it ; we can bear. But thus all they, 
 
 Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power, 
 Whicn still recoils from its encumbering clay, 
 
 Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
 
 The form which their creations may essay, 
 Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
 
 More poesy upon its speaking brow 
 
 Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 
 One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 
 
 Or deify the canvas till it shine 
 
 With beauty so surpassing all below, 
 That theyAvho kneel to idols so divine 
 
 Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
 
 Transfused, transfiguraled : and the line 
 Of poesy which peoples but the air 
 
 With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
 
 C an do no more : then let the artist share 
 The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
 
 Faints o'er the labour unapproved Alas ! 
 
 Despair and genius are too oft connected. 
 Within the ages which before me pass, 
 
 Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
 
 Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
 She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
 
 Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive 
 
 The 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, give 
 New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
 
 The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
 
 A dome, 12 its image, while the base expands 
 Into a fane surpassing all before, 
 
 Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : nt 'or 
 
 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, 11 at whose word 
 
 Israel lei't Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
 
 Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 
 O/er the damn'd before the Judgment throne, 1 * 
 
 Such as I saw them, such as a!! shall see, 
 
 Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 
 The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me, 1 * 
 
 The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
 
 Which form the empire of eternity. 
 Imidst 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 c-dar towering o'er the wilderness, 
 Ijtnely ui all its branches to all eyes, 
 
 Fra^ r ant as fair, and recognised afar, 
 
 Wafting its native incense through the skies. 
 
 Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war, 
 Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
 On canvas 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 pontiffs proud, 16 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 : 
 
 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 ?.nd inspirest ! how 
 Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 
 
 Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
 Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
 Tread on the universal necks that bow, 
 
 And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
 And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
 Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 
 
 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 roolj 
 
 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 ihou boldest dear, 
 
 Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even thai, 
 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 things 
 Which make men hate themselves and one anolhct 
 In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 
 
 From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his mother, 
 In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
 The faction chief is but the sultan's brother, 
 
 And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit which so long 
 Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, 
 
 To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 
 An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 
 Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
 
 Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for 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 shall ne'er obtain. Alas ! 
 "What have I done to thee, my people ?"'* Stem 
 
 Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
 The. limits of man's common malice, for
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 402 
 
 AH hat 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 man/ a tear, 
 Aj) i make them own the prophet in his tomb. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 457, line 11. 
 'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd. 
 The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronun- 
 c'ation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 
 
 Note 2. Page 458, line 9. 
 My paradise had still been incomplete. 
 ' Che sol per le belle opre 
 Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' altre stclle 
 Dontro di lui' si erede il Paradise, 
 Ccsi ee Kuardi fiso 
 
 Pensar ben del ch'ogni terren" piacerc." 
 Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Bea- 
 trice, strophe third. 
 
 Note 3. Page 458, line 41. 
 I would have had my Florence great and free. 
 "L" esilioche m' e dato onor mi tegno. 
 
 "Cader tra' buoni e pur di lode degno." 
 
 Sonnet of Dante, 
 
 in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Tem- 
 perance, as banished from among rm.i, and seeking 
 refuge from Love, who inhabits his boson* 
 
 Note 4. Page 458, line 57. 
 The dust she dooms to scatter. 
 
 " Ut si quis pra?dictorum ul'.o tempore in fortiam 
 dicti communis pervenerit, tails perveniens igne com- 
 buratur, sic quod morialur." 
 
 Second sentence of Florence against Dante and the 
 fourteen accused with him. The Latin is worthy of 
 the sentence. 
 
 Note 5. Page 459, line 22. 
 Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 
 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 Ghibel- 
 lines. She is described as being " Admodum morosa, 
 ut de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge saiptum 
 esse legimus," according to Giannozzo Manetti. But 
 Lionardo Aretino is scandalized with Boccace, in his 
 life of Dante, for saying that literary men should not 
 marry. " Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le 
 mogli esser contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che 
 Socrate il piu nobile filosofo chc mai fosse, ebbe moglie 
 e figliuoli e ufficj della Repubblica nella sua Citth ; e 
 Aristotele che, etc., etc. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, 
 ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai. E Marco Tullio 
 e Cafme c Van-one e Seneca ebbero moghe," etc., 
 etc. L , odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with 
 the exceotio" of Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of 
 
 Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terent'a. 
 and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed t 
 their husbands' happiness, whatever they might Ho 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 sev 
 eral years afterwards. But, says Lionardo, " L'uomr 
 6 animale civile, secondo place a tutti i filosofi." Ana 
 thence concludes that the greatest proof of the animal 1 
 civism is " la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multipli- 
 cata nasce la Citta." 
 
 Note 6. Page 459, line 11 9. 
 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 
 ' See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guic- 
 ciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buona- 
 parte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trovo pre- 
 sente. 
 
 Note 7. Page 460, line 93. . 
 Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave. 
 Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of 
 Savoy, Montecucco. 
 
 Note 8. Page 460, line 94. 
 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 
 
 Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Caboi. 
 
 Note 9. Page 461, line 1. 
 
 He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, etc. 
 
 A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pom 
 
 pey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in 
 
 which he was slain. 
 
 Note 10. Page 461, line 4. 
 
 And the first day which sees the chain enthral, etc. 
 
 The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 
 
 Note 11. Page 46!, line 21. 
 And he their prince shall rank among my peers. 
 Pstrarch. 
 
 Note 12. Page 462, line 40. 
 
 A dome, its image. 
 The cupola of St. Peter's. 
 
 Note 13. Page 462, line 50. 
 
 Hi* chisel hid the Hebrew. 
 The statue of Moses on the monument 01" Julius II, 
 
 SONETO. 
 Di Giovanni Battista. Zappi. 
 
 Chi e eostui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
 Siede gigante; e lepiu illustri.e conte 
 Prove dell" arte avanza. e ha vive, e (.route 
 Le lubbia si, che le parole ascolto 1 
 
 Quest, e Mose : ben me *) dicera il folto 
 Onor del mento, e 'I doppio raggio in fronte. 
 Quest' e Moso, quando scendea del monte 
 E gran parte del Nume avea nel vol,o, 
 
 Tal era allor che le sonanti. e vaste 
 Acque ei sospesc a se d'intorno, e tale 
 Quando il mar chiusc , e ne fc tomba altrui 
 
 E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate '.' 
 Alzata avcste imago a queste ecuale! 
 Ch' era men fallo )' adorar eostui. 
 
 Note 14. Page 462. line 53. 
 Over the damn'd before ihe Judgment throne 
 The Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel. 
 
 Note 15. Pa^e i62, line 56. 
 The stream of his great thoughts elmll spring from mn 
 1 have read somewhere (if . do not err, fur 1 caim.n 
 recollect where) that Dante was so great a favourite o
 
 4G4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Michel Angvolo's, that he had designed the whole of 
 live Diviia Commedia ; but that the volume containing 
 these studies was lost by sea. 
 
 Note 16. Page 462, line 76. 
 Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ, etc. 
 See the treatment of Michel Angiolo by Julius II., 
 and his neglect by Leo X. 
 
 Note 17. Pago 462, line 130. 
 "What have I done to thee, my people?" 
 " E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolari cit 
 tadini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra r 
 altre una epistola assai lunga che comiucia : ' Populi 
 mi, quid fed tibi T " 
 
 Vita Ji Dante scrilta da Leonardo Aretina. 
 
 Ctic Eslautr; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE foundation of the following story will be found 
 partly in the account of the Mutiny of the Bounty, in 
 the South Sea, in 1789, and partly in Mariner's "Ac- 
 count of the Tonga Islands." 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE morning watch was come : the vessel lay 
 Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
 The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
 In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
 The waters with their world were all before ; 
 Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
 The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
 Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
 The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
 Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
 The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
 And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
 The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white, 
 And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight ; 
 The purpling ocean owns the coming sun 
 ilut, ere he break, a deed is to be done. 
 
 II. 
 
 The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
 Secure in those by whoir. the watch was kept: 
 His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
 Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'a , 
 II's name was added to the glorious roll 
 Ofti.'ose who search the storm-surrounded pole. 
 The worst was o'r, and the rest seem'd sure, 
 And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
 Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
 And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
 Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
 Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
 Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
 Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
 Ann, helf-uiiciviiized, preferr'd the cave 
 ' K nnmf soft savage to the uncertain wave ; 
 
 The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 
 
 The wood without a path but where they will'd j 
 
 The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd 
 
 Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 
 
 The wish which age's have not yet subdued 
 
 In man to have no master save his mood ; 
 
 The 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 yeara'd 
 
 To see again a sight they dearly earn'd. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 
 
 Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 
 
 Fiercely beside t!iy 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 blacl t, 
 
 Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, 
 
 The lerell'd muskets circle round thy breast 
 
 In hands as stcel'd to do the deadly rest. 
 
 Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming ' F'-re I 
 
 But they who pitied not could yet admiru
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
 Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 
 They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
 But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 
 
 V. 
 
 'Hoist out the boat!" 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, canvas, 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 (bund it here, 
 
 And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 
 
 u Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry ; 
 
 How strange such shouts from sons of mutiny ! 
 
 The gentle island, and the genial soil, 
 
 The friendly hearts, the feast 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 over yielding clay 
 
 Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 
 
 Heard through gain's silence, and o'er glory's din : 
 
 Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of GOD ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 scofT'd 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, 
 !'! sta-born sailor of his shell canoe, 
 Tnt >cean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
 Seems far less fragile, and, alas! more free! 
 2 S 14 
 
 He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 
 The surge, is safe his port is in the deep 
 And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
 Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
 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 nouth, 
 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 hopeless prow beneath, 
 Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death !" 
 Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all: 
 In that last moment could a word recall 
 Remorse for the black deed, as yet half-done, 
 And, what he hid from many, show'd to one : 
 When Bligh, in stern reproach, demanded where 
 Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
 Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
 And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
 His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
 " 'T is that ! 't is 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
 
 The -breeze now sunk, now whisper'd from his cave 
 
 As on the .iEolian harp, his fitful wings 
 
 Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 
 
 With slow despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 
 
 Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 
 
 Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
 
 That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
 
 But 't is 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 wring no more ; 
 
 The varying frowns and favours of the deep, 
 
 That now almost engulfs, then loaves 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 cloiuls thai hurst 
 
 Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
 
 In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 
 
 And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 
 
 A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs ; 
 
 The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
 
 More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
 
 The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at , 
 
 To tell as tru<8 a tale of dangers past.
 
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 46? 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS, 
 
 An tumbler state and discipline of heart 
 Had formed his glorious namesake's counterpart : * 
 But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
 How small their theatre without a throne ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou smilest, these comparisons seem high 
 To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 
 Link'ii with the unknown name of one whose doom 
 Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 
 With Chili, Helias, or with Araby. 
 Thou smilest ! smile ; 't is better thus than sigh ; 
 Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 
 A soaring spirit ever in the van, 
 A patriot hero or despotic chief, 
 To form a nation's glory or its grief, 
 Born undei auspices which make us more 
 Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
 But these are visions ; say, what was he here? 
 A blooming boy, a truant mutineer, 
 The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 
 The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 
 
 X. 
 
 By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, 
 Neuha, the sun-flower of the Island daughters, 
 High-born (a birth at which the herald smiles, 
 Without a 'scutcheon for these secret isles) 
 Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 
 The naked knights of savage chivalry, 
 Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore, 
 And thine, I 've seen, Achilles ! do no more. 
 She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came 
 In vast canoes, begirt with bolts qf flame, 
 Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 
 Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm ; 
 But, when the winds awaken'd shot forth wings 
 Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
 And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 
 Making the very billows look less free ; 
 She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 
 Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow, 
 Swift gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 
 Light as a Nereid in her ocean-sledge, 
 And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk 
 Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk : 
 The anchor dropp'J, it lay along the deep, 
 Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 
 While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 
 Like summer-bees that hum around his mane. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The white man landed ; need the rest be told? 
 The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the old ; 
 Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
 Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
 Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
 And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 
 
 Their union grew : the children of the storm 
 
 Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
 
 While these in tur.i admired the paler glow, 
 
 Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no in* ', 
 
 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 r"se 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 frai'. ; 
 
 The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, yieu 
 
 The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 
 
 And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
 
 Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
 
 And flings off" famine from its fertile breast, 
 
 A priceless market for the gathering guest ; 
 
 These, with the luxuries of seas and woods, 
 
 The airy joys of social solitudes, 
 
 Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
 
 Of those who were more happy if less wise, 
 
 Did more than Europe's dicipline had done, 
 
 And civilized civilization's son ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 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 Highlands' 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 't was not all long ages' lore, nor all 
 
 Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall ; 
 
 The infant rapture still survived the boy, 
 
 And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Trey, 1 
 
 Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
 
 And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 The Consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which 
 Icceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal: thereby accom- 
 uiishing an achievement almost unrivalled in military annals. 
 Flip first intelligence of his return, to Hannibal, was the sight 
 f AsdrubaPs head thrown into his camp. When Hannibal 
 taw this, he exclaimed, with a sigh, that " Rome would now 
 be the mistress of the world." And yetto this victory of Nero's 
 it might be owing that hie imperial namesake reigned at all! 
 Hut trie i.ifamy of one has eclipsed the glory of the other. 
 Wli.'ii the name of " Nero " is Heard, who thinks of the Con- 
 mi 1 Uut tutu are human thine* 
 
 1 When very young, about eight years ofage, after an attack 
 of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen. I was removed by medical 
 advice into the Highlands. Here I passed occasionally suma 
 summers, and from this period 1 date my love of mountainous 
 countries. I can never forget the effect a few years afterwards 
 in England, of the only thing I had long seen, even in min- 
 iature, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned 
 to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon at sun- 
 set, with a sensation which I cannot describe. I his wis boyish 
 enough: but I wan then only thirteen *enr of ago and it wu 
 in the holidays
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 409 
 
 xm. 
 
 The love, which m^ ."h all things fond and fair, 
 The youth, which mak,. 'sie rainbow of the air, 
 The dangers past, that mix. sven man enjoy 
 The pause in which he ceases .o destroy, 
 T'IC mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
 Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
 United the half savage and the whole, 
 The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
 No more the thundering memory of the fight 
 Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its Bark delight ; 
 No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
 Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest, 
 Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
 Darts for a victim over 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 fot aught save blood they burn ; 
 Yet, when their ashes in their nook are laid, 
 Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
 Had Cffisar 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 chains. 
 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,- 
 Still arc we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 
 And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
 When but a word of freedom would dispel 
 These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
 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 flame ; no babbling crowd 
 Of coxcombry in admiration load, 
 Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
 Her duty, and her glory, and her joy ; 
 With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
 She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
 Changing its hues with bright variety, 
 But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
 Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move, 
 The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
 They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
 Nor long the hours they never paused o'er time, 
 (Tnnroken 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 (Me, 
 Li'ce her smooth billow, saw their moments glide ; 
 Their clock the sun in his unbounded tower ; 
 They reckon'd not, whcse day was but an hour; 
 
 The nightingale, then 1 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 with red forehead down along the wave, 
 As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
 Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
 And then, for light, into each other's eyes, . 
 Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
 And asking if indeed the day were done 7 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And let not this seem strange ; the devotee 
 
 Lives not in earth, but hi his ecstasy ; 
 
 Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 
 
 His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
 
 Is love less potent ? No his path is trod, 
 
 Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 
 
 Or link'd to all we know of heaven below, 
 
 The other better self, whose joy or 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 of htrs to our intelligence ! 
 
 Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the wave* 
 
 Without a spirit ? Are the 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 thinks 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
 Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
 Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
 Echo'd their dim light to the mustering stars. 
 Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
 Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
 Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
 Lovely as love the spirit ! when serene. 
 The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell 
 Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 
 
 1 The now well-known story of the loves of the nightingale 
 and rose, need not be more than alluded to, being sufficiently 
 familiar to the Western as to the Eastern reader. 
 
 2 If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on hit 
 chimney-piece, he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the 
 text should appear obscure, he will find in ' Gebir " the name 
 idea better expressed in two lines. The poem I never rerd, 
 but have heard the lines quoted by a more recondite readm- 
 who seems to be of a different opinion from -he Editor of the 
 Quarterly Review, who qualified it, in his answer to the 
 Critical Reviewer of his Journal, as hcsh of the worst and 
 most insane description. It is to Mr. Landor, the authoi 
 of Gebir, so qualified, and of some Latin poem?, which VM 
 with Martial or Catullus in obscenity, that the immaculti* 
 Mr. Southey addresses his declamation against impurity (
 
 470 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 As,, far divided from his parent deep, 
 The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
 Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
 For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
 The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
 The tropic-bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest. 
 And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
 Of peace, where piety her thirst might slake. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 
 
 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 echo 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 startled through a sea-bird's bill ; 
 
 And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 
 
 Torquil ! my boy! what cheer? Ho, brother, ho !" 
 
 "Who hails?" cried Torquil^ following with his eye 
 
 The sound. " Here 's one !" was all the brief reply. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
 
 Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
 
 No*, like a " bed of violets " on the gale, 
 
 But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 
 
 Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 
 
 Its gentle odours over either zone, 
 
 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 .iEolus a constant sacrifice, 
 
 Through every change of all the varying skies. 
 
 And what was he who bore it ? I may err, 
 
 But deem him sailor or philosopher. ' 
 
 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, yellow, rich, ard ripe ; 
 
 Like other charmers, wooing the caress 
 
 More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
 
 Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
 
 Thy naked beauties J3 ive me a cigar ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
 A human figure broke the solitude, 
 Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
 A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
 5*i.ch as appears to rise from out the deep, 
 When o'er the Line the merry vessels sweep, 
 
 1 Huhlics, the father ot Locke's and other philosophy, wai 
 ) inveterate smukT even to pipes beyond computation. 
 
 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 a 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 d:m. 
 His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
 Like his dear vessel, spoke his formei state ; 
 But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
 Not over tightly bound, or 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 his shoulders, broad 
 And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode, 
 But brawny as the boar's ; and, hung beneath, 
 His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
 Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
 Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial 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 
 Siirvey'd him in his garb heieroclite. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "What cheer, Ben Bunting ?" cried (when in full viev* 
 
 Our new acquaintance) Torquil ; " Aught of new V" 
 
 " 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 canvas on the sea." 
 
 " Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay 
 
 But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 
 
 I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 
 
 Was light and baffling." " When the sun declined 
 
 Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" " No, but stiil 
 
 She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 
 
 " Her flag ?" " I had no glass ; but, fore and ait 
 
 Egad, she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
 
 " Arm'd ?" " I expect so sent on the look-out ; - 
 
 'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 
 
 " About? Whate'er may have us now in chase, 
 
 We '11 make no running fight, for that were base ; 
 
 We will die at our quarters, like true men." 
 
 " Ey, ey ; for that, 't is all the same to Ben." 
 
 " Does Christian know this ?" "Ay ; he 's piped L) 
 
 hands 
 
 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 fair; 
 And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
 To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
 
 1 This rough but joviai ceremony, used in crossing th 
 Line, has been BO often and so well described that it ne<* no 
 be more than alluded to.
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 471 
 
 My Neuha ! 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 lear ; I'm thine, whatever intervenes!" 
 
 H Right," quoth Ben, "that will do for the marines." 1 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE fignt was o'er : the flashing through the gloom, 
 
 Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
 
 Had ceased ; and sulphury vapours upwards driven 
 
 Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 
 
 The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
 
 Had left the valleys 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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 
 
 W ith 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 that 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 I heir vice : 
 
 Their be'.ter 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 
 
 3f Hercules, against the sulphury charm, 
 
 1 "T'"it will do for the marines, hut the sailors won't be- 
 (p.vc it.." is an old saying, and one of the lew fragment* of 
 ormer joalousirs which sllll survive (in jest only) between 
 ese gallant services. 
 
 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 one Th^rnaopyke, 
 Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
 Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 
 
 III. 
 
 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 cleft to crag with saltless spray ; 
 
 Close on the wild wide ocean, yet as pure 
 
 And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 
 
 Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep, 
 
 As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
 
 While far below the vast and sullen swell 
 
 Of ocean's Alpine azure rose and fell. 
 
 To this young spring they rushM, -all feelings first 
 
 Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, 
 
 Drank as they do who drink their last, and tnrew 
 
 Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 
 
 Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory stai*> 
 
 From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
 
 Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd saiS^ 
 
 round, 
 
 As wondering how so many still were found 
 Alive and fetterless : but silent all, 
 Each 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
 Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
 The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue, once spread 
 Along his cheek, was livid now as lead ; 
 His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow, 
 Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
 Still as a statue, with his lips compress'd 
 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 decpen'd now and then the sandy dint 
 Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flinU 
 Some paces further, Torquil lean'd his head 
 Against a bank, ana spoke not, but he bled, 
 Not mortally his worst wound was within : 
 His brr.w was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
 And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair 
 Show'd that his faintness came not from despi.1, 
 But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
 Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, 
 
 1 Architlamus, King of Sparta, and son of Agosilaus. wn*n 
 ho saw a machine invented for the casting of stones and dari 
 exclaimed that it was "the grave of valour." The same t<xt 
 has been told of some knighU. on the first application of fin 
 powder; but the original anecdote U in P'utarca
 
 472 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ben Bunting, who essay' d to wash, and wipe, 
 And hind his wound then calmly lit his pipe 
 A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
 A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 
 The fourth and last of this deserted group 
 Walk'd up and down at times would stand, then stoop 
 To pick a pebble up then let it drop 
 Then nurrv as in haste then quickly stop- 
 Then cast his eyes on his companions then 
 Half whistle half a tune, and pause again 
 And then his former movements would redouble, 
 With something between carelessness and trouble. 
 This is a long description, but applies 
 To scarce five minutes past before the eyes ; 
 But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
 Rend men's lives into immortalities. 
 
 V. 
 
 At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 
 
 Who flutter'd over all things like a fan, 
 
 More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
 
 And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
 
 Exclaim'd " God damn !" Those syllables intense, 
 
 Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
 
 As the Turk's "Allah!" or the Roman's more 
 
 Pagar ' 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And thee, too, thee my madness must destroy." 
 
 He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 
 
 Vet dabbled with his lately-flowing blood ; 
 
 Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
 
 And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
 
 Inquired into his state, and, when he heard 
 
 The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 
 
 A moment's brightness 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 ! 
 
 Foi mo, my lot is what sought ; to be, 
 
 . p lifu or dfuth, he fearless and the free." 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 SQen now hid where ocean's vale was hollow V 
 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 louring sky. 
 Their art seem'd nature such the skill to sweep 
 The wave, of these born playmates of the deep. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
 Leap'd like a Nereid from her shell to land, 
 With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
 Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
 Neuha, the fond, the faithful, the adored, 
 Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
 And smiled, and wept, and near and nearer clasp'd, 
 As if to be assured 't was 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 despa-'. 
 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 thn 
 And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
 Of nature's child and nature's ecstacy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
 
 Were not unmoved ; who are when hearts are gf *{%1 
 
 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 den 
 
 A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
 
 And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
 
 As heedless of his further destinies. 
 
 X. 
 
 But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
 
 The billows round the promontory brought 
 
 The plash of hostile oars Alas ! who made 
 
 That sound a dread ? All round 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, 
 
 Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
 
 Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their light canoes,
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 A7S 
 
 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 baffle 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
 A black rock rears its bosom o'er (he spray, 
 The haunt of birds, a desert 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 fishes 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 ; 
 Tlie 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 stem 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 Eie the canoes divided, near the spot, 
 Th s 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 
 Bhe pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 
 65 
 
 And bade him " speed ant. prosper." She would tain 
 
 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 steer'd 
 
 Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 
 
 They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 
 
 And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 
 
 And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 
 
 The prow now almost lay within its length 
 
 Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 
 
 With 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, 
 
 Which said " Has Neuha brought me here to die ' 
 
 Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 
 
 And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ?" 
 
 IV. 
 
 They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
 
 Neuha, and, pointing to the approaching foes, 
 
 Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow !" 
 
 Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
 
 There was no time to pause the foes were near 
 
 Chains in his eye and menace in his ear : 
 
 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 ; 
 
 But how or where ? He dived, and rose n< more ; 
 
 The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea a id shore 
 
 There was no landing on that precipice, 
 
 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 roll'd on, no ripple en its face, 
 
 Since their first plunge, recall'd a single trace ; 
 
 The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 
 
 That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 
 
 White as a sepulchre above the pair, 
 
 Who left no marble (mournfu! as an heir), 
 
 The quiet proa, wavering o'er the tide, 
 
 Was 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. 
 
 They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd awj 
 
 Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
 
 Some said he had not plunged into the wave, 
 
 But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave , 
 
 Others, that something supernatural 
 
 Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall : 
 
 While all agreed, that in his cheek and eye 
 
 There was the dead hue of eternity. 
 
 Still as their oars receded from the crag, 
 
 Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
 
 Expectant of some token of their prey ; 
 
 But no he 'd melted from them like the spray. 
 
 V. 
 
 And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep. 
 Following the Nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
 For ever ? or, received in coral caves, 
 Wrung life and pity from the softening waves * 
 Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell. 
 And sound with mermen the fantastic shell 1
 
 474 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair, 
 Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
 Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
 Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly ieap'd ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
 
 Follow'd : her track beneath her native sea 
 
 Was as a native's of the element, 
 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 
 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
 
 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 art and ease. 
 
 Deep deeper for an instant Neuha led 
 
 The way then upward soar'd and, as she spread 
 
 Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 
 
 Laugh'd, and the sound was answer' 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, 1 
 
 (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 'lim to where the rock appear'd to jut 
 
 And firm a something like a Triton's hut, 
 
 For al 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
 
 A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
 
 A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 
 Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
 
 This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 
 Of the same plantain leaf, a flint she took, 
 
 A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
 
 Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
 
 The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 
 
 And sliow'd a self-born Gothic canopy; 
 
 Th<; 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 harilen'd from some earth-absorbing fire, 
 
 While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre ; 
 
 The fretted pinnacle, thf aisle, the nave, 2 
 
 Wore there, all scoop'd by darkness from her cave. 
 
 1 Uf this Crtve (which is no fiction) the original will be found, 
 kn inn !)th chapter of Mariner's .account of the Tonga Islands. 
 \ have taken the poetical lilwrty to transplant it to Toobonai, 
 i he last island where any distinct account is left of Christian 
 anil his comrades. 
 
 2 This may seem too minute for the general outline (in 
 Mariner's Account) from which it is taken. But Tew men have 
 travelled without seeing something of the kind on land, tlint 
 I* U itlwiut adverting to Elora, in Mungo Park's last 'ournal 
 
 There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
 Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high. 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
 The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
 Thus Nature play'd with the. stalactites, 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
 And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
 And led him into each recess, and show'd 
 The secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared ; 
 The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
 And sandal-oil to fence against the dew; 
 For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
 Born of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
 With its broad leaf, or turtie-shell which bore 
 A banquet in (he flesh if cover'd o'er; 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
 A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
 And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene 
 And make their subterranean world serene. 
 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 
 With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower. 
 And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
 Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast ; 
 And, suited to her soft caresses, told 
 An elden tale of love, for love is old, 
 Old as eternity, but not outworn 
 With each new being born or to be bom : ' 
 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 offspring of a foe, 
 Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe ; 
 How, when the storm of war was still, he led 
 His island clan to where the waters spread 
 Their deep green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
 Then dived it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
 His wondering mates, amazed within their bark 
 Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 
 
 (if my memory do not err, for there are eight years since I reii 
 the book) ho mentions having met with a rock or mountain 
 so exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only minute 
 inspection could convince him that it was a work of nature. 
 1 The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek Anthol 
 ogy, or its translation in'> most of the modern Ipiguages 
 
 " Whoe'er thon rt, thy master vtw 
 
 He was, or is. or is to be."
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 47/> 
 
 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 r se 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, through twenty years of death, 
 
 When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
 
 Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and press'd 
 
 The kindling ashes to his kindled breast. ' 
 
 The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 
 
 As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
 
 Within, their hearts made all their harmony, 
 
 Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 
 
 X. 
 
 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 bear, 
 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 battled of their previous prey. 
 They gaiu'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
 In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
 No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 
 For the first further rock which met their sight 
 They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 
 And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
 Disrniss'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? 
 
 XI. 
 
 fhey 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 Thermopylae with holy blood. 
 But, ah ! how different ! 't is 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 hence; 
 Vo grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
 Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
 No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 
 No heroes envy them their monument; 
 
 1 1 lie tradition is attached to the gtorjr of Eloisa. that when 
 nrr body w:is lowered inio the prnve of Abelarii (who had 
 l/een burie-l twenty years, 1 he opened his arm* ;o receive her. 
 
 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, 
 Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
 Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
 Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the ere* 
 
 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 rocks rebound, 
 
 Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
 
 Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the vo'leying flame 
 
 And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 
 
 While the rocks rattled with the bullets' knell, 
 
 Which peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell ; 
 
 Then flew the only answer to be given 
 
 By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 
 
 After the first fierce peal, as they pull T d nigher, 
 
 They heard the voice of Christian shout, " Now fire ! ' 
 
 And, ere the word upon the echo died, 
 
 Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 
 
 And, furious at the madness of their foes, 
 
 Disdain'd all further efforts, save to close. 
 
 But steep the crag, and all without a path, 
 
 Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 
 
 While placed 'midst clefts the least accessible, 
 
 Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 
 
 The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 
 
 In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 
 
 Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 
 
 Dash'd on the shingles like the limpid shell ; 
 
 But still enough survived, and mounted stili, 
 
 Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
 
 Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
 
 Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 
 
 The desperate trio held aloof their fate 
 
 But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bail, 
 
 Yet to the very last they battled well, 
 
 And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 
 
 Christian died last twice wounded ; and once moir 
 
 Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 
 
 Too late for life, but not too late to die, 
 
 With though a hostile hand to close his eye. 
 
 A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
 
 The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
 
 The sound revived him, or appear'd to wane 
 
 Some passion which a weakly gesture span,- f 
 
 He beckon'd to the foremost who drew nigh, 
 
 But, as they near'd. he rear'd his weapon hioi-
 
 47-5 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 His las.', o.ift had been aim'd, but from his breast 
 
 He aorf tie topmost button of his vest,' 
 
 Down 1'ie 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 j 
 
 Oast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and shook 
 
 EIi.i 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 mispent, 
 
 And soul but who shall answer where it went ? 
 
 'T is ours to bear, not jtidge the dead ; and they 
 
 Who doom to heil, themselves are on the way, 
 
 Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
 
 Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Hut the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
 
 Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 
 
 While o'er them fiapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing, 
 
 Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, 
 
 Anil screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 
 
 But ca.m and careless heaved the wave below, 
 
 Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
 
 Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on, 
 
 And sprung the flying-fish against the sun, 
 
 Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
 
 To gather moisture for another flight. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'T was 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 filled, and to the growing gale 
 Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
 Wi'.'n 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. 
 
 1 In '/'Aibaitlt's Account of Frederick If. of Prussia, there 
 Is a singular relation of a young Frenchman, who, with his 
 mistress, appeared to be of some rank. He enlisted, and de- 
 mrted at Scweidnitz ; and, after a desperate resistance, was 
 i ctakcn, having killed an officer, who attempted to seize him 
 after he was wounded, by the discharge of his musket loaded 
 with a button of his uniform. Some circumstances on his 
 eo nt-martiai raised a great interest amongst his judges, who 
 wished to discover his real situation in life, which he offered 
 fo disclose, but tc the King only, to whom he requested per- 
 mission to write. This was refused, and Frederick was filled 
 with the greatest indignation, from baffled curiosity, or some 
 ttlier inotivp, when he understood that his request had been de- 
 ic<; -*) Thibault's work, vol. ii. (I quote from memory). 
 
 She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. 
 To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
 On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
 Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck 
 Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
 Down plunged she through the 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 the shore , 
 Cut when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
 Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 
 Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
 Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 ! 
 A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 
 With sounding bells, and heralded their way ; 
 The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 
 And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 
 The women throhg'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 eam'd ; 
 A night succeeded by such happy days 
 As only the yet infant world displays. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE 
 BY CAPTAIN BLIGH. 
 
 ON the 27th of December, it blew a severe storm *l" 
 wind from the eastward, in the course of which we suf 
 fered greatly. One sea broke away the spare yards 
 and spars out of the starboard main-chains ; another 
 broke into the ship, and stove all the boats. Several 
 casks of beer that had been lashed on deck, broke loose, 
 and were washed overboard ; and it was not without 
 great risk and difficulty that we were able to secure the 
 boats from being washed away entirely. A great quan- 
 tity of our bread was also damaged, and rendered use- 
 less, for the sea had stove in our stern, and filled tho 
 cabin with water. 
 
 On the 5th of January, 1788, we saw the island of 
 TenerifFe about twelve leagues distant, and next day, 
 being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road of Santa 
 Cruz. There we took in the necessary supplies, and, 
 having finished our business, sailed on the 10th. 
 
 I now divided the people into three watches, and gave 
 j the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcner Christian
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 471 
 
 *ne of the mates, I have always considered this a de- 
 sirable regulation wnen circumstances will admit of 
 it, and I am persuaded that unbroken rest not only con- 
 tributes much towards the health of the ship's company, 
 out enables them more readily to exert themselves in 
 cases of sudden emergency. 
 
 As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stopping, 
 I reduced the allowance of bread to two-thirds, and 
 caused the water for drinking to be filtered through 
 drip-stones, bought at TeneriflTe for that purpose. I 
 now acquainted the ship's company of the object of the 
 troyage, and gave assurances of certain promotion to 
 every one whose endeavours should merit it. 
 
 On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
 latitude 29 38', and 44 44' west longitude, we bent 
 new sails, and made other necessary preparations for 
 encountering the weather that was to be expected in a 
 nigh latitude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil 
 was about 100 leagues. 
 
 On the forenoon of Sunday, the 2d of March, after 
 seeing that every person was clean, divine service 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 lieutenant. 
 
 The change of temperature soon began to be sensi- 
 bly felt ; and, that the people might not suffer from their 
 own negligence, I supplied them with thicker clothing, 
 as better suited to the climate. A great number of 
 whales of an immense size, with two spout-holes on 
 the back of the head, were seen on the llth. 
 
 On a complaint made to me by the master, I found it 
 necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one of the sea- 
 men, with two dozen of lashes, for insolence and muti- 
 nous behaviour, which was the first time that there was 
 any occasion for punishment on board. 
 
 We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of the 
 Terre de Fuego, and the wind being unfavourable, I 
 thought it more advisable to go round to the eastward 
 of Staten-land than to attempt passing through Straits 
 leMaire. We passed New Year's Harbour and Cape St. 
 John, and on Monday the 31st were in latitude 60 1' 
 south. But the wind became variable, and we had bad 
 weather. 
 
 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 
 I made little use except in fine weather, to those people 
 who had not births to hang their hammocks in, and by 
 this means the space between decks was less cro%vded. 
 With all this bad weather, we had the additional mor- 
 tification to find, at the end of every day, that we were 
 osing ground ; for, notwithstanding our utmost exer- 
 tions, and keeping on the most advantageous tacks, we 
 Jid little better than drift before the wind. On Tuesday 
 Jhe 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 apassage this way to the Society 
 
 the Cape of Good Hope, to the great joy of every oni 
 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 she had become s 
 leaky, that we were obliged to pump hourly in our pas- 
 sage from Cape Horn. The sails and rigging also re- 
 quired repair, and, on examining the provisions, a con- 
 siderable 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 increased after noon with such violence, that the ship 
 was driven almost forecastle under before we could get 
 the sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, 
 and the top- gallant-mast got down upon deck, whi^h re- 
 lieved her much. We lay-to all night, and in the morn- 
 ing bore away under a reefed foresail. The sea still 
 running high, in the afternoon it became very unsafe 
 to stand on ; we therefore lay-to all night, without any 
 accident, excepting that a man at the steerage was thrown 
 over the wheel and much bruised. Towards noon the 
 violence of the storm abated, and we again bore away 
 under the reefed foresail. 
 
 In a few days we passed the island 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 Die- 
 men'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 
 boisterous weather. The approach of strong southerly 
 winds is announced by many birds of the albatross or 
 peterel tribe ; and the abatement of the 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 these 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-plu- 
 maged herons, and parroquets in great variety. 
 
 The natives not appearing, we went in search of them 
 towards Cape Frederic-Henry. Soon after, coming to 
 a grapnel, close to the 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, taking the articles cut, put them on 
 their heads. On first coming in sight, they made a. 
 prodigious clattering in th-;r speech, and held their arms 
 over their heads. They spoke so quick, that it was im- 
 possible to catch one single word they uttercJ. Then 
 colour is of a dull black ; their skin scarifieu anout the 
 breast and shoulders. One was distinguished by hi* 
 
 /stands, for we had now been thirty days in a tempes- | body being coloured with red ochre, but all th 
 uous ocean. Thus the season was too far advanced for ' were painted black, with a kind of soot, so thi 
 
 he othbia 
 
 painted black, with a kind ot soot, so thickly hud 
 
 us to expect better weather to enable us to double Cape | over their faces and shoulders, that it was difficult 10 
 Horn ; and, from these and other considerations, I or- ascertain what they were like. 
 
 tiered the helm to be put a-weather, and bore awav for 
 
 a T 
 
 On Thursday the 4th of September, we sailed out o 1
 
 478 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Adventu.o B<, steering first towards the east-south- 
 east and tliei to the northward of east, when, on the 
 19th, wo camr in sight of a cluster of small rocky Isl- 
 ands, which I -named Bounty Isles. Soon afterwards 
 we frequently observed the sea, in the night time, to be 
 covere-1 by luminous spots, caused by amazing quanti- 
 ties of small blubbers, or medusae, which emit a light, 
 like the blaze of a candle, from the strings or filaments 
 extending from them, while the rest of the body con- 
 tinues perfectly dark. 
 
 We discovered the island of Otaheite on the 25th, 
 and, before casting anchor next morning in Matavai 
 Bay, such numbers of canoes had come off, that, after 
 the natives ascertained we were friends, they came on 
 board, and crowded the deck so much, that in ten min- 
 utes 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 reach- 
 ing Otaheite, was twenty-seven thousand arid eighty- 
 six miles, which, on an average, was one hundred and 
 eight 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 in the even- 
 ing, he was removed where he could obtain more air, but 
 without any benefit, for he died in an hour afterwards. 
 This unfortunate man drank very hard, and was so 
 averse to exercise, that lie 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, the fifth 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 off. They had taken with 
 them eight 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 assist in recovering both the boat and 
 the deserters. Accordingly, the former was brought 
 back in the course of the day, by five of the natives ; 
 but the men were not taken uniil nearly three weeks 
 afterwards. Learning the place where they 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 
 Sear a house in which they were, they came out want- 
 ing their fire-arms, and delivered themselves up. Some 
 of the chiefs had formerly seized and bound these de- 
 serters ; but had been prevailed on, by fair promises of 
 returning 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 
 vne bread-fruit plants, to the number of one thousand 
 and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday, the 31st of 
 March. Besides these, we iiad collected many other 
 p'dnts, some of them bearing the finest fruits in the 
 world ; and valuable, from affording brilliant dyes, and 
 for various properties besides. At sunset of the 4th o) 
 April, we made sail from Otaheite, bidding farewell to 
 an isi'and where for twenty-three weeks we had been 
 treated with ^ne utmost affection and regard, and which 
 nccmeil to increase in proportion to our stay. That to the ship, but in this we were disappointed. The 
 we. were not insensible to their kindness, the succeeding] wind being northerly, wo steered to the westward w thi 
 
 circumstances sufficiently proved ; for to the friendly 
 and endearing behaviour of these peopb may be as- 
 cribed 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 Huaheme ; 
 and a double canoe soon coming alongside, containing 
 ten natives, I saw among them a young man who re- 
 collected me, and called me by my name. I had been 
 here in the year 1780, with Captain Cook, in the Res- 
 olution. 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 darkness of the clouds be- 
 hind it. As nearly as I could judge, the upper part wag 
 about two feet in diameter, and the lower about eigh. 
 inches. Scarcely had I made these remarks, when I ob- 
 served 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 re- 
 ceived had it passed directly over us. Masts, I imagine, 
 might have been carried away, but I do not apprehend 
 that it would have endangered the loss of the ship. 
 
 Passing several islands on the way, we anchored at 
 Annamooka, on the 23d of April ; and an old lame 
 man called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, and 
 immediately 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 pecu- 
 liar mourning which they express on losing their rela- 
 tives ; such as bloody temples, their heads being de- 
 prived of most of the hair, and, what was worse, air 
 most the whole of them had lost some of their fingers 
 Several fine boys, not above six years old, had lost bolf> 
 their little fingers ; and several of the men, besides 
 these, had parted with the middle finger of the right 
 hand. 
 
 The chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we car 
 ried 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 which 
 contained not less than ninety passengers. Such a num- 
 ber of them gradually arrived from different islands, 
 that it was impossible to get any ihing done, the mul- 
 titude became so great, and there was no chief of suf- 
 ficient authority to command the whole. I therrfore 
 ordered a watering party, then employed, to come on 
 board, and sailed on Sunday, the 26th of April. 
 
 We kept near the island of Koloo all the afternoon 
 of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would come off
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 479 
 
 evening, 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 'he morning watch. This 
 was the turn of duty for the night. 
 
 Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of 
 uninterrupted prosperity, and had been attended with 
 circumstances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But 
 a very different scene was now to be disclosed : a con- 
 spiracy 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 officers 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, suffering 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 below, 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 
 mizen-mast, with my hands tied behind my back, unaer 
 a guard, with Christian at their head. The boatswain 
 was then ordered to hoist out the launch, accompanied 
 by a threat, if he did not do it instantly, TO TAKE CARE 
 
 OF HIMSELF. 
 
 The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and Mr. 
 Hallett, 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 effect ; 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 exertions 
 to turn the tide of affairs were continued ; when Chris- 
 tian, changing the cutlass he held for a bayonet, and, 
 holding me by the cord about my hands with a strong 
 gripe, threatened me with immediate death if I would 
 not be quiet; and the villains around me had their 
 nieces cocked and bayonets fixed. 
 
 Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
 boat, and were hurried jver the ship's side ; whence 1 
 concluded, that along with them I was to be set adrift. 
 Another effort to bring about a change produced noth- 
 ing but menaces of having my brains blown out. 
 
 The boatswain and those seamen who were to 
 be put into the boat, were allowed to collect twine, 
 jam as. liucs, sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty gal- 
 
 lon cask of water ; and Mr. Samuel got 150 pounds o{ 
 bread, with a small quantity of rurn and wine ; als\. a 
 quadrant and compass ; but he was prohibited, on pair, 
 of death, to touch any map or astronomical book, and 
 any instrument, or any of my surveys and drawings. 
 
 The mutineers having thus forced those of the sea 
 men whom they wished to get rid of into the boat, 
 Christian directed a dram to be served to each of his 
 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- 
 mast. 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 un- 
 grateful wretches to fire, they uncocked them. Isaa< 
 Martin, one of them, I saw, had an inclination to asste'. 
 me ; and as he fed me with shaddock, 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 for the latter, and IIIP 
 carpenter was ordered into the boat. He was permitted, 
 though not without opposition, to take his tool-chest. 
 
 Mr. Samuel secured my journals and commission, with 
 some important ship-papers; this he did with great reso- 
 lution, though strictly watched. He attempted to sav; 
 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 off to get what you have." 
 
 Much altercation took place among the mutinous crew 
 during the transaction of this whole affair. Some swore, 
 " I '11 be damned if he does not find his way home, if he 
 gets any thing with him," meaning me ; and when the 
 carpenter's chest was carrying away, " Damn my eyes, 
 he will have a vessel built in a month;" while others ridi- 
 culed 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 
 waited for me, of which the master-at-arms informed 
 Christian, 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 instantly 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 p.cces 
 of pork were thrown to us, also the fonr cutlasses. The 
 armorer and carpenter then called out to me to remeni 
 ber that they had no hand in the transaction. Afiui 
 having been kept some time to make sport for these 
 unfeeling wretches, and having undergone much riili 
 cule, we were at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 
 
 Eighteen persons were with me in the boat, the
 
 480 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain, 
 carpenter, mas>er, and quarter-master's mate, two quar- 
 ter-masters, the sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, the 
 butcher, and a boy. There remained on board, Fletcher 
 Christian, the master's mate ; Peter Haywood, Edward 
 Young, George Stewart, midshipmen ; the master-al- 
 arms, gunner's mate, boatswain's mate, gardener, ar- 
 morer, carpenter's mate, carpenter's crew, and four- 
 teen 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 about 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 for Otaheite !" 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 kindness 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 divided 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 Christian. These two had been objects of my partic- 
 ular regard and attention, and I had taken great pains 
 to instruct them, having entertained hopes that, as pro- 
 fessional 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 Resolution from the South Seas in 1 780, 
 we received so many civilities, that in consideration of 
 these alone I should gladly have taken him with me. 
 But he had always borne a good character. 
 
 When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
 prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few 
 hours before, my situation had been peculiarly flatter- 
 ing ; I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored with 
 every necessary, both for health and service ; the object 
 f the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it now 
 
 completed. The remaining part had every prospet* at 
 success. 
 
 It will naturally be asked, what could be the cause of 
 such a revolt ? In answer, I can only conjecture that the 
 mutineers had flattered themselves with the hope of a 
 happier life among the Otaheitans than they could pos- 
 sibly enjoy in England ; which, joined to some female 
 connexions, most probably occasioned the whole trans- 
 action. 
 
 The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
 cheerful in manners and conversation ; possessed of 
 great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make 
 them be admired 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 these, and 
 many other concomitant circumstances, it ought hardly 
 to be the subject of surprise that a set of sailors, most 
 of them void of connexions, 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, where 
 there was no necessity to labour, and where the allure- 
 ments of dissipation are beyonJ any conception that 
 can be formed of it. The utmost, however, that a com- 
 mander 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 
 lived 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 I 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 with 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 symp- 
 toms of discontent, which 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 with 
 me on pretence of indisposition, for which I fell con 
 cerned, having no suspicions of his honour or integrity . 
 
 antic 
 
 of 
 
 OR, 
 
 CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 
 
 "Impar Congressus Achilli.' 
 
 I. 
 
 THE " good < Id times" all times, when old, ar* good- 
 Are gone ; tl.e present might be, if they would ; 
 Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
 Want huie of mere mortals but their will : 
 A wider space, a greener field is given 
 lo those who olay their "tricks before high Heaven." 
 
 I know not if the angels weep, but men 
 Have wept enough for what ? to weep af 
 
 II. 
 
 All is exploded be it good or bad. 
 Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad. 
 Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so muca, 
 His very rival almost deem'd him such
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 481 
 
 We, we have seen the intellectual race 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face 
 Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
 Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
 As the deep billows of the ^Egean roar 
 Betwixt the Hellenic and 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 Antony ; 
 Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
 On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown 
 How vain, how worse than vain, at leng'h appear 
 The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear. 
 He wept for worlds to conquer half the earth 
 Knows not his name, or but his death and birth 
 And desolation ; while his native Greece 
 Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
 He " wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er 
 Conceived the globe he panted not to spare! 
 With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
 Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 
 
 III. 
 
 But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
 
 Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
 
 The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 
 
 Freed 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 whose stakes were 
 
 thrones ; 
 
 Whose table, earth whose dice were humau 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 Queller of the Nations 
 Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
 Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
 O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
 O'er petty quarrels upon petty things 
 Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
 Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
 A surgeon's statement and an earl'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 teaze 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 >>.,v could feel for what he had to bear! 
 T 2 t>6 
 
 Vain his complaint my lord presents his bill. 
 His food and wine were doled out duly still 
 Vain was his sickness, never was a crime 
 So free from homicide to doubt's a crime ; 
 And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 
 Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
 But smile though ah the pangs of brain and heart 
 Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
 Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
 Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
 None stand by his low bed though even the mind 
 Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind. 
 Smile for the felt er'd eagle breaks his chain, 
 And higher worlds than this are his again 
 
 IV. 
 
 How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
 A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
 How must he 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 fact, 
 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 freed spirit of 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. 
 He wants not this ; but France shall feel the warn 
 Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 
 Her honour, fame, and faith, demand his bones, 
 To rear amid a pyramid of thrones ; 
 Or carried onward, in the battle's van, 
 To form, like Guesclin's 1 dust, her talisman. 
 But be as it is, the time may come 
 His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! of which he was in power a feature , 
 Oh, earth! of which he was a noble creature ; 
 Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
 That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 
 
 1 Guesclin died durin? the siege of a city- it surrr.nderea. 
 and the keys were brought and 'aid upon hu bic;, *> "wi t** 
 place might appear rendered to nu ashes
 
 402 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ye Al is which view'd him in his dawning flights 
 
 Hm er the victor of a hundred fights ! 
 
 Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone ! 
 
 Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon ? 
 
 The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 
 
 To herd with vulgar kings and parasites? 
 
 Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
 
 Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
 
 And shook within her pyramids to hear 
 
 A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 
 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 
 Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 
 Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 
 
 With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 
 
 To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
 
 Austria ! which saw thy twiee-ta'en capital 
 
 Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 
 
 Ye race of Frederic! Frederics but in name 
 
 And falsehood heirs to all except his fame ; 
 
 Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell, 
 
 First, and 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 't is 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 was no more ! 
 
 Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 
 
 Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame ; 
 
 Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
 
 For gasping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 
 
 Thou stand's! alone unrivall'd, till the fire 
 
 To come, in which ail 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 ! 
 
 Ir. vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
 
 For the eav thousands of his dashing ranks ; 
 
 In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
 
 Her youth their blood flows faster than her wines, 
 
 r stagnant in their human ice remains 
 
 In frozen mummies on the polar plains. 
 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 
 ITet offspring chill'd its beams are now forsaken. 
 
 Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
 
 What shall return ? The conqueror's broken car ! 
 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
 
 The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
 
 Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 
 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
 
 Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
 
 Before their sovereign, sovereign, as be.ore ; 
 
 But there exhausted Fortune quits their field, 
 
 And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 
 
 The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 
 
 To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide ; 
 
 And backward to the den of his despair 
 
 The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 
 
 Oh ye ! and each, and all ! oh, France ! who found 
 
 Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 
 
 Disputed foot by foot, til! treason, still 
 
 His only victor, from Montrnarlre's hill 
 
 Look'd down o'er trampled Paris, and thou, isle, 
 
 Which see'st Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 
 
 The momentary shelter of his pride, 
 
 Till, woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride ; 
 
 Oh, France ! rcfaken by a single march, 
 
 Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 
 
 Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, 
 
 Which prove how fools may have their fortune toe, 
 
 Won, half by blunder, half by treachery ; 
 
 Oh, dull Saint Helen! with thy jailor nigh 
 
 Hear! hear! Prometheus 1 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 the Washington 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 demi-god ; 
 
 His country's Caesar, 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 whicl. boasts his birth 
 
 While Washington 's a watch-worn. uch as ne'ei 
 
 Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air : 
 
 While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
 
 Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 
 
 Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
 
 W r hich wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave, 
 
 The king of kings, and yet of slaves the 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? 
 
 VI. 
 
 But 't will not be the spark 's awaken'd lo ! 
 The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
 
 1 I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus it 
 ^.schylus, when he is left alone by his attejdanU, and befo.' 
 the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs.
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 483 
 
 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 " New." 
 
 'T is 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 more. 
 
 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 chief abjures his foreign lord ; 
 
 The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek ; 
 
 Young Freedom plumes the crest of each Cacique; 
 
 Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 
 
 Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar : 
 
 Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 
 
 Sweep lightly 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 the .iEgean, 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 Christians unto 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 ; 
 
 1'hcse, 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not alone within the 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 hack the invader from her soil again. 
 
 Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde, 
 
 Demand her fields as lists to prove the sworo; 
 
 Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
 
 Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
 
 Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
 
 The warlike fathers o." a thousand years. 
 
 That sed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 
 
 Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
 
 Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 
 
 Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage, 
 
 The Zegri, and the captive victors, flun 
 
 Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung 
 
 But these are gone their faith, their swords, tneir swaj 
 
 Yet left more anti-christian foes than they : 
 
 The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
 
 The inquisition, with her burning feast, 
 
 The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 
 
 While sat the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
 
 Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 
 
 That fiery festival of agony ! 
 
 The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
 
 By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth; 
 
 The long-degenerate noble ; the debased 
 
 Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced 
 
 But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 
 
 The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 
 
 The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
 
 The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
 
 The foreign wealth that flow'd on every shore, 
 
 Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore ; 
 
 The very language, which might vie with Rome's, 
 
 And once was known to nations like their homes, 
 
 Neglected or forgotten : such was Spain ; 
 
 But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
 
 These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
 
 The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
 
 Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
 
 The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
 
 Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
 
 Revive the cry " lago ! and close Spain !"' 
 
 Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 
 
 And form the barrier which Napoleon found, 
 
 The exterminating war ; the desert plain ; 
 
 The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
 
 The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop 
 
 Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 
 
 For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
 
 Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
 
 The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
 
 Waving her more than Amazonian blade ; 
 
 The knife of Arragon, 2 Toledo's steel ; 
 
 The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; 
 
 The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
 
 The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
 
 The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid j 
 
 And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : 
 
 Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 
 
 And win not Spain, but thine own freedom, France 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But lo ! a congress ! What, that hallow'd name 
 Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the saraa 
 For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 
 Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
 The prophets of young freedom, summon'd far 
 From climes of Washington and Bolivai ; 
 Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
 Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 
 
 1 " SL lago ! and close Spain !" the old Spanish war cry 
 
 2 The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in tho use 
 this weapon, and displayed it particularly in ior 
 
 wan.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 \nd stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
 
 llobed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
 
 And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
 
 To b'd in blush for these old chains, or break. 
 
 But who compose this senate of the few 
 
 That sh mid redeem the many ? Who renew 
 
 This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
 
 To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
 
 Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
 
 The bless'd alliance which says three are all ! 
 
 An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 
 
 Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 
 
 A pious unity ! in purpose one, 
 
 To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
 
 Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 
 
 Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 
 
 And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 
 
 Cared little, so that they were duly fed : 
 
 But these, more hungry, must have something more 
 
 The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
 
 Ah, how much happier were good ^Ksop's frogs 
 
 Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 
 
 With ponderous malice sVaying to and fro, 
 
 And crushing nations with a stupid blow, 
 
 All dully anxious to leave little work 
 
 Unto the revolutionary stork. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thrice bless'd Verona ! since the holy three 
 With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
 Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
 The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ;" 
 Thy Scaligers for what was " Dog the Great," 
 a Can' Grande" (which I venture to translate) 
 To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
 Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 
 Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 
 And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate ; 
 Thy good old man, 1 whose world was all within 
 Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 
 Would that the royal guests it girds about 
 Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
 Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 
 To tell oppression that the world is tame ! 
 Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage 
 The comedy is not upon the stage ; 
 The show is rich in ribbonry and stars 
 Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 
 Clasp thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
 For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Resplendent sight ! behold the coxcomb czar, 
 
 The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
 
 As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
 
 And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
 
 A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 
 
 And generous spirit when 'tis not frost-bit; 
 
 Now half-dissolving to a liberal thaw, 
 
 Hut harden' d back whene'er the morning's raw; 
 
 'Vitli no objection to true liberty, 
 
 Rxccpt tnat it would make the nations free. 
 
 llcw well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 
 
 How fait., if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece! 
 
 I The famous old man of Verona. 
 
 How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
 
 Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
 
 How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
 
 With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain , 
 
 How royally show off in proud Madrid 
 
 His goodly person, from the south long hid, 
 
 A Messing cheaply purchased, the world knowy, 
 
 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. 1 
 
 Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and denies 
 
 The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
 
 Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
 
 Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
 
 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
 
 To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordn 
 
 Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
 
 Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
 
 To infest the clime, whose skies and laws are pure, 
 
 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 lantern up to scan 
 
 The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 
 
 And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
 Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band 
 Of mercenaries? and her noisy Chambers, 
 And tribune which each orator first clambers, 
 Before he finds a voice, and, when 't is found, 
 Hears " the lie " echo for his answer round ? 
 Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear ; 
 A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
 Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
 Must fight next day, his speech to vindicate. 
 But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
 Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
 What is the simple standing of a shot, 
 To listening long and interrupting not ? 
 Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
 When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
 Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
 In saying eloquence meant " Action, action '" 
 
 XII. 
 
 But where 's the monarch? hath he dined .' or -fct 
 Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
 
 1 The dexterity of Ca'herine extricated Peter (cnlleil ttu> 
 Great by courtesy) when surrounded by th Muss iW an or 
 the banks of the river Pruth.
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Have revolutionary pates risen, 
 
 And turn'cl the royal entrails to a prison ? 
 
 Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? 
 
 Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups? 
 
 Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
 
 Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 
 
 Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 
 
 I read all 's treason in her cooks ! 
 
 Good classic ! is it, canst thou say, 
 
 Desirable to be the " ?" 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave calm 's green abode, 
 
 Apician 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, fbrm'd, at best. 
 To be a kind host and as good a guest. 
 To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
 One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art ; 
 A scholar always, now and then a wit, 
 And gentle when digestion may permit- 
 But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
 The gout was martyrdom enough for thee ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
 
 From a hold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
 
 "Arts arms and George and glory and the isles 
 
 And happy Britain wealth and freedom's smiles 
 
 White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof 
 
 Contended subjects, all alike tax-proof 
 
 Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 
 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the world !' 
 
 And Waterloo and trade and (hush! not yet 
 
 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, 
 Methinks 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, 
 Noi F >ya! stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
 
 1 " Naso suspendit adunco." Horace. 
 The Roman app iea it to one who merely was iniperion to 
 nil acquaintanrn 
 
 The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
 To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
 With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
 But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Alas ! the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
 
 Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ? 
 
 The last, to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
 
 The 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 corn, like every mortal thing, must fall 
 
 Kin^s, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
 
 A..-I must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
 
 \\ ny would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 
 
 He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 
 
 Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your pnc<- 
 
 He amplified, to every lord's content, 
 
 The grand agrarian alchymy high rent. 
 
 Why did the Tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
 
 And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
 
 Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
 
 The man was worth much more upon his throne. 
 
 True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 
 
 But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
 
 But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
 
 And acres told upon the appointed day. 
 
 But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
 
 The purse-proud tenant never known to fail ? 
 
 The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
 
 The marsh reclaimed to most improving land ? 
 
 The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
 
 The doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace ! 
 
 In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
 
 In vain the commons pass their patriot bill ; 
 
 The landed interest (you may understand 
 
 The phrase much better leaving out the land) 
 
 The land's self-interest groans from shore to shore 
 
 For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
 
 Up ! up again : ye rents, exalt your notes, 
 
 Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
 
 And patriotism, so delicately nice, 
 
 Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
 
 For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
 
 Are gone their oven closed, their ocean dry ; 
 
 And nought remains of all the millions sper.t, 
 
 Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
 
 They who are not so had their turn and turn 
 
 About still flows from fortune's equal urn ; 
 
 Now let their virtue be its own reward, 
 
 And share the blessings which themselves prvj ,ed. 
 
 See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
 
 Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ! 
 
 Their ploughshare was the sword in hirelirg binds, 
 
 Their fields manured by gore of othfr lands ; 
 
 Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
 
 Their brethren out to battle why ? for rent ! 
 
 Year after year they voted cent, per cent. 
 
 Blood, sweat, and tear- wrung millions why? for rent 1 
 
 They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore the* 
 
 meant 
 
 To die for England why then live ? for rent ! 
 The peace has made one general malcontent 
 Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
 Their love of country, millions all mispenu
 
 486 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 How reconcile ' by recc-jciling rent. 
 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
 
 No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
 
 Being, end, aim, religion Rent, rent, rent ! 
 
 Thou sold'st thy birthright, 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 cash? 
 
 And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? 
 
 So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
 
 And found on 'Change a foundling hospital! 
 
 Lo, mother church, while ail religion writhes, 
 
 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 whv ? 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, u-ho made it high ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 pa'ace of Alcina shows 
 
 More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
 
 Were all her atoms of unleavened 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 wines ; 
 
 No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
 
 Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money: 
 
 But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
 
 ^Vas ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
 
 Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
 
 And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 
 
 All states, all things, all sovereigns, they control, 
 
 And waft a loan "from Indus to the Pole." 
 
 The banker broker baron brethren, speed 
 
 To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
 
 Nor tnese alone ; Columbia feels no less 
 
 Fresh speculations follow each success ; 
 
 And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
 
 Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 
 
 Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march 
 
 'T ..> cold, not stee'., 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 tnan 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 " Now Jerusalem," 
 Where baronies and orders both invite 
 Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
 Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
 Who spit not "on their Jewish gaberdine," 
 But honour them as portion of the show 
 (Where now, oh, Pope ! is thy forsaken to*" ? 
 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." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Strange sight this congress ! destined to unite 
 All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 
 I speak not of the sovereigns they 're alike, 
 A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
 But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings. 
 Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
 Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 
 While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
 There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 
 Cajoles ; 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 furnish articles for the "Debats ;" 
 Of war so certain yet not quitfi so sure 
 As his dismissal in the "Moniteur." 
 Alas ! how could his cabinet thus eir ( 
 Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 
 He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 
 Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Enough of this a sight more mournful woos 
 
 The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
 
 The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
 
 The imperial victim sacrifice to pride ; 
 
 The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
 
 The young 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 theme of pity, an\d the wreck of power. 
 
 Oh, cruel mockery ! could not Austria s]-?re 
 
 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 eye 
 
 Must watch her through these paltry pagonntrics. 
 
 What though she share no more, and shand 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. 
 
 1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten thr authw 
 n the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona 
 
 from a literary sovereign : " Ah ! Monsieur (' , a -e you 
 
 related to that Chateaubriand who who who has wriiuui 
 something (ecrit quelquc chasf)?" It is st.id thai the Auth-n 
 of Atala repented him for a moment of hi* legitimacy
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 487 
 
 Where Parma views the traveller resort 
 
 To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
 
 Hut 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 cornes ! the Andromache (but not Racine's, 
 
 Nor Homer's) ; lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans! 
 
 Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
 
 Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 
 
 Is 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 .Ex-empress grows as Ex a wife ! 
 
 So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
 
 Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
 
 And sketch the group the picture 's yet to come. 
 
 My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was sput, 
 
 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 u belt 
 
 Gird the gross sirloin of a City Cell, 
 
 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. 
 
 Vision of 
 
 BY Q.UEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER. 
 
 A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
 
 I. 
 
 SAINT Peter sat by the celestial gate, 
 His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
 
 So little trouble had been given of late ; 
 Not that the place by any means was full, 
 
 But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight," 
 The devils had taken a longer, stronger pull, 
 
 And " a pull altogether," as they say 
 
 At sea which drew most souls another way. 
 
 II. 
 
 The angels all were singing out of tune, 
 And hoarse with having little else to do, 
 
 Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
 Or curb a runaway young star or two, 
 
 Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
 Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
 
 Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 
 
 As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 
 
 III. 
 
 The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
 Finding their charges past all care below ; 
 
 Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 
 Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 
 
 Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
 With such rapidity of vice and woe, 
 
 That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 
 
 And vet was in arrear of human ills. 
 
 TV. 
 
 His business so augmented of late years, 
 
 That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, 
 
 (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), 
 For some resource to turn himself about, 
 
 And claim the help cf his celestial peers, 
 To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 
 
 By the increased demand for his remarks : 
 
 Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks, 
 
 V. 
 
 This was a handsome board at least for heaven ; 
 
 And yet they had even then enough to do, 
 So many conquetors' 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 dus 
 
 VI. 
 
 This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 
 
 What angels shrink from : even me very i!ef 
 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
 So surfeited with the infernal reve 1 : 
 
 Though he himself had sharpen'd every swonl 
 It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 
 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion 
 
 'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion).
 
 488 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Lei '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 inscribed upon't; 
 
 T wi.. one day finish : meantime they increase, 
 
 " With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, 
 
 Line Saint John's foretold beasts ; but ours are born 
 
 Less formidable in the head than horn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 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 collusion ; 
 For these things may be bought at their true worth : 
 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion 
 Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 
 
 X. 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 
 The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 
 
 Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
 Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 
 
 There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall; 
 And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low 
 
 It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
 
 The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 Return to what it must far sooner, were 
 
 The natural compound left alone to fight 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ; 
 
 Bui the unnatural balsams merely blight 
 What nature made him at his birth, as bare 
 
 As the mere million's base unmummied clay 
 
 i'et all his spices but prolong decay. 
 
 xn. 
 
 He 'u dead and upper earth with him has done : 
 Ho 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 For him, unless he left a German will ; 
 
 But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
 In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
 
 Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
 
 Of constancy to a bad ugly woman. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 * Gf d gave 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 
 Ot those who think damnation better still: 
 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
 In tins small nope of hettering future ill 
 
 B.y i.-irnimscribing, with some slight restriction, 
 
 I'lie B<rrmtv of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 
 'T is blasphemous ; I know ont 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 Engfand's church have shamm'i 
 And that the other twice two nundred churches 
 And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 
 
 XV. 
 God help us all ! God help me, too ! I am, 
 
 God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 
 And not a whit more difficult to damn 
 
 Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 
 Or to the butcher to 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 
 
 And nodded o'er his keys : when lo ! there came 
 A wondrous noise he had not heard of late 
 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
 In short, a roar of things extremely great, 
 
 Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim | 
 But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
 Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think '" 
 
 XVII. 
 But ere he could return to his repose, 
 
 A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes 
 At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose ; 
 
 u Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise !" 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 
 To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the matter? 
 Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?" 
 
 XVIII. 
 " No," quoth the cherub ; " George the Third is dead." 
 
 " And who is George the Third ?" replied the apostle: 
 " What George ? what Third ?" " The King of Eng- 
 land," said 
 
 The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
 Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
 
 Because the last we saw here had a tussle, 
 And ne'er would have got into Heaven's good graces, 
 Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 
 
 XIX. 
 " He was, if I remember, king of : 
 
 That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
 On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
 
 A claim to those of martyrs like my own : 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once 
 
 When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 
 But having but my keys, and not my brand, 
 I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 
 
 XX. 
 u 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, cheek by jowl , 
 
 That fellow, Paul the parvenu ! The skin 
 Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
 
 In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin 
 So as to make a martyr, never sped 
 Better than did this weak and wooden head
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " But had it come up here uoon 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, 
 
 And so this very foolish head Heaven solders 
 Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
 
 And seems the custom here to overthrow 
 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout ; 
 
 The king who comes has head and all entire, 
 And never knew much what it was about 
 
 He did as doth the puppet by its wire, 
 And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
 
 My business and your own is not to inquire 
 Into such matters, but to mind our cue 
 Which is to act as we are bid to do." 
 
 XXIII. 
 While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
 
 Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
 Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
 
 Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
 Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 
 
 With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
 Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 
 
 XXIV. 
 But, bringing up the rear of this bright host, 
 
 A spirit of a different aspect waved 
 His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 
 
 Whose barren beach witn frequent wrecks is paved 
 ILs brow was like the deep when tempest-tost ; 
 
 Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
 Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
 And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 
 
 XXV. 
 As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate, 
 
 Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 
 With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
 
 As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 
 He potter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
 . And sweated through his apostolic skin : 
 Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
 Or some such other spiritual liquor. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The very cherubs huddled altogether, 
 
 Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 
 
 A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
 And form'd a circle, like Orion's belt, 
 
 Around their poor old charge, who scarce knew whither 
 His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 
 
 With royal manes (for, by many stories, 
 
 And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As .hin2S were in this posture, the gate flew 
 Asunder, and tne flashing of its hinges 
 
 Flung over s>| ace an universal hue 
 
 Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges 
 
 Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
 Auro-a borealis spread its fringes 
 
 O'er this North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound, 
 
 By Captain Parry's crews, in "Melville's Sound." 
 2U 67 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 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'crthrowing fight : 
 My poor comparison must needs be teeming 
 
 With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 
 
 XXIX. 
 'T was 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 
 One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
 But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
 
 A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
 And good arise ; the portal pass'd he stood ; 
 
 Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary 
 (I say young, begging to be understood 
 
 By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
 To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
 But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The cherubs and the saint 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, dur; 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 He knew him but the viceroy pf the sky. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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 wih 
 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 
 Their date of war, and their "C hamp Clos" the sphei 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But here they were in neutral space : we know 
 
 From Job, that Sathan 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 't would take up hours. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 And this is not a theologic tr?"*, 
 
 To prove with Hebrew and with Arabii, 
 If Job be allegory or a fact, 
 
 But a true narrative ; and thus 1 pick 
 From out the whole but such and such an act 
 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of trirk. 
 'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
 And accurate as any other vision.
 
 4'JC 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 
 
 The place where death's grand cause is argued o'er, 
 And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 
 
 And therefore 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. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 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 ; Sathan met his ancient friend^ 
 With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 He merely ber 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." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Michaei 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 notj let him have way." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 "Michael!" replied the prince of air, " even here, 
 
 Before the gate of Him thou servest, must 
 I ciaim my subject ; and will make appear 
 
 That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
 So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
 Were of his weaknesses ! yet on the throne 
 Hfc reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 
 
 XL. 
 ** Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was 
 
 Once, more thy Master's : but I triumph not 
 In this poor planet's conquest, nor, alas ! 
 
 Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 
 With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
 
 In worship round him, he may have forgot 
 Yon weak creation of such paltry things ; 
 I think few worth damnation save their kings, 
 XLI. 
 
 And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
 
 Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
 I such an inclination, 't were (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 
 Ami evi! be their own internal curse, 
 Hraveo < aiinol make them better, nor I worse. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor woim 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 u He came to his sceptre, young ; he leaves it, oii 
 Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
 
 And left it ; and his annals, too, behold, 
 How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
 The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
 
 The meanest hearts ; and, for the rest, but glaniy 
 
 Thine eye along America and France ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 " 'T is true, he was a tool from first to \ast 
 
 (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 amasa'd 
 
 Of sin and slaughter from the Caecur's school, 
 Take the worst pupil, and produce a reign 
 More drench'd with yore, more cumber'd with the slain. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " 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. Whos 
 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 monarchs want ; 
 
 XL VI. 
 " I know he was a constant consort ; own 
 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 
 As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
 
 I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
 And this was well for him, but not for those 
 Millions who found him what oppression chose. 
 
 XLVII. 
 The new world shook him off; 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 
 A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
 Upon the throne of earth ; but let them quake ! 
 
 XLVIII. 
 " Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
 
 The faith which makes ye great on eartn, implored 
 Apart of that vast all they held of old, 
 
 Freedom to worship not alone your J-ord, 
 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 Christi.-"" carton.
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 XL1X. 
 1 True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but, as 
 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 Which would have placed them upon the same base 
 
 With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 
 But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 
 And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw : 
 Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelf, 
 While I am guard, may 1 be damn'd myself! 
 
 L. 
 
 " Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 
 My office (and his is no sinecure) 
 Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
 
 The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure !" 
 " Saint !" replied Sathan, "you do well to avenge 
 
 The wrongs he made your satellites endure ; 
 And if to this exchange you should be given, 
 I '11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 
 
 LI. 
 
 Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 
 
 Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 
 
 Salhan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
 And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
 
 Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
 Have you got more to say ?" " No !" " If you please, 
 I '11 trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 LII. 
 
 Then Sathan 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 mention* 
 
 As one of Sathan's most sublime inventions. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
 As have the privilege of their damnation 
 
 Extended fur beyond the mere controls 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 
 
 Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
 
 Of hell assign'd ; but where their inclination 
 
 Or business carries them in search of game, 
 
 They may range freely being damn'd the same. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 They are proud of this as very well they may, 
 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. 
 
 LV. 
 
 When the great signal ran from heaven to hell, 
 About ten million times the distance reckon'd 
 
 'rom our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
 How much time it t.-ikes up, even to a second, 
 
 For every ray that travels to dispel 
 1'he fogs of London ; through which, dimly bfacon'd, 
 
 ['ho woathercorks are jjilt, some thrice a year, 
 
 il ma.. in<-. sumiw '. no 1 too severe : 
 
 LVI. 
 
 I say that I can tell 't was half a minute ; 
 
 I know the solar beams take up more time 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
 
 But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
 And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
 
 'Gainst Sathan's couriers bound for their own clime 
 The sun takes up some years for every ray 
 To reach its goal the devil not half a day. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Upon the verge of space, aboui the size 
 Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd 
 
 (I 've seen a something like it in the skies 
 In the ^Egean, ere a squall) ; it near'd, 
 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
 Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and fteer'd 
 
 Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 
 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer ; 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 But take your choice) ; and then it grew a cloud, 
 
 And so it was a cloud of witnesses. . 
 But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 
 
 Of locusts numerous as the heaven saw these ; 
 They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 
 
 And varied cries were like those of wild-geese 
 (If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
 And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose.'* 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
 Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 
 
 There Paddy brogued "by Jasus! " "What 's yo\r~ will ! * 
 The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French gho* *wn 
 
 In certain terms I sha'nt translate in full, 
 As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the w 
 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
 
 " Our President is going to war, I guess." 
 
 LX. 
 
 Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and E , 
 
 In short an universal shoal of shades 
 From Otaheite's Isle to Salisbury Plain, 
 
 Of all climes and professions, years and trade. 
 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 may n't be damn'd like me or you. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 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 skylignt 
 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 
 
 Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 
 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 
 Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Then he address'd himself to Sathan: "Why 
 My good old friend, for such I deem you. 
 
 Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
 I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 
 
 Our difference is political, and I 
 
 Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
 
 You know my great respect for you ; and tin* 
 
 Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 * Why, my d^ar Lu. ifer, would you abuse 
 My coll for witnesses ? I did not mean 
 
 That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
 "T is 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, 't will stretch our immortality." 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Sathan 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 
 U[i > a point of form : you may dispose 
 Of ,-jn ; I 've kings enough below, God knows!" 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Thus spoke the demon (late call'd " multi-faced" 
 By multo-scribbling Southey). " Then we '11 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 
 
 tl be ?" Then Sathan answer'd, " There are many ; 
 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 \ 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 ; where unite 
 AH the costumes since Adam's right or wrong, 
 
 From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 
 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 The spirit look'd 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 't is for an election that they bawl, 
 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd-coat ! 
 
 Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ?" 
 
 Lxvm. 
 
 " Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 
 
 Are of a former life, and what we do 
 Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
 
 Is the tribunal met ; so now you know." 
 " Then I presume those gentlemen with 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 7" 
 
 LXIX. 
 ' lie is what you behold him, and his doom 
 
 I)epends upon his deeds," the angel said. 
 
 II If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
 Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 
 
 To lift useif against the loftiest." " Some," 
 
 Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid ID lead, 
 Foi such a libe;1y and I, for one, 
 Hvo told them what I thought beneath the sun." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 ' Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
 To urge against him," said the archangel. " Why 
 
 Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
 Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 
 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 
 
 I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
 
 His conduct was but natural in a prince. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 " Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 
 
 But then I blame the man himself much less 
 Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 
 
 To see him punish'd here for their excess, 
 
 Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still >n 
 
 Their place below ; for me, I have forgiven, 
 
 And vote his * habeas corpus' into heaven." 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " Wilkes," said the devil, " I understand all this , 
 You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
 
 And seem to think it would not be amiss 
 To grow a whole one on the other side 
 
 Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 
 Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 
 He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your labour 
 
 For at the best he will but be your neighbour. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 " However, I knew what to think of it, 
 When I beheld you, in your jesting way, 
 
 Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
 Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
 
 With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
 His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
 
 That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills 
 
 I 'II have him gagg'd 't was one of his own bills. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 " Call Junius !" From the crowd a shadow stalk'd- 
 And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
 
 So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 In comfort, at their own aerial ease, 
 
 But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'tf, 
 As we shall see) and jostled hands and knees, 
 
 Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 
 
 Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The shadow came ! a 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. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
 
 Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 
 The devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
 
 They varied like a dream now here, now there , 
 And several people swore from out the press, 
 
 They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
 He was his father ; upon which another 
 Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother :
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 49.3 
 
 LXXVII. 
 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 ! 
 
 . LXXVIII. 
 
 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." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 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 ceites often like Sir Philip Francis. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 I 've an hypothesis 't is quite my own ; 
 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the throne, 
 
 And injuring some minister or peer 
 On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown ; 
 
 It is my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 T is, that what Junius we are wont to call, 
 Was really, truly, nobody at all. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 1 don't see wherefore letters should not be 
 Written without hands, since we daily view 
 
 Them written without heads ; and books we see 
 Are fill'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 if there be mouth or author. 
 
 LXXXH. 
 
 " And who and what art thou ?" the archangel 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, 
 ( 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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 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. 
 2u 2 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " What I have written, I have written : let 
 
 The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoke 
 Old "nominis umbra ;" and, while speaking yet, 
 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
 Then Sathan said to Michael, " Don't forget 
 
 To call George Washington, and John Home To<iko, 
 And Franklin :" but at this time there was heard 
 A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 At length, with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
 The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
 Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
 
 " What 's this ?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis noi 
 
 ghost!" 
 
 " I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he 
 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 
 
 LXXXVT. 
 " 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. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 " 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 off for sentence out of hand : 
 
 I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air- 
 At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
 I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 Here Sathan said, " I know this man of old, 
 
 And have expected him for some time here ; 
 A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
 
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear ! 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done.'* 
 
 " Done !" cried Asmodeus, " he anticipate* 
 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 V" 
 
 Let 'shear," quoth Michael, " what he has to ia , 
 You know we 're bound to that in every way !" 
 
 xc. 
 
 Now the bard, glad to get an audience, whicn 
 By no means often was his case t>elow, 
 
 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 the tide of rhyme 's in flow . 
 
 But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would Mir.
 
 4IM 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 But ere the spavu 'd Jactyls could be spurr'd 
 
 Into recitative, m great dismay 
 Both che r ubira a/.d seraphim were heard 
 
 To murmur loui'ly through their long array ; 
 And Michael ruse ere he could get a word 
 
 Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
 And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend ! 'twere 
 
 best 
 Non di, non homines, ' you know the rest." 
 
 XCII. 
 
 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 the generation 
 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
 Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 
 
 The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd "What ! what! 
 
 Pye come again ? No more no more of that !" 
 
 XCIII. 
 The tumult grew, an universal cough 
 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
 When Casttcreagh has been up long enough 
 
 (Befo.'e he was first minister of state, 
 I mean the slaves hear now), some cried " off, off," 
 
 As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate, 
 The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
 (Himself an author) only for his prose. 
 
 XCIV. 
 The varlet 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." 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 
 
 With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
 On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 
 
 Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
 Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 
 And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 XCVI. 
 fie said (I only give the heads) he said, 
 
 He meant no harm in scribbling ; 't was his way 
 L'pon all topics ; 't was, besides, his bread, 
 
 Of which he butter'd both sides ; 't would delay 
 T-'o brig the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 
 
 And take up rather more time than a day, 
 To name his works he would but cite a few 
 Wi.. Tyler rhymes on Blenheim Waterloo. 
 
 XCVII. 
 lie had written praises of a regicide ; 
 
 He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
 He had written for republics, far and wide, 
 
 AnH then against them, bitterer than ever; 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 
 Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever ; 
 Tri. n n grew a hearty anti-jacobin 
 Had urnM !>< coat and would ha e turn'd his skin. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and again 
 In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 
 
 Reviewing 1 "the ungentle craft,'' and then 
 Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd 
 
 Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
 
 By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd . 
 
 He had written much blank verse, and blanker pros< 
 
 And more of both than any body knows. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 He hgd written Wesley's life: here, turning round 
 To Sathan, " Sir, I 'in ready to write yours, 
 
 In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 
 
 With notes and preface, all that most allures 
 
 The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 
 For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 
 
 So let me have the proper documents, 
 
 That I may add you to my other saints." 
 
 C. 
 
 Sathan bow'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 onc~, but I would make you shine 
 Like your own trumpet ; by the way, my own 
 Has more brass in it, and is as well blown. 
 
 CI. 
 
 " But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 
 
 Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you snail 
 Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 
 
 Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall ! 
 I settle all these things by intuition, 
 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
 Like King Alfonso ! a When I thus see double, 
 I save the deity some worlds of trouble." 
 
 CII. 
 He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
 
 Persuasion on the part of devils, 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."* 
 
 cm. 
 
 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 't is 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, he could not blow ! 
 
 1 See " Life of li. KirKe White." 
 
 2 King Alfonzu, speaking of the Ptolomonn system, sain, 
 that "had he been consulted at the creation of the world, IIB 
 would have spared the Maker sumo absurdities." 
 
 3 See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disap- 
 peared " with a curious perfume and a mehuU.us 
 
 or see the Antiquary, vol. 1.
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 496 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
 
 For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 
 And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 
 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at case, 
 l'-lo 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. 
 
 CV. 
 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, 
 
 1 A drowned body lies at the bottom til! rotten ; it then 
 Boats, as most people know. 
 
 Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : ne lurks, 
 
 It may be, still, !ike dull books on a shelf, 
 In his own den, to scrawl some " Life" or " Vision, 
 As Welborn says "the devil turn'd precisian." 
 
 CVI. 
 
 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 or.a , 
 
 And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
 
 I left him practising the hundredth psalm, 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF PULCI. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
 this translation is offered, 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 
 cf cmvairy, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his con- 
 tinuation, 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 al- 
 together, 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 Eng- 
 land. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. 
 The serious poems on Rcncesvalles 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 fa- 
 vourite 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 monastic 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, Thwackum, 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 
 of the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses 
 Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or 
 Carlomano ; Rondel, or Rondello, etc. as it suits his 
 convenience, so has the translator. In other respects 
 
 the version is faithful to the best of the translator's 
 ability in combining his interpretation of the one lan- 
 guage with the not very easy task of reducing it to 
 the same versification in the other. The reader is re- 
 quested to remember that the antiquated language of 
 Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of 
 Italians thcmse'ves, from its great mixture of Tuscan 
 proverbs ; and he may therefore be more indulgent to 
 the present attempt. How far the translator has suc- 
 ceeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
 are questions which the public will decide. He was 
 induced to make the experiment partly by his love for 
 and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, 01 
 which it is so easy to acquire a sligfit knowledge, and 
 with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner tc 
 become accurately conversant. The Italian language 
 is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to 
 all, her favours to few, and sometimes least to those who 
 have courted her longest. The translator wished also 
 to present in an English dress a part at least of a poem 
 never yet rendered into a northern language : at the 
 same time that it has been the original of some of the 
 most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, 
 as well as of those recent experiments in poetry in 
 England which have been already mentioned. 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 i. 
 
 IN the beginning was the Word next God ; 
 
 God was the Word, the Word no less was he , 
 This was in the beginning, to my mode 
 
 Of thinking, and without him nought coiild be 
 Therefore, just Lord! from out Ihy high abod*. 
 
 Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
 One only, to be my companion, who 
 Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through
 
 49C 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And tnou, 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. 
 
 HI. 
 
 "1 was in the season when sad Philomel 
 Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
 
 Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 
 And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 
 
 Of Phaeton by Phoobus 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 ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 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, 
 
 Ha v e understood Charles badly and wrote worse. 
 
 V. 
 
 Leonardo Aretino said already, 
 
 That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
 Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 
 
 No hero would in history look 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You still may see at Saint Liberatore, 
 
 The abbey no great way from Manopell, 
 Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 
 
 Because of the great battle in which fell 
 A pagan king, according to the story, 
 
 And felon people whom Charles sent to hell: 
 And there are bones so many, and so many, 
 Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 
 
 VII. 
 But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
 
 His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 
 Horence, 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 acauired from then till now, 
 V\ ith knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 
 IK sprung from out the noble blood of France. 
 
 VIII. 
 1 welve paladins had Charles, in court, of whom 
 
 The wirest and most famous was Orlando ; 
 Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
 
 In Roncesvalles, as the villain pJann'd too, 
 While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
 
 Of their sau rout, though he did all knight can do, 
 Anil Dante in his comedy has given 
 To him a haioy seat with Charles in heaven. 
 
 IX. 
 
 '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, the gay time to pass 
 
 In festival and in triumphant sport, 
 
 The much renown'd Saint Dennis being ihe causn 
 
 Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
 
 And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 
 
 X. 
 
 Avolio, and Anno, 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 hilher, 
 He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 
 
 XL 
 
 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 thirg; 
 
 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 wa always then obey ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 " A thousand times I 've been about to say, 
 Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
 
 Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 
 Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
 
 Each have to honour thee and to obey ; 
 
 But he has too much credit near the throne. 
 
 Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
 
 By such a boy to be no longer guided. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
 To let him know he was a gallant knight, 
 
 And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
 But I know who that day had won the fight 
 
 If it had not for good Gherardo been : 
 
 The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 
 
 He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 
 
 In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
 When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 
 
 The Christian cause had suffered 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " 'T is 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 decm'st this lad a Mars in heait ?" 
 
 Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
 As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 
 
 Displeased he was with Gan becajse lie saiJ ;t, 
 
 But much me t still thatCharu* should given
 
 MORGANTE MAGG1ORE. 
 
 497 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 
 
 But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
 And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
 
 And thus at length they separated were. 
 Orlando, angry too wi'h Carlornan, 
 
 Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
 Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
 And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
 He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 
 
 And on towards Brara pnck'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," she said, 
 
 Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
 On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 
 
 ifVhich 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
 And far as Pagan countries roam'd astray, 
 
 And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
 The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 
 
 And wandermg 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 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 then show'd 
 flow to the abbey he had found his road. 
 
 XXII. 
 Said the aboot, "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. 
 68 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " 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, 
 
 'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 
 But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 
 Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 
 
 XXIV. 
 " These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch, 
 
 For late there have appear'd three giants rough ; 
 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. 
 
 XXV. 
 " Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 
 
 For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
 Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 
 
 That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 
 But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in 
 
 Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down fm 
 
 bread, 
 
 From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
 And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 
 
 XXVI. 
 " The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 
 
 Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 
 And flings them, our community to bury, 
 
 And all that I can do but rr>'re 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 under cover. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " 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 rest'iveness 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 '11 one day fling the mountain, I believe." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 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 stem 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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 "That Passamont has in his hand three darts- 
 
 Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you ni-isi, 
 You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
 
 Than us, with reason, in proportion just 
 If 50 you will, guard well against their arts, 
 
 For these are very barbarous and robust.'" 
 Orlando answer'd, " This I '11 see, be sure. 
 And walk the wild on foot to be secur."
 
 (98 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The a .hot sign'd ne great cross on his front, 
 " Tlipp go you with God's benison and mine ;" 
 
 Orlandi, after he had scaled the mount, 
 As the abb >t had directed, kept the line 
 
 Right to the usual haunt of Passamont; 
 Who, seeing nim alone in this design, 
 
 Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 
 
 Then asked him, "If he wish'd to stay as servant?" 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And promised him an office of great ease ; 
 But, said Orlando, u 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 ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 
 
 I'he giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
 
 When he received an answer so injurious. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 [. 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. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Then Passamont, who thougut him slain outright. 
 
 Said, " I will go, and, while he lies along, 
 Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 
 
 But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 
 Especially Orlando, such a knight, 
 
 As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
 While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
 Orlando iias recall'd his force and senses: 
 
 XXXIV. 
 And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 
 
 Thou thought's! 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 laid'st 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Orlando had Ccrtana bare in hand, 
 
 To split the head in twain was what he schemed 
 Cortana clave the skull like a trie brand, 
 
 And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
 Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 
 
 And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed; 
 But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
 Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, 
 
 XXXVI. 
 faying, " What grace to me thou 'st given ! 
 
 And I to thee, oh Lord, am ever bound. 
 I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 
 
 Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
 All things by tiiee are measured just and even ; 
 
 (rur power without thine aid would 1 nought be found : 
 1 pray tnee take heed of me, till I can 
 At least 'ciiirn once more to Carloman." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And having said thus much, he went his way : 
 
 And Alabaster he found out below, 
 Doing the very best that in him lay 
 
 To root from out a oanK a roes or two. 
 Orlando, when he reach'd him, iouH 'gan say, 
 
 " How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone lo throw ? 
 When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
 He suddenly betook him to his sling, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 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, h* 
 
 However by no means forgot Macone. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Morgante had a palace in his 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. 
 
 XL.* 
 
 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." 
 
 XLI. 
 " I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
 
 Sent by the miserable monks repentance ; 
 For Providence divine, in you and others, 
 
 Condemns the evil done by new acquaintance. 
 'T is writ on high your wrong must pay another's ; 
 
 From heaven itself is issued out this sentence ; 
 Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
 I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 
 
 XLII. 
 Morgante said, " 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 be adored." 
 
 XLIII. 
 The Saiacen rejoin'd in humble tone, 
 
 " I have had an extraordinary vision j 
 A savage serpent fell on me alone. 
 
 And Macon would not pity rny condition ; 
 Hence to thy 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."
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 49S 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 LTiando 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. 
 
 XLV. 
 u 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 Lad Macon's false and felon test, 
 
 Your renegado God, and worship mine, 
 Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
 To which Morgante answer'd, " I 'm content." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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 : 
 
 XLVII. 
 " Since God has granted your illumination, 
 
 Accepting you in mercy for his own, 
 Humility should be your first oblation." 
 
 Morgante said, " For goodness' sake make known 
 Since that your God is to be mine your station, 
 
 And let your name in verily be shown ; 
 Then will I every thing at your command do." 
 On which the other said, he was Orlando. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 M 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 period 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. 
 
 XLIX. 
 And by the way, about the giants dead 
 
 Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 
 For their decease, I pray you, comforted, 
 
 And since it is God's pleasure, pardon me ; 
 A thousand wrongs unto the mon'ns they bred, 
 
 And our true scripture soundeth openly 
 Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 
 Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 
 
 L. 
 M 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. 
 
 LI. 
 
 " And here our doctors are of one accord, 
 
 Coming on this point to the same conclusion 
 
 That in their thoughts who praise in hc-aven the Lore 
 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. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
 Which seems to him, to them too must appeal 
 
 Well done ; nor couid it otherwise befall ; 
 He never can in any purpose err : 
 
 [f sire or mother suffer endless 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." 
 
 LIU. 
 " 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 " So that all persona may be sure and certain 
 
 That they are dead, and have no further feaj 
 To wander solitary this desert in, 
 
 And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
 By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtani 
 
 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. 
 
 LV. 
 Then to the abbey they went on together, 
 
 Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
 The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran thitner 
 
 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. 
 
 LVI. 
 Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 
 
 Said quickly, " Abbol, be thou of good cheer ; 
 He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 
 
 And hath renounced his Macon false;" which hx 
 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 !" 
 
 LVII. 
 
 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 late (hit. 
 When I behold your form with my own eyes. 
 
 You now a true and perfect friend will sho" 
 
 Yourself to Christ, as once you were a few
 
 500 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
 Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
 
 Till one day by the Spirit being inflamed, 
 
 4 Why dost thou persecute me thus?' said Christ; 
 
 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " 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 '11 exist 
 Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
 But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !" 
 
 LX. 
 
 And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
 The abbot : many days they did repose. 
 
 One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 
 
 And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 
 
 The abbot show'd a chamber where array'd 
 Much armour was, and hung up certain bows ; 
 
 And one of these Morgante for a whim 
 
 Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There being a want of water in the place, 
 
 Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
 ** Morgante, I could wish you in this case 
 
 To go for water." " You shall be obey'd 
 In all commands " was the reply, " straightway." 
 
 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. 
 
 LXH. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
 
 Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 
 And pass'd unto the other side quite through, 
 
 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, 
 Morganle was not now in time to shoot. 
 
 LXIV. 
 Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
 
 Fie gave him such a punch upon the head ' 
 Aa floor'd him, so that he no more arose 
 
 Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
 fff.vt t tnt other. Having seen such blows, 
 
 '[e other pigs along the valley fled ; 
 Morgame on his neck the bucket took, 
 Full from th spring which neither swerved nor shook. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 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 spilt one drop of water in his race. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
 
 With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 
 
 Marvell'd to see his strength so very great ; 
 
 So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
 Rejoiced, 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. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 
 
 And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
 In water, sorely grieved 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'^ 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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 answer'd, " So I will. 
 
 LXX. 
 " 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." 
 
 LXXI. 
 The giant said, " Then carry him I will, 
 
 Since that to carry me he was so slack 
 To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
 
 But lend a hand to place him on my back " 
 Orlando answer'd, " V. my counsel sty 
 
 May weigh, Morgante, do not ui.dertake 
 To lift, or carry this dead courser, wh<\ 
 As you have done to him, will do
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 50' 
 
 LXXH. 
 
 M Pake 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." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 The abbot said, " The steeple may do well, 
 But, for the hells, you 've broken them, I wot." 
 
 Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 
 The penalty, who lie dead in yon grot:" 
 
 And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
 He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 
 
 Orlando, in the legs or if I have force ;" 
 
 And then he made two gambols with the horse. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Mot gante was like any mountain framed ; 
 
 So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 
 But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
 
 Because he was one of his family ; 
 Aiid, fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 
 
 Once mere he bade him lay his burthen by : 
 " Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
 Morgante said, " I '11 carry him for certain." 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
 And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 
 
 Orlando said, " Why 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. 
 
 LXXVT. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 " But in my heart I bear through every clime, 
 
 The abbot, abbey, and this solitude 
 So much I love you in so short a time ; 
 
 For me, from heaven reward you with all good, 
 The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
 
 Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood : 
 Meanwhile we stand expectant of your blessing, 
 And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 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, ' 
 ( know I 've done too little in this case ; 
 Hut blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 
 2 V 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 " We can indeed but honour you with massus, 
 And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters 
 
 Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 
 In verity much rather than the cloisters); 
 
 But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
 For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters 
 
 That wheresoe'er you go, I too shall be, 
 
 And, on the other part, you rest with me. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 " This may involve a seeming contradiction, 
 But you, I know, are sage, and feel, and taste 
 
 And understand my speech with full conviction. 
 For your just, pious deeds may you 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. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 M 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 
 In 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 ; 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 " But to bear arms and wield the lance ; indeed, 
 With these as much is done as with this co'.vl, 
 
 In proof of which the scripture you may read. 
 This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
 
 By your compassion ; now in peace proceed. 
 Your state and name I seek not to unroll, 
 
 But, if I 'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 
 
 That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 " If you want armour or aught else, go in, 
 
 Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you chooso; 
 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 might be turn'd to my companion's use, 
 The gift would be acceptable to me." 
 The abbot said to him, "Come in and see." 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 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 piecemeal from the dust 
 The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, 
 
 And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 
 They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 
 Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 '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 ngured well ; 
 In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 
 
 Who long had waged a war implacable* 
 Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 
 And there was Milo as he overthrew him.
 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 heart -Oh God! whom the sky 
 Mass, how was Mfe hither lad, 
 cawed the fktnt m OB place w die '!* 
 
 XI 
 
 & 
 
 JUI 
 Frost eri keep yom, the h^hKmj of Gkwy! 
 
 Paee.iOO.hne5-. 
 B fav km sefi a poadi Mf 
 "GS <Jte in suDa testa on gran punxone.'" It if 
 anBge that FgtdstmU have literally anticipated tba 
 lishnkal term? of tmj old friend and master, Jackson, 
 and the an wiadi be has earned to its highest pitch. 
 " J mcacfc CW kx?," or, fM* 
 * OB pmiMK is ruth testa, 1 * is die exact 
 phrase of oar hast p^usts, who ottle<kun that they 
 
 AH APOSTBOPHIC HYMH. 
 
 TO THE PUBIJSHER. 
 
 I AM X 
 
 the boa, Mrs. EL n, V I coUd drire. 
 
 MIS.H.H inni iag (shaii 01 fami 
 
 ets the latter end of the bat centnry). 1 nahooted. 
 
 me ni paces to the newest tames. Bnl, jndge of my 
 ompriit, c-j arm?*;, to see poor dear Mrs. Homem 
 
 -- .,; . ^--; ';_': ~- VT . "- :' 1 ~: --:."- 
 
 - _ f . -- __ . _ _ . .-. -?- 
 
 JBQmiK e^BWCmw VCVCK sea j - . -'. . E] - _ . * . 
 
 * say men. rather mare than half ramd her want. 
 
 'and down sort of tmte, that reminded ma of 
 the -Mack joke," only more "m^ftlmsss," til it made 
 guify wvh vrooocm^ ufecr were not so. BT 
 and hy they stopped a bit, and I thought they would 
 sfc or & down: bat, no ; with Mrs. H.'s hand on hit 
 TMM/ranBarieer*** (as Terence said when 
 at school)yfhey waited abort a mismte, and then 
 at k again, nke two cock-chafers spitted on the same 
 I asked what al this meant, when, with a 
 mod hHgh,a,chid no older than om-Wibebnma (a 
 I necw heard hot in the Vicar of WakeneJd, 
 her mother would eaO her after the Princes* 
 of Swmppenhaca), said, * Lord, Mr. Homem, can\ JOB 
 see they am vafamg," or watering (I forgot which); aad 
 not np she got, and her mother and sisur, and away 
 they went, aad romid-dbonted k til smmar-time. Now 
 that I know what it k, I fike k of al thmfs, and so 
 does Mrs. EL (thoo^fa I have broken my shins, and fear 
 overturned Mrs. Homem's maid in practising the 
 _ . - i . ^ ; - '.~.-_ - - . .:".'" ~ : : - ? 
 I ..-: .-. I' -_- - r s. :-"-"" "--" / -" -. v - : - 
 eiecoon halndi,and songs in Honour of afl the 
 Tictories (bat tiS lately I have had nttfe practice in that 
 way). I sat down, and with the aid of W. F. Esq., and 
 a few hints ion Dr. B. (whose recitations I attend, and 
 
 .-._-..- -._.--. .- .. - J . - _ -_._;, 
 
 his father's hie snccesrfW D. L. address), I ecmpoiad 
 the fbBowiag hymn, wherewithal to make my sen6 
 n to the pohhe, whom, Drrr,tbdess, 1 
 
 r. ri." T c-^7-a^ as we.. &> tr:^ cr:"jcs. 
 
 am. &, yoors *M *'- 
 
 HOR*CE flORNF.M
 
 WALTZ. 
 
 5-OJ 
 
 WALTZ. 
 
 Mm of the 
 
 Are aow extended a fnm left to arms ; 
 IrKnicHOBf ! loo bag oBodeewM a. onid- 
 Bevrachfid tenot-fcectow'd hat to aphraid 
 
 Uencefonb m al the hmm rf 
 
 The lean a. ratal of the *vgp* Niae. 
 
 Far be faailfaee aad thi*e the Maw of and* 
 
 Bfoek'd, yet tnaaMthaat ; aaeerM at, 
 
 If VJ. rjir cr^-J 3 
 
 Tbj breast if hate 
 
 Ar.i 
 
 HMM dhaktrte the idd. 
 
 Tte wfaiekerVi wxarr of wakz aad < 
 
 A^jnt 
 Hi ... ^. 
 
 A 
 Oi 
 Coefc*d 
 
 ---ra: ? Wt.a:_>> 
 
 mai Wdtolew'* 
 
 ^ ! 
 
 G.T^. L; .-. ca.-- ir^i -js-.* c lak* ^* rt. 
 
 Oh! firlfaeiavaf Baghy, or of Fz, 
 
 The fatties'* lojaky. I 
 
 To u eacrpzethe'ab 
 
 Aad gire both Bcaal aad a* 
 
 Inperal Waki! 
 
 Oh, GeraHar! hoar MM* I* ihce we awe, 
 
 Aado^rldTwthrd d debts 
 
 Of i 
 
 Wei 
 
 Of i:^ r 
 
 To Gcnarar, ad 1 
 
 Who. 
 
 To CMBUMIJ, what owe we not beaiees ? 
 
 Wl DM! fcr *ysar, widb her mpal Uooi, 
 Dra f<Mf ihr XeM rf each TertoMe 
 Who Kat - he Mkd'4 al her wdb- 
 
 M 
 
 Back to arr taeaae O 
 A 
 
 Bar the heath of hypuhoreai gde* 
 Froai niadaa t ' part (whie Ubaawg yet had aV) 
 Ei j ariarfcy fjaif tnmfiVd to creep 
 
 O, IMX^^ L-.- ^r 
 
 Whie Mfant MOKW * j kad ews 
 
 Kor owed her ioy ok to x. fiiead, 
 
 She cane Wafez cawe *d rilfa hw cettaam mO 
 
 T playc, a^ fcrty tal f KuMzehw'* ; 
 
 Thetaigi 
 
 XataatHenMfiac,^ 
 
 Her aaatte feet. 
 
 3iot Cfeopatn her faker's deck, 
 
 To] 
 
 Arise *&ide aa 
 To7o.of.iM* 
 
 cof teaimn! 
 
 tofaapOMe; 
 
 -J-. - bav 
 
 . afhaaflVfi 
 
 With added* 
 Of aatmar 
 Tooa, 
 
 T:. r^j.- i .-.-'. -.-r =.i_*^ i. 
 
 ,, 
 
 
 M^BI 
 
 BMMfirH^* 
 1 1 1 in ai fljaaai 
 To en 
 
 to 40 ihr am? aM&ae Me
 
 504 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Observant travellers ! of every time ; 
 Yt quartos ! publish'd upon every clime ; 
 O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
 fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
 Can Egypt's Almas 6 tantalizing group 
 Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop 
 Can aught from cold Kamtschatka to Cape Horn 
 With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne? 
 Ah, no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
 Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 
 
 Shades of those belles, whose reign began of yore, 
 With George the Third's and ended long before 
 Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
 Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
 Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host : 
 Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
 No treacherous powder bids -conjecture quake ; 
 No stiff starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache ; 
 (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
 Goats in their visage, 7 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, 
 Uoth 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 Gen'is, in her strife with Stael, 
 Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
 The fashion hails from countesses to queens, 
 And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
 Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
 And turns if nothing else at least our 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 rh^me finds partner rhyme in praise of "Waltz." 
 
 Blest was the time Waltz chose for her dlbwt ; 
 
 The court, the R 1, like herself, were new ; 8 
 
 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 and yet 't is true, 
 Though they be old, the thing is something new; 
 Each new, quite new (except some ancient tricks I0 ), 
 New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 
 
 et-icks ! 
 
 With vests or ribands deck'd alike in hue, 
 Ni:w troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 
 S-j saith the muse my u , what say you ? 
 Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
 Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
 Such was the time, r.or ever yet was such, 
 Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
 Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, 
 And t.ll-talc 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 12 were once supposed to be j 
 
 Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 
 
 The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 
 
 The lady's in return may grasp as much 
 
 As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
 
 Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 
 
 One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
 
 The other to the shoulder no less royal 
 
 Ascending with affection 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 with 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 dat?) 
 
 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 ?" 13 
 
 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, 
 F-tz t k, Sh-r-d-n, 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 languish in the eyes ; 
 Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
 With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame ; 
 For prurient nature still will storm the breast 
 VFho, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 
 
 But ye who never felt a single thought 
 For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
 Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
 Say would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
 Hot from the hands 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.
 
 WALTZ. 
 
 50.- 
 
 Voluptuous Wallz ! 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 't is needless to inquire 
 
 1 hesc 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. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 502, line 4. 
 State of the poll (last day) 5. 
 
 Note 2. Page 502, line 6. 
 
 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 tne money to a Papist, being all 
 for the memory of Perceval, and " No Popery ;" and 
 quite regretting the downfall of the Pope, because we 
 can't burn him any more. 
 
 Note 3. Page 503, line 1. 
 " Glance their many-twinkling feet." Gray. 
 
 Note 4. Page 503, line 21. 
 
 To rival Lord W.'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 fight- 
 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 1" 
 
 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 in Pope's couplet, 
 it will, according to the farmer's proverb, be " plough- 
 ing with dogs." 
 
 By the by one of this illustrious person's new titles 
 is forgotten it is, however, worth remembering "Sal- 
 vador del mundo !" creditf, po.iteri ! If this be the 
 uppellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula 
 to the name of a man who has not yet saved them 
 q uer y 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 super- 
 stition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves 
 there can be little to dread from those Catholics (in- 
 uisitorial Catholics too^ who can confer such an ap- 
 ellation on a Protestant, 1 suppose next year he will 
 bt entitled the " Virgin Mary :" if so, Lord George Gor- 
 2 v 3 ' 69 
 
 don himself would have nothing to object to such liberal 
 bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 
 
 Note 5. Page 503, line 7. 
 
 The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be 
 sufficiently commended nor subscribed for. Amongst 
 other details omitted in the various despatches of oui 
 eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much 
 occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swim- 
 ming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impas- 
 sable), that one entire province perished by famine in 
 the most melancholy manner, as follows : In General 
 Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the consump- 
 tion of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market 
 was inadequate to the demand : and thus one hundred 
 and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death, 
 by being reduced to wholesome diet ! The lamplighters 
 of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a-piece, 
 and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a 
 quantity of best moulds (four to the pound) to the re- 
 lief of the surviving Scythians the scarcity will soon, 
 by such exertions, and a proper attention to the quality 
 rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alle- 
 viated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine 
 has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal 
 to our suffering manufacturers. 
 
 Note 6. Page 504, line 5. 
 
 Dancing girls who do for hire what Waltz doth 
 gratis. 
 
 Note 7. Page 504, line 20. 
 
 It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baus- 
 siere'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 question* 
 able. Much may be and hath been avouched on both 
 sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers 
 and soldiers none Scipio himself was shaven Han- 
 nibal thought his one eye handsome enough without 
 a beard; but Adrian, the Emperor, wore a beard 
 (having warts on his chin, which neither the Empress 
 Sabina, nor even the courtiers, could abide) Turenne 
 had whiskers, Marlborough none Buonaparte is un- 
 
 whiskered, the R whiskered ; " argal" greatness of 
 
 mind and whiskers may or may not go together : but 
 certainly the different occurrences, 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 Uam Alley, 1661, act I. scene 1. 
 
 " Taffeta. Now, for a wager What colour'd beard 
 comes next by the window ? 
 
 " Adriana. A black man's, I think. 
 
 " Taffeta. I think not so : I think a red, tor that u 
 most in fashion. ' : 
 
 There is " nothing new under the sun ;" but red, 
 then a favourite, has now subsided into a favourit^i 
 colour. 
 
 NoteS. Page 504, line 40. 
 
 An anachronism Waltz, and the battle of Auster,itz 
 are before said to have opened the ball together : tne 
 hard means (if he means any thing; Waltz was not so 
 
 much in vogue till the k 1 attained the acme o*' 
 
 his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and Uw 
 new government, illuminated heaven and earth, in aU
 
 5W> 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 iheir glory, much about the same time ; of these the 
 comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue 
 to astonish us stiil. PRINTER'S DEVIL. 
 
 Note 9. Page 504, line 44. 
 
 Amongst others a new ninepence a creditahle coin 
 now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest 
 calculation. 
 
 Note 10. Page 504, line 51. 
 
 " 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 Jet 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." 
 
 Note 11. Page 504, line 56. 
 
 The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank 
 as he pleases there are several dissyllabic names at his 
 
 service (being already in the R t's) : it would not b 
 
 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 ho 
 the favourite, much against the wishes of the knwving 
 ones. 
 
 Note 12. Page 504, line 74. 
 
 " We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor, 
 " 't is all gone Asmodeus know? where. After all, it 
 is of no great importance how women's hearts are dis- 
 posed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them 
 as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men 
 with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those 
 phenomena often mentioned in natural history ; viz. a 
 mass of solid stone only to be opened by force and 
 when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, 
 and with the reputation of being venomous." 
 Note 13. Page 504, line 94. 
 
 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. Vtd 
 Morier's Travels. 
 
 Efte Hament of 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 AT Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
 MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Gnarini's Pastor 
 Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto ; 
 and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of 
 the "latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for 
 posterity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
 where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna 
 attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 
 monument of Ariosto at least it had this effect en me. 
 There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
 second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the 
 wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
 much decayed and depopulated ; the castle still exists en- 
 tire ; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
 beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 
 
 'HIE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 i. 
 
 I,.NO years ! It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
 
 And eagle-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 
 
 1 'arches the heart : and the abhorred grate, 
 
 Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
 
 Works through the throbbing eye-ball to the brain 
 
 With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
 
 And bare, at once, cantivity displayed 
 
 Sianas scoffing tnrougn the ncver-open'd gate, 
 
 tVhi"h nothing through its bars admits, save day 
 
 And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
 
 Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
 
 And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
 
 Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
 
 Which is my lair, and it may be my grave. 
 
 All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
 
 But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
 
 For I have battled with mine agony, 
 
 And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
 
 And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
 
 And revell'd among men and things divine, 
 
 And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 
 In honour of the sacred war for him, 
 
 The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
 
 For he hath strengthcn'd me in heart and limb. 
 
 That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 
 
 I have employ'd my penance to record 
 
 How Salem's shrine was won. and how adored. 
 
 II. 
 
 But this is o'er my pieasant task is aone : 
 
 My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 
 
 If 1 do blot thy final page with tears, 
 
 Know that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
 
 But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
 
 Which ever playing round me came and smiled. 
 
 And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sij;ht, 
 
 Thou too art gone- -and so is my delight : 
 
 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 
 With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
 
 Thou too art ended what is left me now ? 
 
 For I have anguish yet to bear and how ? 
 
 I know not that but in the innate force 
 
 Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
 
 I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 50; 
 
 Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad and why ? 
 
 Oh Leonora ! wilt not tlinu reply ? 
 
 t 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 jecause 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 ; 't is their fate 
 
 To have all feeling save the one decay, 
 
 And every passion into one dilate, 
 
 As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
 
 But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 
 
 III. 
 
 Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
 
 Of minds and bodies in .captivity. 
 
 And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
 
 And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 
 
 There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 
 
 Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'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, 
 
 'Mid 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
 
 I had forgotten half I would forpef, 
 
 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 ev'n men mankind ; 
 
 Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to hlows, 
 
 And each is tortured in his separate hell 
 
 For we are crowded in our solitudes 
 
 Many, but each divided by the wall, 
 
 Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; 
 
 While all can hear, none heed 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 ? 
 
 Who have debased me in the minds of men, 
 
 Debarring me the usage of my own, 
 
 Blighting my life in best of its career, 
 
 Branding my thoughts as things 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 7 
 
 N<~ ! still too proud to be vindictive I 
 
 H.IVP pp.rdon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
 
 Yes, sister of my sovereign ! for thy sake 
 
 I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
 
 it hath PO business wliPro tfwv art a guest ; 
 
 Thy brother hates but I can not detest, 
 Thou pitiest not but I can not forsake. 
 
 V. 
 
 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-ethereal dart ! 
 And thus at the collision of thy name 
 The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
 And for a moment all things as they were 
 Flit by me ; they are gone I am the same. 
 And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
 I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
 A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
 I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
 Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
 And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
 Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
 And yet I did not venture to repine. 
 Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
 Worshipp'd at holy distance, ana around 
 Hallow'd anJ 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is no marvel from my very birtn 
 
 My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
 
 And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 
 Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
 
 And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
 
 Where I did lay me down within the shade 
 
 Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hour*. 
 
 Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
 
 Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
 
 Of such materials wretched men were made. 
 
 And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
 
 And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
 
 And then they smote me, and I did not wee,), 
 
 But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
 
 Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
 
 The visions which arise without a sleep. 
 
 And with my years my soul began to pant 
 
 With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain , 
 
 And the whole heart exhaled into one want. 
 
 But undefined, and wandering, till the dav
 
 508 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 1 found the thing I sought and that was thee ; 
 And then I lost my being all to be 
 Absorb'd in thine the world was past away 
 fltou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 I loved all solitude but little thought 
 To spend I know not what of life, remote 
 From all communion with existence, save 
 The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
 Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
 My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave ; 
 But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
 Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
 The world is all before him mine is here, 
 Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
 What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
 And with a dying glance upbraid the sky 
 I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
 Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
 But with a sense of its decay: I see 
 Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
 And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
 With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
 The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
 But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so, 
 Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
 And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
 I thought mine enemies had been but man, 
 But spirits may be leagued with them all earth 
 Abandons Heaven forgets me ; in the dearth 
 Of such defence the powers of evil can, 
 It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
 Against the outworn creature they assail. 
 Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
 Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved ! 
 Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
 Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I once was quick in feeling that is o'er ; 
 
 My 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 bo w 
 
 The much I have recounted, and the more 
 
 Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die 
 
 And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
 
 Which snared me here, and with the brand of shams 
 
 Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
 
 And woo compassion to a blighted name, 
 
 Scaling 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, shall fall down, 
 
 And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, 
 
 A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
 
 A poet's d'.mgeon thy most far renown, 
 
 While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! 
 
 And thou, Leonora ! thou who wert ashamed 
 
 That such as I could love who blush'd to hear 
 
 To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
 
 Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 
 
 By grief, years, weariness and it may be 
 
 A taint of that he would 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 lowers 
 
 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 shall 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 ihee from nay heart. 
 
 Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
 
 To be entwined for ever but too late ! 
 
 J&elotrCcs. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE subsequent poems were written at the request 
 of my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 
 Hebrew Melodies, arid have been published, with ihe 
 music, arranged by Mr. BRAHAM and Mr. NATHAN. 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 SHF walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of rjfudless climes and starry skies ; 
 
 And all that 's best of dark and bright 
 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 Thus mellow'd to thai lender 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 lightens o'er her face 5 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-placa 
 And on that cheek, and o'er thai brow, 
 
 So sofl, so calm, yel eloquent, 
 The smiles thai win, the linls that glow. 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart *nose love is innocent *
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 500 
 
 THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
 
 SWEPT. 
 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 sofien'd men of iron mould, 
 
 It gave them virtues not their own 5 
 No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 
 
 That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
 
 Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 
 
 It told the triumphs of our king, 
 
 It wafted our 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. 
 
 IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 
 
 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 : 't is not for self 
 
 That we so tremble on the brink ; 
 And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 THE WILD GAZELLE. 
 
 THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound, 
 And drink from all the living rills 
 
 That gush on holy ground ; 
 Its airy step and glorious eye 
 
 May glance in tameless transport by : 
 
 A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
 
 Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inhabitants more fair. 
 The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
 But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 
 
 More 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. 
 
 OH ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
 Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell : 
 Mourn where their God hath dwelt the godless dwc- 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
 And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that 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 
 
 ON Jordan's banks the Arab's camels straj , 
 
 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 tf ep . 
 
 There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone' 
 There where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
 Thyself none living see and not expire ! 
 
 Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
 Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spter . 
 How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod? 
 How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ? 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 SrNCE 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 thee 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 gu?h'-i 
 When the voice that thou lovest is hush'o, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride. 
 And forget not I smiled as I diecf .
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 OH! SNATCfl'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
 BLOOM. 
 
 OH ! snaLch.'A way in beauty's bloom, 
 On thee shal 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 this unteach us to complain ? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 
 And tliou who tell'st me to forget, 
 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 MY SOUL IS DARK. 
 Mr 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 ; 
 I f in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 
 'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain : 
 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
 I 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 't is doom'd to know the worst, 
 
 And break at once or yield to song. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEEP. 
 I SAW thee weep the big bright tear 
 
 Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
 *.nd then methought it did appear 
 
 A violet dropping dew ; 
 I saw thee smile the 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 
 
 Thai lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
 
 THY Days are done, thy fame begun ; 
 T/iv country's Btrai&t record 
 
 'ITie 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 treo 
 Thou shall not taste of death ! 
 
 The generous blood that flow'd from thp<* 
 Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
 
 Within our veins its currents be, 
 Thy spirit on our breath : 
 
 Thy name, our charging hosts 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. 
 
 SONG OF 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-dav ' 
 
 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 the 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 irame 
 Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
 Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 
 "Why is my sleep disquieted? 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 Is it thou, oh king? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
 Such are mine ; and such shall be 
 Thine, to-morrow, when 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, 
 I terced by shafts of many a bow :
 
 HEBREW MELODIES 
 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart, thy hand shall guide : 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 
 
 1 ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER.' 
 
 FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
 
 And health and youth possess'd me ; 
 My gohlcts 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 the heart, 
 
 Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
 It will not list to wisdom's lore, 
 
 Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
 But there it stings for evermore 
 
 The soul that must endure it. 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 
 ING CLAY. 
 
 WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
 
 Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay, 
 
 But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 
 
 A thought 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 pasrutiless and pure : 
 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year . 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing, 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fl? 
 A nameless and eternal thing, 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 THE king was on his throne, 
 
 The satraps throng'd the hail ; 
 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 ; 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them like a wana. 
 
 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 appeal, 
 
 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 new 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 Mode is at his> gate ' 
 
 The Persian on his throne!" 
 
 SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS' 
 
 N of the sleepless ! melancholy star ' 
 Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far
 
 512 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Th;it show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
 How like art thou to joy rcmember'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 ! 
 
 WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
 
 DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 
 
 WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 
 I need not have wander'd from far Galilee; 
 It was but abjuring my creed to efface 
 The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
 If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
 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 lan^ and the life which for him I resign. 
 
 HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
 
 OH, Mariamne ! now for thee 
 
 The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
 Revenge is lost in agony, 
 
 And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
 Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou? 
 
 Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
 All, couldst thou thou wouldst pardon now, 
 
 Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
 
 And is she dead ? and did they dare 
 
 Obey my frenzy'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 saving. 
 
 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 THE DESTRUCTION OF 
 JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 
 
 FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
 I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome: 
 T was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
 ''lash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 
 
 I look'd for thy temple, I look'd. for my home, 
 
 And to'got for a moment my bondage to come ; 
 
 I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane. 
 
 And !h fast -fetter' d hands that made vengeance in vain. 
 
 On many an eve, the High sriot whence I gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of day a it blazed ; 
 While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
 Of the rays from the mountain that sh: ne on thy shnnn. 
 
 And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
 But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
 Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head 1 
 
 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. 
 
 BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
 DOWN AND WEPT. 
 
 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 daughters ! 
 Were scatter'd all weeping away. 
 
 While sadly we gazed on the river 
 Which roll'd on in freedom below, 
 
 They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
 That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
 
 May this right hand be vvither'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 ! 
 
 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 still. 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride > 
 And the foam of h\r gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the swor<?, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glanr of iSe Lo-l '
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 FROM JOB. 
 
 A tPiRiT 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 ; 
 And a* my damp hair stiifen'd, thus it spake : 
 
 " Is man more just than God ? Is man more pur' 
 Than he who deems even seraphs insecure ? 
 Creatures of clay 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!' 1 
 
 ODE 
 
 TO 
 
 NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 *" Expends Annibalern :- 
 Invenieil" 
 
 quot libras in duce summo 
 
 JUVtNAL, Sat. X. 
 
 ** The Emperor Ncpos was acknowledged by the Senate, 
 by the Italians, and by the provincials of Gaul ; his moral 
 lues and military talenU were loudly celebrated; and those 
 who derived any private benefit from his government an- 
 uounced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. 
 
 P.y this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few 
 rears, in a very ambiguous state, between an emperor and 
 
 co exile, till " 
 
 GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 T is 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 taught'st 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, 
 fhal soell 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. 
 2 W 70 
 
 The triumph and the vanitv, 
 
 The rapture of the strife ' 
 The earthquake shout of Victory, 
 
 To thee 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 ! what must 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 cope ? 
 
 Or dread of death alone? 
 To die a prince or live a slave 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 
 
 He 9 who of old would rend the oak 
 Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
 
 Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke, 
 Alone how look'd he r ound ? 
 
 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, 1 when his burning heart 
 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
 Threw down the dagger dared deport, 
 
 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 abandon'd power. 
 
 The Spaniard, 4 when the lust of swaj 
 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 : 
 
 1 C'ertaminig gaudia, the expression of Attiia, in 
 rangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalou* 
 in Cassiodorus. 
 
 2 Milo. 
 
 3 Sylla. 
 
 4 Charles V
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Vet better had he never known 
 
 A. bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 But thou from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung 
 Too late thou leavest the high command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung ; 
 All evil spirit as thou art, 
 It is enough to grieve the heart, 
 
 To see thine own unstrung ; 
 To think that God's fair world hath been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean ; 
 
 And earth hath spilt her 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 woriu -gain 
 But who would soar the solar height, 
 To set in such a starless night ? 
 
 Wei^h'd in the balance, hero dust 
 
 lt> vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales, mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away ; 
 But yet, methought, the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate 
 
 To dazzle and dismay ; 
 Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 
 
 And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing hour? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side ? 
 Must she too bend, must she too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair, 
 
 Thou throneless homicide ? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
 'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 
 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea ; 
 That element may meet thy smile, 
 
 It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand, 
 In loitering mood, upon the sand, 
 
 That earth is now as free ! 
 fhat Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
 Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 fhou Timor ! in his captive's cage 1 
 What thoughts will there be thine, 
 
 Vhile brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
 Bui one " The world was mine:" 
 
 Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 
 All sense is with thy sceptre gone. 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely fortn 
 So long obey'd so little worth ! 
 
 Or like the thief of fire from heaven, 
 
 Wilt thou withstand the shock? 
 And share wirh him, the unforgiven, 
 
 His vulture and his rock? 
 Foredoom'd by God by man accurst, 
 And that last act, though not thy worst, 
 
 The very fiend's arch mock ; 2 
 He in his fall preserved his pride, 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ' 
 
 MONODY 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SrtERIDAN 
 
 SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 
 
 WHEN lae 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 \\t/s> 
 
 A holy concord and a bright regret, 
 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The flash of wit the bright intelligence, 
 
 The beam of song the blaze of eloquence, 
 
 Set with their sun but still have left behind 
 
 The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
 
 Fruits of a genial .morn, and glorious noon, 
 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 
 But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
 
 These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
 
 Which all embraced and lighten'd over all, 
 
 To cheer to pierce to please or to appal 
 
 From 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 the-' pr irta 
 
 1 Promertieus. 
 
 2 "The fiend's arch mock 
 To lip a wanton, and suppose lisr chaste." 
 
 Shaksptort
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 VVneii the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 
 tlis was the thunder his the avenging rod, 
 
 The wrath the delegated voice of God ! 
 
 fVhich shook the nations through his lips and blazec 
 
 1 ill vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 A i) here, oh ! here, where, yet all young and warm, 
 Thu gay creations of his spirii 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 
 To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
 Here in their first abode you still may meet, 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat ; 
 \ halo of the light of other days, 
 Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
 But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
 Of failing wisdom yields a base delight, 
 Men who exull when minds of heavenly tone 
 Jar in the music which was born their own, 
 Still let them pause Ah ! little do they know 
 That what to them seem'd vise might be but woe. 
 Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
 Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
 Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
 And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye 
 Stands sentine' 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 join'd 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 given 
 Bear nearts electric charged with fire from heaven, 
 Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
 Driven o'er the louring atmosphere that nurst 
 Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder scorch and 
 
 burst. 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 Such things should be if such have ever been ; 
 Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
 fo 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. 
 
 1 See Fox. Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan'ii speech 
 on the charges exhibited agninst Mr Hastings in the House of 
 1,'oinmons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House 10 adjourn, to give 
 tin?" for a calmer or>naidp-i.ion of tlie question than could 
 hen occur alter me mimeaiiue effect jf that oration. 
 
 Ye orators ! whom yet our council 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-emr .ence, 
 Long shall we seek his likeness- -long in vain, 
 And turn to all of him which may remain, 
 Sighing that Nature form'd hut one such man, 
 And broke the die in moulding Sheridan ! 
 
 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, 
 To the long-cherish 'd Isle which he loved like his 
 bride. 
 
 True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
 The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pauzo 
 
 For the few little years, out of centuries won, 
 
 Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not he* 
 cause. 
 
 True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
 The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, 
 
 And the famine, which dwelt on her 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 chain, though it drops from his hands. 
 For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 
 
 But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! 
 
 Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
 Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 
 
 With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 
 
 He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score, 
 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 this dance in thy chain. 
 And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. 
 
 Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? 
 
 Were he God as he is but the commonest clay, 
 With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow 
 
 Such servile devotion might shame him away. 
 
 Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
 Their fanciful spirits to pamper his prido 
 
 Vot thus did thy GKATTAN indignantly flasn 
 His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 
 
 fox. Pitt, Burke
 
 iifi 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ever glono is GRATTAN ! the best of the good ! 
 
 So simp 1 ,': in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
 With all wnich Demosthenes wanted, endued, 
 
 And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 
 
 Krc Tt'LLV arose in the zenith of Rome, 
 
 Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun 
 
 But GRATTAN sprung up like a god from the tomb 
 Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One ! 
 
 With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 
 
 With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
 Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, 
 
 And corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of 
 his mind. 
 
 But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 
 
 Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
 True Freedom but welcomes, 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 if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
 If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay, 
 
 Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
 With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
 their prey ? 
 
 Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to rei^n, 
 To reign ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised, 
 
 The cause of the curses all annals contain, 
 From CAESAR the dreaded, to GEORGE the despised ! 
 
 Wear, FINGAL, thy trapping '. O'CONNEL, 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 young 
 Prince !" 
 
 Will thy yard of blue riband, poor FINGAL, recall 
 The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 
 
 Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
 The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ? 
 
 Ay ! M 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 stuflT'd to the gorge ! 
 
 \nd the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
 The Fourth of the fools and oppressors eall'd 
 "GEORGE!" 
 
 I-iet the takes be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 
 
 Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe ! 
 1*4 the wine flew around the old Bacchanal's throne, 
 
 Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has 
 to flow. 
 
 But let not his name be thine iaol alone 
 On his right liand behold a SEJAJJUS appears ! 
 
 Fhmown CASTLEREAOH ! let him still be thine own! 
 \ wretch, neve' named but with curses and jeers ! 
 
 Till now, when the Isle which should blush for his birth, 
 Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil. 
 
 Seems proud of tne reptile which crawl'd from her earth. 
 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 ner race 
 
 The miscreant who weJ mignt p.unge ERIN in doubt 
 If she ever gave oirtn ..o o being so base. 
 
 If she did let her .ong-ooastea proverb be hush'd, 
 Which procla'ms tnat from ERIN no reptile can 
 spring 
 
 See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd. 
 Still warming its (olds in the breast of a King ! 
 
 Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! ERIN, how low 
 Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyrannv, till 
 
 Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
 The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 
 
 My voice, though bu '.mmble, 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 stil 
 for thee ! 
 
 Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
 land, 
 
 I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, 
 And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
 
 Who are gone, but 1 weep them no longer as once. 
 
 For happy are they 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 their shore, 
 
 Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled, 
 
 There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
 Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy thy dead. 
 
 Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 
 
 My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
 Which though trod like the worm will not turn upoi 
 
 Power, 
 
 'Tis the glory of GRATTAN, and genius ofMooRB I 
 Sevt. 16<A, 1821. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 OUR life is twofold : sleep hath its own world, 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence ; sleep hath its own world, 
 And a wide realm of wild reality, 
 And dreams in their developement have breath, 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
 They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
 They take a weight from off our waking toih, 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 51* 
 
 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 arc they ? 
 Creations 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 a vision which I dream'd 
 Perchance in sleep for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 II. 
 
 1 saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 
 Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; the hill 
 vVas crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself but the boy gazed on her ; 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful: 
 Arid both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
 He had no breath, no being, but in her's ; 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 
 Which colour'd all his objects ; he had ceased 
 To live within himself; she was his life, 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 And his cheek change tempestuously his heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 Even as a brother but no more ; 't was much, 
 For brotheness she was, save in the name 
 Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not and why? 
 Time taught him a deep answer when she loved 
 Another ; even now she loved another, t 
 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 Kept pace wkh her expectancy, and flew. 
 2 w 2 
 
 III. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : ' 
 
 Within an antique oratory stood 
 
 The boy of whom I spake ; he was alone, 
 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro ; anon 
 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 
 Words which I could not guess of: then he lean'd 
 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't wer 
 
 With a convulsion then arose again, 
 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 
 Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
 
 The lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 
 She knew she was by him beloved, she knew, 
 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded as it came ; 
 
 He dropp'd 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer. 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
 Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 horn*. 
 She dwelt, begirt w' .h growing infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of beauiy, uot behold ' 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 As if its lid were charged with unshiid lean
 
 018 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 What could her grief be ? she had all she loved, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 FQ 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, 
 Noi could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind a spectre of the past. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The wanderer was return'd. I saw him stand 
 Before an altar with a gentle bride ; 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 The star-light of his boyhood ; as he stood 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 The self-same 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 thoughts 
 Was traced, and then it faded as it came, 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
 Not that which was, nor that which should 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 that place and hour, 
 And her who was his destiny came back, 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 frenzy ; 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 ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 
 Fur blight and desolation, compass'd round 
 With hatred and contention ; pain was mix'd 
 In ail which was served up to him, until, 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 1 
 He t'ei' on poisons, and they had no power, 
 But wore a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 fhrou.;!i that which had been death to many men, 
 Aiui ni<*d: him friends of mountains : with the stars 
 
 1 Mitnndatcs of Pontiu. 
 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 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. 
 
 ODE. 
 I. 
 
 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 streou 
 Oh ! agony that centuries should reap 
 No mellower harvest ! Thirteen 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 overheating of the heart, 
 And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
 The aid of age to turn its course apart 
 From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
 Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. 
 But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
 The weeds of nations in their last decay, 
 When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, 
 And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
 And hope is nothing but a false delay, 
 The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
 When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, 
 And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
 Of the cold staggering race which death is winning, 
 Steals vein 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 agair. 
 He feels his spirit soaring albeit weax, 
 And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
 And as he whispers knows not tb: t he gasps, 
 That his thin finger feels not what it clasps.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 519 
 
 And so the film comes o'er him and the dizzy 
 Chamber r*ims 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, atid the earth 
 That which it was the moment ere our birth. 
 
 n. 
 
 There is no hope for nations ! Search the page 
 Of many thousand years the daily scene, . 
 The fbw 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 't is our nature stnkes 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 to slaughter. 
 Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
 What have they given your children in return ? 
 A heritage of servitude and woes, 
 A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows. 
 What ? do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
 O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, 
 And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 
 Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
 And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
 All that your sires have left you, all that time 
 Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime, 
 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 cngender'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 drought, are loud, 
 And trample on each other to obtain 
 The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
 Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they plough'd 
 The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain 
 'T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 
 And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : 
 Yes ! the few spirits who, despite of deeds 
 Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
 Those momentary starts, from Nature's laws, 
 Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
 But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
 With all her seasons to repair the blight 
 With a few summers, and again put forth 
 Cities and generations fair, when free 
 For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Glory and empire ! once upon these towers 
 
 With freedom godlike triad ! how ye sate ! 
 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 wero enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 
 
 And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
 Althou::h they humbled with the kingly few 
 The many felt, for from all days and climes 
 She a* the voyager's worship; even her crimes 
 
 Were of the softer order born of love, 
 She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dea>., 
 But gladden'd where her harmless con<]uesit> 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, whicn 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 
 With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The name of commonwealth is past and gone 
 
 O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
 Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 
 
 A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
 If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
 His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, 
 For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
 And in its own good season tramples down 
 The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
 Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
 Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
 Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, ana 
 Bequeath'd a heritage of heart and hand, 
 And proud distinction from each other land, 
 Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 Full of the magic of exploded science 
 Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
 Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 
 Above the far Atlantic ! She has taught 
 Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 
 The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
 May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
 Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever 
 Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 
 That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
 Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
 And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
 Three paces, and then faltering: belter be 
 Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
 In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
 Than stagnate in our marsh, or o'er the deep 
 Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
 One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
 One freeman more, America, to thee! 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 
 Some name arrests the passer-by ; 
 Thus, when thou view's! this page alone, 
 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
 
 And wnen by thee tb.it name is read, 
 Perchance in some succeeding yeaj, 
 
 Reflect on me as on the dead, 
 
 And think my heart is buried tier* 
 Septembrr \4lh, 1809.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 
 
 DEL 
 
 SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA, 
 BL CUAL DECIA EN ARABIGO ASI. 
 
 PASEABASE el Rey more 
 Por la ciudad de Granada, 
 Desde la puerta dc Elvira 
 Hasta la de Bivarambla. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Cartas le fucron venidas 
 Que Alhama era ganada. 
 Las cartas ech6 en el fuego, 
 Y al mensagero matarau 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Descavalga de una mula, 
 Y en un caballo cavalga. 
 Por el Zacatin arriba 
 Subido se habia al Alhambra. 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
 Al mismo punto mandaba 
 Que se toquen las trompetas 
 Con anafilos de plata. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Y que atambores de guerra 
 Apriesa toquen alarma ; 
 Por que lo origan sus Moros, 
 Los de la Vega y Granada. 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Los Moros que el son oyeron, 
 Que al sangriento Marte llama, 
 Uno A uno, y dos d dos, 
 Un gran escuadron formaban. 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Alii hab!6 un Moro viejo ; 
 De esta manera hablaba : 
 " i Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 
 I Para que es esta llamada ?" 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 " Habeis de saber, amigos, 
 ifna nueva desdichada : 
 Que cristianos, con bravcza, 
 Ya nos han tornado Alhama." 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Alii nab!6 un v-^jo Alfaqui, 
 De barba crecida y cana : 
 Bien se ic emplca, buen Rey; 
 Buen Rey, bien se te emplcaba. 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 " Mataste IDS Bencerrages, 
 Que e*an la " > ae Granada; 
 " Jogiste los tornadizos 
 Of C6rdova 'a nomorada. 
 Av de mi, Alhama 
 
 A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 
 
 ON THE 
 
 SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, 
 
 IVhich, in the Arabic language, it to the fallowing 
 
 purport. 
 
 [The effect of the original ballad (which existed both in 
 Spanish and Arabic) was such thai it was forbidden to be 
 sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada, j 
 
 THE Moorish king rides up and down 
 Through Granada's royal town ; 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Letters to the monarch (ell 
 How Alhama's city fell ; 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 And through the street directs his course ; 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 To the Alhambra spurring in. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
 On the moment he ordain'd 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And when the hollow drums of wai 
 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 
 In 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, stem 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 has', 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 '
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS- 
 
 52' 
 
 For eso mereces, Rey, 
 Una pena bien doblada ; 
 Que te pierdas tu y el reino, 
 Y que se pierda Granada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Albania! 
 
 Si no se respetan leyes, 
 Es ley que todo se pierda ; 
 y que se pierda Granada, 
 Y que te pierdas en ella. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
 El Rey que esto oyera, 
 Y como el otro de leyes 
 De leyes tambien hablaba. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Sabe un Rey que no hay leyes 
 De darle & Reyes disgusto. 
 Eso dice el Rey moro 
 Relinchando de c61era. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
 El de la vellida barba, 
 El Rey te manda prender, 
 ^or la perdida de Alhama. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 y cortarte la cabeza, 
 Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
 Per que d ti castigo sea, 
 Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Caballeros, hombres buenos, 
 Decid de mi parte al Rey, 
 Al Rey moro de Granada, 
 Como no le devo nada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 De aberse Alhama perdido 
 A mi me pesa en el alma ; 
 Que si el Rey perdi6 su tierr 
 Otro mucho mas perdiera. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama . 
 
 Perdieran hijos padres, 
 Y casados las casadas : 
 Las cosas que mas amara 
 Perdu) uno y otro fatna. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Perdi una hija doncella 
 Que era la flor d' esta tierra ; 
 Cien doblas daba por ella, 
 No me las estimo en nada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 Diciendo asi al hacen Alfaqui, 
 Le cortaron la cabe?a, 
 Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
 Asi como el Rey lo manda. 
 Ay de mi, 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 saw. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Cavalier ! and man of worth ! 
 Let these words of mine go forth ; 
 Let the Moorish monarch know, 
 That to him I nothing owe : 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
 And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
 And if the king his land hath losi, 
 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 sain 
 They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
 4nd to the Alhambra's wail with speeo 
 T was carried, as the king decreed. 
 Woe is me, Alhama '
 
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 B V RON'S WORKS. 
 
 "R1TTE.V AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS 
 TO ABTDOS,' MAY 9, ISO. 
 
 far, m the month of dark December, 
 
 I .gander, who was nightly wont 
 (What maid wifl not the tale remember ?) 
 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! 
 It, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 
 
 He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
 And thus of old thy current pourM, 
 
 Fair Venus! how I pity both! 
 For Me, degenerate modern wretch, 
 
 Though in the genial month of May 
 My drip^ng bnbs I faintly stretch, 
 
 Aid thmk I've done a teat to-day. 
 But since be crossed the rapid tide. 
 
 According to the doubtful story, 
 
 And swam (or Vore, as I for glory ; 
 T were hard to say who fared the best: 
 
 Sad mortals! thus the gods stiB plague you ! 
 He lost tus labour, I my jest, 
 
 For be was drown'd, and I've the ague. 
 
 ATHE3S, 1810. 
 
 MAID of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, oh, give me back uiy heart! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep ft now, and take tbe rest! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 
 10:-JM3co-'MiT.-r:C .wh- tr* 
 lyissi m urn 
 
 C-p^ir Birh'jrjf 
 rl of that 
 
 fricakt ami Ike water of these rhymes swam (root UK Euro- 
 pea* shore to the Asiatic by-the-by. from Abydos to Settoi 
 ; correct. Tbe whole distance from the 
 
 tin isgthefcacth we were carried by the enrresa. was cosa- 
 paasd by those OB bawd the frigate at upwards of four Bac- 
 ish niies; though tbe aebnl breadth is bare.'y one. The 
 rapidity of ike current UK* that no boat can row directly 
 
 .iiiirii nflhr^il- fill n Vrfrrir mihfciil tir nnr 
 W Ike SMtin a* har aad ire. aad bj the otker m an boar 
 and tea im The water wai estnmelr cold. COB the 
 aiekiBC of tk* 
 
 u: Apr:., we bad rriue 1^ BttH^t. IM tiT.M mUsi a.: t 
 
 bH tiw frieate ucbored below tbe cutlet, when 
 
 way above the Eavopeaa. sad Itadmc below the Asiatic fort. 
 Chavafier say* that a yowac Jew swam the same distance for 
 his nalirm . and Ofirer meatioa< its baring been dose by a 
 
 A -~*T tl ---rr s.i#-::e-i ::** w^ ir.. u - -. o t iT ' e 
 I a cnater distasce; aad the only ting that sor- 
 . that. Mdoobtshadbeea eMertamed of the tram 
 ofI^oad<^siUir7.B<ftraveBerhadevereadeavoaredtoascer- 
 aia it* practicability. 
 
 2 Z*r mum. tut mgmf.m Zvm. 0*8, vmf ayaT-5, a Romaic 
 inaiwann of teademeK : ifltraaslale it I sfaal aflnmtlhe 
 
 tf I do aot, I may affroot the bMliet For fear of aay mmtosr 
 struetkm on the part of the totter. I shal do so. beejios 
 paidoa of nv leaned. It means. "My fife, I lore yoa'" 
 which s ami ill Ty prerlly m aB lasoacea, aad is a* much 
 v fishin- m Gteeeeat ma day as. Jarenal teia us. the two 
 
 laJBcueniod. 
 
 By those tresses onccnfined, 
 Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
 By those '.:.:s whrso jc-"y fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge, 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 a j ay arw. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers' that teD 
 What words can never speak so weD ; 
 By lore's alternate joy and woe, 
 ZA, fof, 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I "* gone : 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 1 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love tbee 1 No ! 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GRFEK 
 WAR-SONG, 
 
 Aivrc tfiitt tvr 'EXX<frr, 
 
 Wrinea bySifa. who perished in tbe attempt to rerolHdoMl* 
 Greece. The following tranlauoa u Btera! as th* ante 
 could make it in Tose; it is of tbe *ane measure a* that o 
 
 Soxs of tbe Greeks, arise ! 
 
 The glorious hour's gone forth, 
 And, worthy of such ties, 
 
 Display who gave us birth. 
 
 S:r.s r-: Greeks, let us go 
 
 In arms against the foe, 
 TiU their hated blood shall flow 
 
 In a river past oar 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 coining strife ! 
 
 H-r-.v.'.vS r.l p3=t ir^. 
 
 Oh, start again to life ! 
 At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 
 
 Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
 And tbe seven-hill'd J city seeking, 
 
 Fight, conquer, til we 're free. 
 
 Sir-scf Greeks, etc. 
 
 Sparta, Sparta, why in dumber* 
 
 Lethargic dost thou lie? 
 Awake, and join thy numbci i 
 
 With Athens, old ally ! 
 
 1 la tbe East (where ladies are oottanxbt to write, lert tbey 
 mould scribble asstcnatioos) flowers, cinder*, pebble*, etc.. 
 
 t of the parties by that ahrenal deputy 
 i old woman. A cinder say*. " I born for '.bee-,' 
 i of flowers tied wnh hair, -Take me aad ly;' bat 
 declare* what nothmg. em caa.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 
 Lermidas recaulir.z, 
 
 That chid of ar.cienl son 2 
 Who saved yc or.ce from 
 
 The lemble, the strong ! 
 Who mi.- 5 lha: ixi!d diversion 
 
 In old Thermopylae, 
 And warrir.2 '';'-" ihe Persiin 
 
 To keep his country free ; 
 With his Lnrc-e hur..ir&d 
 
 The bi.;tle, long he stool, 
 And, bke a lion rapn?, 
 
 Expired in seas of Mood. 
 
 Sons of Greek*, etc. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 
 
 Mag fitim wfciefa thk a taken s gre*: taTocrite win the 
 gate of Alton of al rl Tfcrif miaarr afm 
 in rotatm. the 
 
 I have Ward it neqacndy at oar " 1 
 rofiaiO-lL TWairiiplaintneudnRttV. 
 
 I EsrrzE thy garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved and fak- Haidee, 
 Each morning when Flora reposes. 
 
 For surely I see her in thee. 
 Oh, lovely * thus low I implore thee, 
 
 Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
 Which utters its song to adore thee, 
 
 Yet trembles for what it has sung: 
 As the branch, at the bidding of nature, 
 
 Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
 Through her eyes, through her every feature, 
 
 Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 
 
 Bat the loveliest garden grows hateful. 
 
 When love has abandon'd the bowers; 
 Bring me hemlock once mine is ungrateful, 
 
 That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
 The poison, when pour'd from the chance, 
 
 WiB deeply embitter the bowl ; 
 Bat when drunk to escape from thy mafice. 
 
 The dranght shafl be sweet to my sodl 
 Too crod ! in vain I implore thee 
 
 My heart from these horrors to save : 
 W3I nought to my bosom restore thee 7 
 
 Then open the gates of the grave. 
 
 As the chief who to combat advances, 
 
 Secure of ha coDquest Sc!->re, 
 Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 
 
 Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
 Ah, tefl me, my soul ! roust I perish 
 
 By pangs which a cmue would dispel? 
 Would the hope, which tbou once bad 1 * i 
 
 For torture repay me too wefl ? 
 Now sad is the garden of roses, 
 
 Beioved but false Haidee! 
 rbere Flora al witherM reposes, 
 
 And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 
 
 ON P.\RTCSG. 
 
 In kiss, dear maid! thy up has left, 
 never part from mme. 
 
 Cnlai nied back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly 
 An equal love may see: 
 
 The tear that from thine eyebd strc 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 1 ask no pledge to make me blest. 
 
 Nor one memorial for abreast, 
 Whose thoughts are aB thine owi 
 
 Nor need I wrta to tefl the tale 
 My pen were doubly weak: 
 
 Oh! what can idle word* avail, 
 Unless the heart codd speak ? 
 
 By day or night, m weal or woe, 
 That heart, no longer free. 
 
 Most bear the love it cannot show, 
 And silent ache for thee. 
 
 TO THTRZA. 
 
 WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, 
 
 And say, what truth might weB have saao. 
 By aD, save one, perchance forgot. 
 
 Ah, wherefore art tbou lowly hud ' 
 By many a shore and many a sea 
 
 Divided, yet beloved m 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, 1 * 
 Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
 
 With fainter sighs, thy sooTs release. 
 And didst thou not, smce death for -flea 
 
 Prepared a Eght and passes* dart. 
 Once long for him thoa ne'er shak see, 
 
 Who held, and holds tbee m his heart? 
 Oh! who Eke him had watch'd thee here? 
 
 Or sadly marked thy ghang eye, 
 ! that dread hour ere death appear, 
 
 * ntn 5-."?r* sory!' "* t^^r? ii rir., 
 Tia all was past? But when no more 
 
 T was thme to reck of human woe, 
 Affection's heart-drops, gashing o'er, 
 
 Had flow'd as fast as now they flow 
 Shafl they not flow, when many a day 
 
 In these, to me, deserted towers, 
 Ere eaJTd but for a time away, 
 
 Affection's mmghng tears were oars? 
 Ours too the glance i 
 
 Thesmiew 
 The wmsper'd thoogfat of hearts afied. 
 
 The pressure of tie thrffimg hand; 
 The kiss so guiUess and refined. 
 
 That love each < 
 
 h'd to olead for mot* 
 The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 
 
 When prone, unlike thee, to repine, 
 The song celestial from thy voice, 
 
 B in cwee: io =.~ i: ,.ra n< - *-: i^aat .
 
 26 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 The pledge we wore I wear it still, 
 
 But where is thine ? ah, where art thou ? 
 Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
 
 Bat neves bent beneath tin now ! 
 WeH bast thou lea in life's best bloom 
 
 The cup of woe for roe to drain. 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 
 I woold not wish thee here again; 
 But if in worlds more blest than this 
 
 Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
 Impart some portion of thy bliss. 
 
 To wean me from mine anguish here. 
 Teach roe too early taught by thee ! 
 
 To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
 On earth thy lore was inch to me, 
 
 It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 Aw AT, away, ye note* 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 ! 
 1 mast not think, I may not gaze 
 
 On what I am, on what I was. 
 
 I1ie voice that made those sounds more sweet 
 
 Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
 And now their softest notes repeat 
 
 A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
 Fes, Thyrra ! yes, they breathe of thee. 
 
 Beloved dost ! since dust thou art ; 
 And aH that once was harmony 
 
 Is worse than discord to my heart ! 
 
 T is silent ai .'but on my ear 
 
 The weu-remember d echoes thriD ; 
 I hew a voice I would not hear, 
 
 A voice that now might wed be still ; 
 Yet oft niy doubting soul 't will shake : 
 
 Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
 Tifl consciousness wifl 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, 
 rVil long lament the vanish'd ray 
 
 That scauer'd gladness o'er his path. 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 On struggle more, and I am free 
 
 From pangs that rend my heart in twain, 
 One last long sigh to love and thee, 
 
 Tlien back to busy life again. 
 It suits me weE to mmgie no* 
 
 With things that never pleased before: 
 IViu^h every joy is fled below, 
 
 What future grief can touch me more? 
 
 Then bring me wine, the banquet brir^j ; 
 
 Man was not fbrm'd to live alone : 
 1 11 be that light unmeaning th : ng 
 
 That smiles with all and weeps with none 
 It was not thus in days more dear, 
 
 It never would have been, but thou 
 Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 
 
 Thou 'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 
 
 In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 
 
 The smile that sorrow fain would wear, 
 But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel a while 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 decm'd the heavenlv light 
 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; 
 And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
 
 When sailing o'er the ^gean 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, 
 " T is comfort still," I faintly said, 
 
 u That Thyrza cannot know my pains ' 
 Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 
 
 A boon 't is 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 different now thou meet'st my gaze . 
 
 How tinged oy time with sorrow's hoe ' 
 The heart that gave itself with thee 
 
 Is silent ah, were mine as still ! 
 Though cold as even the dead can be, 
 
 It feels, it sickens with the chill. 
 
 Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 
 
 Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
 Stili, still, preserve that love unbroken, 
 
 Or break the heart to which thou 'rt preat' 
 Time tempers love, but not removes, 
 
 More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 WHE* time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the Aeu 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wins 
 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 dishevelFd han, 
 To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 5'.' 
 
 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 who lives and him who dies. 
 
 T were sweet, my Psyche, to the last 
 Thy features still serene to see : 
 
 Forgetful of its struggles past, 
 
 Even Pain itself should smile on thee. 
 
 But vain the wish for Beauty still 
 Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
 
 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 death hath ceased to lour, 
 And pain been transient or unknown. 
 
 * Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 
 
 Where all have gone, and afl 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, 
 T is something better not to be. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 m> at em rdiqu nnu-i qua tn mCBiai 
 
 Awn 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 win not ask where thou best low, 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
 
 So I behold them not: 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I bred, and Ion? must jtra, 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 T is nothing that I loved so wriL 
 
 Yet did I lore thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou, 
 Who didst not change through aD the past, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where death has set his seal, 
 Nor age can chifl, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow: 
 And what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong, 01 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 loon. 
 
 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 fait the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watrJi it withering, leaf by leaC 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but in 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 foilow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last ; 
 
 ExtinguishM, not decay'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept, if I could weep, 
 
 My tears might well be shed, 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace. 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however rain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how maca less h were to gain. 
 
 Though thou hast left me free. 
 The lovefiest things that stifl remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread eternity, 
 
 Returns again tome, 
 And more thy buried tore endears 
 Than aught, except its living yean. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 IF sometimes in the haunts of mem 
 
 Thaw image from my breast may frite. 
 The lonely hour presents again 
 
 The semblance of thy gentle shade 
 And now that sad and silent hour 
 
 Thus much of thee can still restore, 
 And sorrow unobserved may pour 
 
 The plaint she dare not speak betuta. 
 
 Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 
 
 I waste one tlnxight I owe to thee, 
 And, setteondemu'd, appear to sniile. 
 
 Unfaithful to thy J
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Nor deem that memory less dear, 
 That then I seem not to repine ; 
 
 I would not fools should overhear 
 One sigh that should be wholly thine. 
 
 If not the goblet pass unquaff'd, 
 
 It is not drain'd to banish care, 
 The cup must hold a deadlier draught 
 
 That brings a Lethe for despair. 
 And could oblivion set my soul 
 
 From all her troubled visions fre^ 
 I 'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
 
 That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
 
 For wert thou banish'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, 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
 March Uth, 1812. 
 
 ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
 
 BROKEN. 
 ILL-FATED heart! and can it be 
 
 That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 
 Have years of care for thine and thce 
 Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 
 
 Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
 And every fragment dearer grown, 
 
 Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
 A fitter emblem of his own. 
 
 TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 
 rhi poem and the following were written some yean ago.] 
 FEV 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 know'st 
 
 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 wind 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, 
 Which 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 or 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 bee , 
 
 Man and the world I so much hate, 
 I care not when I quit the scene. 
 
 Buflhou, with spirit frail and light, 
 Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 
 
 As glow-worms sparkle through the nigh 
 But dare not stand the test of day. 
 
 Alas ! whenever folly calls 
 Where parasites and princes meet, 
 
 (For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
 The welcome vices kindly greet), 
 
 Even now tnou 'rt nightly seen to add 
 One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 
 
 And still thy trifling heart is glad, 
 To join the vain and court the proud 
 
 There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 
 Still simpering on with eager haste, 
 
 As flies along the gay parterre, 
 
 That taint the flowers they scarc!j \\SIM
 
 UTISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 52P 
 
 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. 
 
 WELL ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband 's blest and 't will impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
 
 But let them pass Oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not I 
 
 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 ! I must away : 
 
 While thou art blest, I '11 not repine ; 
 
 B;i. near thee I can never stay ; 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 
 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
 My heart in all, save hope, the same. 
 
 Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 My breast woulJ thrill before thy look ; 
 
 But now to tremble were a crime 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 ( saw thee gaze upon my face, 
 Yet meet with no confusion there : 
 
 Ofio only feeling couldst thou trace 
 1TVe sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Jt'tftjr ! away ! my early dream 
 gtemembrance never must awake : 
 
 Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream 7 
 My foolish heart, be still, or break. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 .! 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. 
 2x 3 72 
 
 To death even hours like these must rol. ; 
 
 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 shall sink : 
 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too wel! ; 
 Back to my breast the wanderers shrink 
 
 And droop within their silent cell. 
 
 ADDRESS, 
 
 8POKEIT AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANi 
 THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 
 
 IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
 Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride : 
 In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
 Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 
 
 Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and moum'd, 
 Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) 
 Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, 
 Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
 Saw the long column of revolving flames 
 Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
 While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
 Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 
 As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
 The skies with lightnings awful as their own, 
 Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
 Say shaH 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 7 
 
 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 veil ! 
 
 As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
 Oh ! might we draw our omens from the pasi. 
 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 ).*t 
 On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
 Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
 Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu 
 But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
 That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
 Such Drury claim'* 1 and claims nor you refust 
 One tribute to . _ve his slumbering muse ; 
 With garlands deck your own Menander's hcail! 
 Nor hoard your honours id!v for thi dead '
 
 530 
 
 .BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
 Heirs to their labon ?, like all high-born heirs, 
 Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs ; 
 While thus remembi ance borrows Banquo's glass, 
 To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
 And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
 Immortal names, embla/on'd on our line, 
 Pause ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
 Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 
 
 Friends of the stage ! to whom both players and nlays 
 
 Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
 
 Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
 
 The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
 
 If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
 
 And made us blush that you forbore to 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 echo'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. 
 
 The curtain rises may our stage unfold 
 
 Scones not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
 
 Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
 
 Stifl may we please long, long may you preside ! 
 
 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 my 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 thce, 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 ; 
 J nothing owe but years to thee, 
 
 A debt already paid in pain, 
 f et e'en that pain was some relief; 
 
 It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
 Flie active agony of grief 
 
 Retards, but never counts the hour. 
 In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 
 
 Would soon subside from swift to slow j 
 Thv cloud could overcast the light, 
 
 But could not add a night to woe ; 
 For then, however drear and dark, 
 
 My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
 t'nc star alone shot forth a spaik 
 
 To prove the* -not Eternity. 
 
 That beam hath 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 shortly shall be shown, 
 When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
 
 Must fall upon a nameless stone ! 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SON(J 
 
 AH ! Love was never yet without 
 The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
 Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
 While day and night roll darkling by. 
 
 Without one friend to hear my woe, 
 I faint, I 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 Lore around your haunts hath se 
 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, the look askance, 
 The lightning of love's angry glance. 
 
 In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine j 
 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 rne why 
 That pouting lip, and alter'd eye 7 
 My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
 And art thou changed, and canst thou hate * 
 
 Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
 What wretch with me would barter woe 1 
 My bird ! relent : one note could give 
 A charm, to bid thy lover Uve. 
 
 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. 
 
 My wounded soul, my bleeding breast. 
 Can patience preach thee into rest '/ 
 Alas ! too late I dearly know, 
 That joy is harbinger of woe.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 531 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
 
 'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 
 
 Too well thou lov'st too soon thou leavest. 
 
 The wholly false the heart despises, 
 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
 But she who not a thought disguises, 
 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, 
 When she can change who loved so truly, 
 It feels what mine lias 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 ran 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 warm'd ? 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 
 As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 
 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 
 
 ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
 "ORIGIN OF LOVE?" 
 
 THE " Origin of Love !" Ah, why 
 
 That cruel question ask of me, 
 When thou may'st read in many an eye 
 
 He starts lo life on seeing thee ? 
 
 And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
 My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
 
 He '11 linger long in silent woe ; 
 But live until I cease to be. 
 
 REMEMBER HIM, ETC. 
 
 REMEMBER him, whom passion's power 
 Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
 
 Remember thou that dangerous hour 
 
 When neither fell, though both were loved. 
 
 That yielding breast, that melting eye, 
 
 Too much invited to be blest : 
 That gentle prayer, that 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 wnisper blame, 
 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 Think that, whate'er to others, thon 
 Hast seen each selfish thought subdued 
 
 I bless thy purer soul even now, 
 Even now, in midnight so.itude. 
 
 Oh, God ! that we nad met in time, 
 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
 
 When thou hadst loved without a crime. 
 And I been less unworthy thee ' 
 
 Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
 From this our gaudy world be past ! 
 
 And, that too bitter moment o'er, 
 Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 
 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
 Itself destroy'd might there destroy , 
 
 To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
 Would wake presumption's hope of joy.' 
 
 Then to the things whose bliss or 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 [Hire, 
 
 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. 
 
 LINES 
 
 INSCRIBED PPOW A CVf FORMED FROM A SKU L 
 
 START not nor deem my spirit fled: 
 
 In me behold the only skull 
 From which, unlike a living head, 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 
 I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee ; 
 
 I died ; let earth my bones resign ' 
 Fill up thou canst not injure me ; 
 
 The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 
 
 Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy broon 
 
 And circle in the goblet's shape 
 
 The drink of gods, than reptiles' food. 
 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hatn shono 
 
 In aid of others' let me shine ; 
 And when, alas ! our brains are gore. 
 
 What noble' substitute than wine 7
 
 ,S32 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Quaff while thou canst another race, 
 
 When thou and thine like me are sped, 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 Why not ? since through life's little day 
 
 Our heads such sad effects produce ; 
 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 Newstead Abbey, 1808. 
 
 i >N THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, 
 
 BART. 
 THERE is a tear for all that die, 
 
 A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
 But nations swell the funeral cry, 
 And triumph weeps above the brave. 
 
 For them is sorrow's purest sigh 
 
 O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: 
 In vain their bones 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. 
 
 A theme to crowds that knew them not, 
 
 Lamented by admiring foes, 
 Who would not share their glorious lot? 
 
 Who would not die the death they chose ? 
 
 And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
 Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; 
 
 And early valour, glowing, find 
 A model in thy memory. 
 
 But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
 
 In woe, that glory cannot quell ; 
 And shuddering hear of victory, 
 
 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 j 
 
 Deep fui 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, happj if eact 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 bv thv oeople'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 teacli 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 that lute refuse to sound, 
 Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
 
 The chain is broke, the music mute : 
 'T is past to them and thee adieu 
 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO OENEVRA. 
 
 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 in thine air, 
 That but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
 With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought 
 I should have deetn'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 
 With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 
 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil corn, 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 
 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn 
 Such seem'st thou but how much more excellent! 
 With nought remorse can claim nor virtue scora 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO OENEVRA. 
 
 THV cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 
 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 thn 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 OF A NEWFOUNDLAND TiV* 
 
 WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth 
 Unknown to glory, but unheld by birta.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The scul]rtor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
 And storied uim record who rests below ; 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest 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, 
 I'nhonour'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. 
 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, 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
 Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
 Pass on it honours none you wish to mourn : 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones arise 
 I never knew but one, and here he lies. 
 Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 FAREWELL ! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For other's weal avail' d on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air, 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'T were 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 thou wert all but divine, 
 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
 
 When we know that thy God is with thee. 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 May its verdure like emeralds be: 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom 
 
 In aught that reminds us of thee. 
 Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
 
 May spring from the spot of thy rest . 
 But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the b'est? 
 
 WHEW we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted 
 
 To sever for years, 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cUd, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame ; 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me 
 
 Why wert thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well : 
 Long, long shall I rue thee, 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 In secret we met 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ? 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 1808. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC.' 
 
 O Lacrymarum fong, tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
 Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore to, pia Nympha, sensit. 
 
 GRAY'S POEMATA 
 
 THERE 's not a joy the world can give like that 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, 
 
 which fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of hem is gone, ere youth itself 
 
 be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits fioat above the wreck 01 
 
 happiness, 
 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guik or ocean of excess . 
 The magnet of their coursu a gone, or only points in 
 
 vain 
 The shore to which their shi/d sail shall nver sfcetch 
 
 again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 
 
 conies down , 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its awn/ 
 
 1 These Verse* were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power 
 Strand, who has punliahed them, with very beartifuj niuic bv 
 Sir John Stevenson
 
 i>34 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Drat heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
 
 tears, 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the 
 
 ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
 tract the breast, 
 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their for- 
 mer 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 feei as 1 nave felt, or be what I have been, 
 Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a v 
 
 ish'd scene : 
 As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet all brackish 
 
 though they be, 
 bo, 'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 
 
 flow to me. 
 
 1815. 
 
 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 lull'd winds seem dreaming. 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep : 
 
 Whose breast is gently heaving, 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee. 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 
 Lil.e the swell of summer's ocean. 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 Alas ! they had been friendi in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
 And constancy lives in realms above : 
 
 And lire is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
 And to be wroth with one wo 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 frcet, nor thunder 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 ''he marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 COLERIDGE'S Christabel 
 
 ARE thee well! and if for ever, 
 
 Still for ever, fare thee well ! 
 t.vcn though unforgiving, never 
 
 ''Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 Would that oreast were bared before thee 
 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 
 Which tliou ne'er canst know acain : 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
 
 Every inmost thaught could show ! 
 Then tliou wouldst at last discover 
 
 'T was not well to spurn it so. 
 Though the world for this commend tne 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow, 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 
 Founded on another's wos 
 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 retaineth 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 
 Is that we no mare may meet. 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the dead j 
 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, 
 Wilt 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 him whose prayer shall bless the 
 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more may'st see, 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 All my faults perchance thou knowcst, 
 
 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 't is done all words are idle- 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 
 Force their way without the will. 
 Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie, 
 Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 TO ** * 
 WHEN all around grew drear and dark, 
 
 And reason half withheld her ray 
 And hope but shed a dying spark 
 
 Which more misled my lonely way ; 
 In that deep midnight of the mind, 
 
 And that internal strife of heart, 
 When, dreading to be deem'd too kir>d, 
 
 The weak despair the cold depart :
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 When fortune changed and love fled far, 
 And hatred'? shafts flew thick and fast, 
 
 Thou wert tha lolitary star 
 Which rose and set not to the last. 
 
 Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 
 
 That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
 And stood between me and the night, 
 
 For ever shining sweetly nigh. 
 
 And when the 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 stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
 That still unbroke, though gently bent, 
 
 Still waves with fond fidelity 
 Its boughs above a monument. 
 
 The winds might rend, the skies might pour, 
 But there thou wert and still wouldst be 
 
 Devoted in the stormiest hour 
 
 To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 
 
 But tho-i and thine shaH know no blight, 
 Whatever 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 sod, will never shake. 
 
 &nd 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.] 
 
 We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
 Though freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 
 There 't was shed, but is not sunk 
 Rising from each gory trunk, 
 Like the water-spout from ocean, 
 With a strong and growing motion 
 It soars and mingles in the air, 
 With that of lost LABEDOYERE 
 With that of him whose honour'd grave 
 Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
 A crimson cload it spreads and glows, 
 But shall return to whence it rose ; 
 When 'tis full, 't will burst asunder 
 Never yet was heard such thunder 
 \s 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 stunte' 1 seer of old, 
 
 Showering down a fiery 1<-od, 
 Turning rivers into blooc. 1 
 
 The chief has fallen, but not bv you, 
 Vanquishers of Waterloo ' 
 When the soldier citizen 
 Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men 
 Save in deeds that led them on 
 Where glory smiled on freedom's son 
 Who, of all the despots banded, 
 
 With that youthful chief competed ? 
 
 Who 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 reaim refused thee even a tomb; 2 
 Better hadst thou still been leading 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 Such as he of Naples wears, 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
 Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
 
 On thy war-horse through the ranks, 
 
 Like a stream which burst its banks, 
 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 roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
 Through the smoke-created night , 
 
 Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
 The soldier raised his seeking eye 
 To catch that crest's ascendency, 
 And as it onward rolling rose 
 So moved his heart upon our foes. 
 There, where death's brief pang was quickea* 
 And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 
 
 Of the eagle's burning crest 
 (There with thunder-clouds to fan her 
 
 Who could then her wing arrest 
 
 Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 
 Fell, or fled along the plain : 
 There be sure was MUR AT charging ! 
 
 There he ne'er shall charge again ! 
 
 1 See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, etc. " The first angel Bounded 
 and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," etc. 
 
 Verse 8. "And iho econd angel sounded, and as it were a 
 great mountain burning with fire wag cast into the sea; and 
 the third part of the sea became blood," etc. 
 
 Verse 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell t 
 great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp ; and it fel 
 upon a third part of the rivers, ami upon the fountain* of 
 waters." 
 
 Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called IVorntwooA 
 and the third part of the waters became wormwood ; and 
 many men died of the waters, because they were mad 
 bitter." 
 
 2 Mural's remain* arc said to hftve been torn from the r '* 
 and burnt.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
 
 Weeps triumph o'er each levell'd arch 
 
 But let Freedom rejoice, 
 
 With her heart in her voice ; 
 
 Put her hand on her sword, 
 
 Doubly 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 hath 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. 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH.] 
 
 AH wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who 
 had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung 
 to his master's knees ; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreat- 
 ing permission to accompany him, 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 
 Vhat are they to all I feel, 
 
 With a soldier's faith, for thee? 
 
 Idol of the soldier's soul ! 
 
 First in fight, but mightiest now : 
 Many could a world control : 
 
 Thee alone no doom can bow. 
 By thy side for years I dared 
 
 Death, and envied those who fell, 
 When their dying shout was heard 
 
 Blessing him they seived so well. 1 
 
 i At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose led arm was shat- 
 ered by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the other, and, 
 throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, ' Vive 
 'Empereui jusqu'k la mort.' There were many other in- 
 ttances of the like ; this you may, however, depend on ai 
 tnie # private Letter from Brutseli. 
 
 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, m/ 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. 
 
 ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR 
 [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 thy 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, 1 each divine, 
 
 And fit for that celestial sign ; 
 
 For freedom's hand had blended them 
 
 Like tints in an immortal gem. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
 One, the blue depth of seraphs' eyes ; 
 One, the pure spirit's veil of white 
 Had robed in radiance of its light ; 
 The three so mingled did beseem 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 
 1 The tri-coloui.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
 And darkness must again prevail ! 
 But, oh ihou 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 them or thee ! 
 
 NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH.] 
 
 FAI r.WELL to the land where the gloom of my glory 
 Aro,./ and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name 
 She abandons me now, but the page of her story, 
 Tho brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 
 I have warrd with a world which vanquish'd me only 
 When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 
 I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 
 
 lonely, 
 The last single captive to millions in war ! 
 
 Fai e well to thee, France! when thy di adem crown'd me, 
 
 [ made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, 
 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
 
 Decay'd in thy glory 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 sliil 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 ; 
 Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again: 
 Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
 And yet may thy heart leap 'a wake to my voice 
 There are links which must break in the chain that has 
 
 bound us, 
 Then turn thee, and call on the chief of thy choice ! 
 
 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 wond'rous ; but by thee 
 low much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
 fn sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
 
 1 ^ wild ^low of that not ungentle zeal, 
 'hich of the heirs of immortality 
 
 Is p. >ud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
 
 1 Geneva, Ferney, Coppet, Lausanne. 
 2 Y 73 
 
 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 she then repay 
 
 Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 
 And blend, while ages roll away, 
 
 Her name immortally with thine ! 
 April 19, 1812. 
 
 STANZAS TO *** 
 THOUGH the day of my destiny's over, 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy soul with my grief was acquainled. 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 And the Jove which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling 
 
 The last smile which arswers 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 billows excite an emotion, 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemiv- 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me 
 
 'T is of thee 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 me, 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 Though watchful, 't was not to defame me, 
 
 Nor mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one 
 1 my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'T was folly not sooner to shun. 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me. 
 
 It could not deprive me of thet. 
 
 From rte wjreck of the pas?, which hath peris'! u 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath taught me that what I most cherish'iJ 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all :
 
 533 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 In the desert a fountain is springing, 
 In the ide waste there still is a tree, 
 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 Which speaks to my spirit of ihee. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 
 The bright sun was extinguished, 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 ; 
 
 Morn came, and went and came, and brought no day. 
 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 
 Ol this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 
 Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
 
 Ard they did live by watch-fires and the thrones, 
 
 The palaces of crowned kings the huts, 
 
 The habitations of all things which dwell, 
 
 Wore burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
 
 And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 
 
 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 fell upon 'hem ; some lay down 
 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
 
 Tlieir chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 
 With curses cast them down upon the oust, 
 
 And gnash'd their teeth aiid howl'd: the wild birds 
 
 shriek'd, 
 
 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 slam for (ood : 
 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 
 Dieu, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
 The meagre by the meagre were devoured, 
 F,\ en dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
 A.nd he was faithful to a corse and k^pt 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
 I'il^hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 Lured their .ank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 T5ut wiih a piteous and perpetual moan 
 And a qiuck desolate cry, licking the hand 
 VV mcli answcr'd not with a caress he died. 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
 Of an enormous city did survive, 
 And ihev were enemies ; they met beside 
 The <lvmg embers of ar altar-place, 
 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 
 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hand* 
 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 
 Blew for e. little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 
 Each others' 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 still, 
 
 And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd. 
 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge 
 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 
 
 The moon their mistress had expired before ; 
 
 The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 
 
 And the clouds perish'd ; darkness had no need 
 
 Of aid from them she was the universe. 
 
 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 than of awe 
 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown, 
 
 Which jay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 
 The gardener of that ground, why it might be 
 
 That for this plant strangers Ins memory task'd 
 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 
 
 And thus he answer'd "Well, I do- not know 
 
 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims >o ; 
 
 He died before my day of sextonship, 
 
 And 1 had not the digging of this grave." 
 
 And is this all ? I thought, and do we rip 
 
 The veil of immortality, and crave 
 
 I know not what of honour and of light 
 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 
 So soon and so successless ? As I said, 
 
 The architect of all on which we tread, 
 
 For earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 
 Whose mmglings might confuse a Newton's thougni 
 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 
 Of which we are but dreamers; as he caught 
 
 As 't were 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 nis day, 
 
 And therefore travellers step from out their way 
 
 To pay him honour, and myself whate'er 
 
 Your honour pleases" then most pleased I shook 
 
 From out my pocket's avaricious ncc.k 
 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were 
 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 
 So much but inconveniently .-. ye" smile, 
 
 I see ye, ye profane ones ' 4.. the while
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 fne giory and the nothing of a name. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 TITAN ! to whose immortal eyes 
 
 The sufferings of mortality, 
 
 Seen in their sad reality, 
 Were not as things that gods despise ; 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 A silent suffering, and intense ; 
 The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 All that the proud can feel of pain, 
 The agony they do not show, 
 The suffocating sense of woe, 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
 
 Between the suffering and the will, 
 
 Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
 And the inexorable heaven, 
 And the deaf tyranny of fate, 
 The ruling principle of hate, 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 The things it may annihilate, 
 Refused thee even the boon to die 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 
 Was thine and thou hast borne it well. 
 All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
 Was but the menace which flung back 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 
 But would not to appease him tell: 
 And in thy silence was his sentence, 
 And in his soul a vain repentance, 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled 
 That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
 Thy godlike crime was to be kind, 
 
 To render 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 x 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 tate and force ; 
 
 Like thee, man is in part divine, 
 A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
 And man in portions can foresee 
 His own funere;il destiny ; 
 His wrc.chcdness, and his resistance, 
 And his sad unallicd existence : 
 To which h's spirit may oppose 
 Fiscii an tonal to all voes, 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
 Which even in torture can descrj 
 
 Its own concentred recompense, 
 Triumphant where it dares defy, 
 And making death a victory. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 OH shame to thee, land of the Gaui ! 
 
 Oh shame to thy children ami thee : 
 Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 
 
 How wretched thy portion shall be ' 
 Derision sna.ll strike thee forlorn, 
 
 A mockery that never shall die ; 
 The curses of hate, and the hisses of srorn.. 
 
 Shall burden the winds of thy sky j 
 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 ? 
 'T is scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dusi ! 
 
 Go, look to the kingdoms of earth, 
 
 From Indus all round to the pole, 
 And something of goodness, of honour, and vi orth, 
 
 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 shall lend us through time 
 A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime! 
 
 While conquest illumined his sword, 
 
 While yet in his prowess he stood, 
 Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thv 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 renow-i, 
 
 Till fortune deserted his car ; 
 Then back from the chieftain thou slunkest aws. 
 The foremost to insult, the first to betray ! 
 
 Forgot were the feats he had done, 
 
 The toils he had borne in thy cause 
 Tlnou turned'st to worship a new rising sun, 
 
 And waft other songs of applause. 
 But the storm was beginning to lour, 
 
 Adversity clouded his beam ; 
 And honour and faith were the brag of an hor. 
 
 And loyalty's self but a dream : 
 To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows wete resioirrt, 
 And the first that had scoff 'd were the first that ai!> fit 
 
 What tumult thus burthens the air ? 
 What throng thus encircles his throne T
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 I is the shout 01 delight, *t is the millions that swear 
 
 His sceptre shall ru'e 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 
 dut where is the spirit that never should yield, 
 
 The loyalty never to fade ? 
 In a moment desertion and guile 
 
 Abandon'd him up to the foe ; 
 The dastards that flourish'd and grew in his smile 
 
 Forsook and renounced him in woe ; 
 And the millions that swore they would perish to save, 
 Beheid h.m a fugitive, captive, and slave ! 
 
 The savage, all wild in his glen, 
 
 Is nobler and better than thou ; 
 Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, 
 
 Such perfidy 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 bu'. 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 thy fall, 
 
 How wretched thy portion shall be ! 
 Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 
 
 And mockery that never shall die ; 
 The 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 ! 
 
 WINDSOR POETICS. 
 
 I ihie* composed on the occasion of H. R. H. the P e 
 
 R-g t being Been standing betwixt the coffins of Henry 
 VIII. and Charles 1. in the royal vault at Windsor. 
 
 FAMJ D for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
 By headless Charles, see heartless Henry lies ; 
 Between them sRinds 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 vampyre wakes to life again: 
 Ah ! what can tombs avail since these disgorge 
 
 The blood and dust of both to mould a G...ge. 
 
 1813. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE. 
 
 Honest honest lago ! 
 
 If that thou be'st a devil. I cannot kill thee ! 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ItoRw in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
 Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; 
 
 Next for some gracious service unex --est, 
 
 And from its wages only to be guessY; 
 
 Raised from the toilet to the table, where 
 
 Her wondering betters wait behind her chaii : 
 
 With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 
 
 She dines from off" the plate she lately wa- I. 
 
 Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, 
 
 The genial confidante and general spy ; 
 
 Who could, ye gods ! her next employment less ^ 
 
 An only infant's earliest governess ! 
 
 She taught the child to read, and taught so veil, 
 
 That she herself, by teaching, learn 'd to speL. 
 
 An adept next in penmanship she grows, 
 
 As many a nameless slander deftly showr: 
 
 What she had made the pupil of her art, 
 
 None know but that high soul secured the hel, 
 
 And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
 
 With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
 
 Foil'd was perversion by that youthful minil, 
 Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could noi blirl, 
 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 wanting one sweet weakness to forgive ; 
 Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
 She deems that all could be like her below: 
 Foe to all 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, 
 While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles, 
 A thread of candour with 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 forrn'd to conceal, 
 And, without feeling, mock at all who feel ; 
 With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown, 
 A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. 
 Mark how the channels of her yellow blood 
 Ooze to her skin, and stagnrte there to mu^
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 541 
 
 Cued like the centipede in saffron mail, 
 Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale, 
 (Fur drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
 Congenial colours in that soul or face). 
 Look on her features ! and behold her mind, 
 As in the 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 her little sky, 
 Where all beneath her influence 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 inflictest 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, 
 And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
 Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, 
 The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 
 Then, w lien thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer 
 Look on mine earthly victims and despair ! 
 Down to trie dust .' and, as thou rott'st away, 
 Even worms snai! perish on thy poisonous clay. 
 But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
 lo her thy malice irom all ties would tear, 
 fhy name thy human name to everv eye 
 The climax of all scorn, should hang on rngn, 
 Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers, 
 And festering in the infamy of years. 
 
 March 30, 1816. 
 
 CARMINA BYRONIS IN C. ELGIN. 
 
 ASFICE, quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores, 
 Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide. 
 
 Scote miser ! quamvis nocuisti Palladis aedi, 
 Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. 
 
 Pygmalion statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur; 
 In statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest. 
 
 LINES TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 * he following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron 
 to his friend Kir. 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 sm.'Ie to those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me, 
 Herd's a heart for every fate. 
 2i2 
 
 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 wel 1 , 
 And I gasping on the brink, 
 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 T is to thee that I would drink. 
 
 In that water, as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be Peace to thine and mine, 
 
 And a health to thee, TOM MOORE ! 
 
 ' ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
 SIXTH YEAR." 
 
 January 22, 1824, Mi*solon t to. 
 'T is time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it hath ceased to move ; 
 Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leal ; 
 
 The flowers and fi uits of love are gone : 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
 Are mine alone! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze 
 A funeral pile ! 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 't is not thus, and 't is not here 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul ; not 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, an^ 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, rny spirit! think through whom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 
 Unwortny manhood ! Unto thee, 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live t 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Js here up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath! 
 
 Seek out, less often sought than found, 
 A soldier's grave for thee I he best; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
 And take thy rest.
 
 ( 542 ) 
 
 arttet 
 
 TO **** *#**** ON 
 
 THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 
 
 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE. 
 
 I'll play at Bowls with the sun and moon. 
 
 OLD SONG. 
 
 My mither 's auld, sir, nnd she has rather forgotten hersell in 
 speaking to my Leddy, that canna wee! bide to be contradickit 
 (as I ken nacbody likes it if they could help themsells). 
 
 TALES OF MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, vol. it 
 
 LETTER. 
 
 Ravenna, February 1th, 1821. 
 DEAR S:R, 
 
 IN the different pamphlets which you have had the 
 goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowies' contro- 
 versy, I perceive that my name is occasionally introduc- 
 ed 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. 
 Gilchrist. have conferred on me the dangerous honour of 
 a quotation ; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind 
 of appeal to me personally, by saying, " Lord Byron, 
 if he remembers the circumstance, will witness (wit- 
 ne<* 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 ; I do " 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 
 peimitme. In the year 1812, more than three years 
 aficr the publication of " English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers," I had the honour of meeting Mr. Bowles 
 in the house of our venerable host of" Human Life, etc." 
 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'i elegant and 
 classically-furnished mansion, could I swear to the very 
 room where the conversation occurred, though the 
 " taking down 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 " re- 
 markable circumstance" took place after dinner, as I 
 conceive that neither Mr. Bowles's politeness nor appe- 
 tite 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 Ma- 
 d( ira" instead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's 
 " good-humour" I have a full and not ungrateful recol- 
 fection ; as also of his gentlemanly manners and agree- 
 able conversation. I speak of the whole, and not of par- 
 'icub.rs ; for whether he did or did not use the precise 
 w.is pripteJ in the pamphlet, i cannot say, nor could 
 
 he with accuracy. Of "the tone of seriousness" I cer 
 tainly 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 incor- 
 rect) that some of his good-natured friends had come to 
 him and exclaimed, " Eh ! Bowles ! how came you to 
 make the Woods of Madeira," etc. etc. and that he had 
 been at some pains and pulling down of the poem to 
 convince 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 acknow- 
 ledgment ; for I ought to have looked twice before I 
 wrote that which involved an inaccuracy capable of giv- 
 ing pain. The fact was, that although I had certainly 
 before read " the Spirit of Discovery," I took the quo- 
 tation from the review. But the mistake was mine, and 
 not the review's, which quoted the passage correctly 
 enough, I believe. I blundered God knows how into 
 attributing the tremors of the lovers 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, etc. etc. 
 
 They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power, etc. 
 
 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, 
 notwithstanding that " English Bards and Scotch Re- 
 viewers" had been suppressed some time previously to 
 my meeting him at Mr. Rogers's. Our worthy host 
 might indeed have told him as much, as it was at his 
 representation that I suppressed it. A new edition of 
 that lampoon was preparing for the press, when Mr. 
 Rogers represented to me, that u I was now acquainted 
 with many of the persons mentioned in it, and with 
 some on terms of intimacy;" and that he knew "one 
 family in particular to whom its suppression would 
 give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment ; it was 
 cancelled instantly ; and it is no fault of mine that u 
 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 kinds 
 to distract my attention almost my last act, I belinvo 
 was to sign a power of attorney, to yo.irself, to prevent 
 or suppress any attempts (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 subse- 
 quently acquainted, whose name.'; had K^urred in thai
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 643 
 
 publication, weic 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 
 introduction 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 
 rerbal communication from a third person. 
 
 I have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances, 
 because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitier 
 reproach to me to have endeavoured to suppress that 
 satire. I never shrunk, as those who know rne know, 
 from any personal consequences which could be attached 
 10 its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I 
 possessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the 
 sole master. The circumstances which occasioned the 
 suppression I have now stated ; of the motives, each 
 must judge according to his candour or malignity. M-. 
 Bowles does me the honour to talk of "noble mind,' 
 and "generous magnanimity;" and all this because 
 u the circumstance would have been explained had not 
 the book been suppressed." I see no "nobility of 
 mind" in an act of simple justice; and I hate the word 
 " magnanimity," because I have sometimes seen it ap- 
 plied to the grossest of impostors by the greatest of 
 fools; but I would have "explained the circumstance," 
 notwithstanding "the suppression of the book," if Mr. 
 Bowles had expressed any desire that I should. As the 
 "gallant Galbraith" says to "Baillie Jarvie," "Well, the 
 devil take the mistake and all that occasioned it." I 
 have had as great and greater mistakes made 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-fbrty 
 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 un- 
 published 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. 
 
 Altnough 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. 
 Whilstlwas writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, 
 Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
 mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles's 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's Pope are in the first edition 
 of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" and are quite 
 as severe and much more poetical than my own in the 
 second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to 
 it, I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, and replaced them 
 with my own, by which the work gained less than Mr. 
 Bowles. I have stated this in the preface to the second 
 edition. It is many years since I have read that poem ; 
 out the Quarterly Review, Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, and 
 Mr. Bowles himself, have been so obliging as to refresh 
 my memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to 
 gay, that in reading over those lines, I repent of their 
 having so far fallen short of what I meant to express 
 upon the subject of Bowles's edition of Pope's Works. 
 Mr. Bowles says that " Lord Byron knows he does not 
 wserve this character." I know no such thing. I have 
 met Mr. Bowles occasionally, in the best society in Lon- 
 don ; he appeared to me an amiable, well-informed, 
 and extremely able man. I desire nothing belter than 
 to dine in company with such a mannered man every 
 
 day in the week : but of " his character" 1 know noth- 
 ing personally ; I can only speak of his manners, ana 
 these have my warmest approbation. But I never -UU?B 
 from manners, for I once had my pocket picked oy tne 
 civilest gentleman I ever met with ; and one of the mild- 
 est persons I ever saw was Ali Pacha. Of Mr. Bowles's 
 " character " I will not do him the injustice to judgr 
 from the edition of Pope, if he prepared it heedlessly 
 nor the justice, should it be otherwise, because I woulr 
 neither become a literary executioner, nor a persona 
 cne. Mr. Bowles the individual, and Mr. Bowles the 
 editor, appear the two most opposite things imaginable. 
 
 "And he himself one antithesis." 
 
 I won't say "vile," because it is harsh; nor " mis- 
 taken," because it has two syllables too many ; but 
 j every one must fill up the blank as he pleases. 
 
 What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise anff 
 | regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such 
 ! a task. If he had been a fool, there would nave been 
 some excuse for him ; if he had been a needy or a bad 
 man, his conduct would have been intelligible j but he 
 is the opposite of all these ; and thinking and idling as 
 I do of Pope, to me the whole thing is unaccountable. 
 However, I must call things by their right na7\:es. 1 
 cannot call his edition of Pope a " candid" work ; and 
 I stil! 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." 
 Mr. Bowles says, that " he has seen passages in his 
 letters to Martha Blount, which were never published b> 
 me, and I hope never will be by others ; which are so gross 
 as to imply the grossest licentiousness." Is this fait 
 play? It may, or it may not be, that such passages exist ; 
 and that Pope, who was not a monk, 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 sweeping denunciation ? Where is the unmar- 
 ried Englishman of a certain rank of life, who (pro- 
 vided he has not taken orders) has not to reproach 
 himself between the ages of sixteen and thirty with far 
 more licentiousness than has ever vet been traced to 
 Pope ? Pope lived in the public eve from his youth up- 
 wards ; 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 foi detraction, since his death ; 
 and yet to what 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. Who could come 
 forth clearer from an invidious inquest on a life of fiftj- 
 six years ? W T hy 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 elab- 
 orately coarse, that I do not believe that they could be 
 paralleled in our language. What is more strange, is, 
 that some of these are couched as postscripts to nw 
 serious and sentimental letters, to which are tacked 
 either a piece of prose, or some verses, of the miM 
 hyperbolical indecency. He himself says, that it " ob- 
 scenity (using a much coarser word* bo the sin .i^amv
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 *e Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot be saved." 
 These letters are in existence, and have been seen by 
 i myself; but would his editor have been 
 even auoding to them? Nothing would 
 nave even provoked SM, an indifferent spectator, to 
 anude to them, but dut further attempt at the deprecia- 
 tion of Pope. 
 
 What should we say to an editor of Addison, who 
 cited the foBowing passage from Walpote's letters to 
 Geor^Mottag?"Ifc.Youn 5 htt|inhnshed 
 etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young Earl of Warwick, 
 as be was dying, to *now hint in what pence a Christian 
 unlnckfly he died of bn*dy: nothing makes 
 
 a Christian die in peace like being maudlin! but don't 
 say this in Gath where jon are. 1 * Suppose the editor 
 mtrodoced it with this preface : "One <jn imiitlance is 
 1 by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was mdeed 
 Walpole informs Montana that Addison 
 
 fer the young Earl of Warwick, when dying, to show 
 him m what peace a Christian could die ; but unlockuy 
 he died drank, etc., etc." Now, although there might 
 occur on the subsequent, or on the same page, a faint 
 show of dfebe&ef, seasoned with the expression of "the 
 fame emoW (the tame exactly as throughout the 
 book), I should say that this editor was either foolish or 
 Use to his trust; such a story ought not to have been 
 dunned, except for one brief mark of crushing in- 
 dfrgaarion, unless kwere tmmplittty pncaL Why the 
 words " if fr^r* That "if" is iwl a peace-maker. Why 
 out of Gibber's testimony" to his ** J""-wrt%? To 
 
 what does this amount? that Pope, when very young, 
 was snoc ueuuyeu by some noblemen and the ulayci to 
 n bouse of carnal recreation. Mr. Bowies was not always 
 a clergyman; and when he was a very young man, was 
 
 for story-tettn^, and rebting htde anecdotes, I could 
 teflamuch better story of Mr. Bowles than Gibber's, up- 
 on much better authority, viz. that of Mr. Bowies him- 
 sett It was not related by him m my presence, but in 
 that of a third person, whom Mr. Bowks names oftener 
 than once in the course of his replies. This gentleman 
 related it to me as a humoiuus and witty anecdote ; 
 and sok was, whUerer its other characteristics might be. 
 But should I, from a youthful froBc, brand Mr. Bowles 
 with a "libertine sort of love," or with "licentious- 
 ness?" is be the less now a pious or a good man for 
 not having always been a priest? No such thing; lam 
 wnbng to bcfieve him a good man, almost as good a man 
 as Pope, but no better. 
 
 The truth is, that in these days the grand "prisoon 
 ' of England is tmmt; cant poitical, cant poetical. 
 
 through ai the varieties of fife. It is the 
 while it lasts wil be too powerful for those who can 
 eo)y exist by taking the tone of the time. IsayomC, 
 because k is a thing of wwds, without tbe smallest m- 
 nenee upon human actions; the English being no 
 wiser, no better, and much poorer, and more rniinul 
 nnngitthe<>d>t^ as wel as far less inoral, than they 
 were before the prevalence of this verbal ikrnrnm 
 Hns hysterical horror of poor Pope's not very we! 
 l5-c* r ""-i." ~-, ". ~. r-'vvT M v zTOve-5 ?.rr.r>':T5 : :r ever. 
 Gibber **ns that 
 
 in which Pope was embarking) 
 in a controversial pamnhlrtt; but al men of 
 e worVl -W know what fife is, or at least what k 
 
 to them in their youth, mus: faugh at such a ludicrous 
 foundation of the charge of a "lileruoe sort of k ve ;" 
 while the more serious ni look upon those wno bring 
 forward such charges upon an insulated fact, as fanatics 
 or hypocrites, perhaps both. The two are sometime* 
 compounded in a happy mixture. 
 
 Mr. Octavins Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of 
 a " second tumbler of hat white-wine negi.5. ' What 
 does he mean? Is there any harm in negus? or is it 
 tbe worse for being hot? or does Mr. Bowles drink ne- 
 gus? I had a better opinion of him. I hoped thai 
 whatever wine he drank was neat ; or at least that, like 
 the ordinary in Jonathan Wild, "he preferred punch, 
 the rather as there was nothing against it in scripture." 
 I should be sorry to believe that Mr. Bowles was fond 
 of negus; k is such a "candid " liquor, so like a wishy- 
 washy compromise between the passion (or wine and 
 tbe propriety of water. But different writers have 
 divers tastes. Judge Blackstone composed his "Com- 
 mentaries" (he was a poet too in his youth), with a 
 bottle of port before him. Addison's conversation was 
 not good for much Uli he had taken a similar dose. 
 Perhaps the prescription of these two great men was 
 not inferior to the very different one of a soi-disant 
 poet of this day, who, after wandering amongst the hills, 
 urns, goes to bed, and dictates his verses, being fed 
 by a by-stander with bread and butter, during the opera- 
 
 ". 
 
 I now come to Mr. Bowles's " invariable principles of 
 poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some of his correspond- 
 ents pronounce " unanswerable ;" and they are " unan- 
 swered," at least by Campbell, who seems' to have been 
 astounded by the tide. The sultan of the time being, 
 offered to afly himself to the king of France, because 
 "he hated the word league:" which proves that the 
 Padishan understood 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 fauum, be k poetry, philosophy, wit, wUdom, science, 
 power, glory, mind, matter, life or death, which is 
 
 "mariable 7" Of course I put things divine out of 
 : question. Of all arrogant baptisms of a book, this 
 title to a pamphlet appears the most complacently con- 
 ceited. It is Mr. Campbell's part to answer the contents 
 of this performance, and especially to vindicate his own 
 " Ship," which Mr. Bowles most triumphantly proclaim* 
 to have struck to his very first fire. 
 
 - Qaotfc he, tWre wat a Skit ; 
 
 Now let ne co. ibou gray-hair 'd loon. 
 
 Or BIT staff shall make tfcee ckip ;" 
 
 tt is no affair of mine, but having once hegun (certainly 
 not by my own wish, hot called upon by the frequent 
 nrrence to my name in the pamphlets), I am like an 
 Irishman in a "row," "any body's customer." I shall 
 therefore say a word or two on the "Ship.' 1 
 
 Mr. Bowles asserts that Campbell's "Ship of the Line" 
 derives all hs poetry not from " art n but from " notorc." 
 "Take awsy the waves, the winds, the sun, etc., etc. out 
 wifl become a stripe of blue bunting ; and the other a 
 piece of coarse canvas on three tall poles." Very true; 
 take away "the waves," "the winds," and uVre wil 
 be no hip at all, not only for poetical, but for any 
 other purpose ; and take away " the fan," and we miwt 
 read Mr. Bowles's pamphlet by candle-light. But ti, 
 "poetry" of tbe "Ship" does tut depend, a "the waves." 
 etc.; on the contrary, the * Ship of the Una*
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE 
 
 s own poetry upon die waters, and heightens titan. I 
 Jo not deny, that the " waves and winds," and above 
 tH " the sun," are highly poetical ; we know k to our 
 xst, by the many descriptions of them m verse : bat 
 f the waves bore omy the foam upon their bosoms, if 
 th winds wafted only the sea-weed to tne shore, if toe 
 sun shone neither upon pyramids, nor fleets, nor fo.-- 
 Iresses, would its beams be equally poetical ? I think 
 nut: tb poetry is at least reciprocal. Takeaway "the 
 ship of the fine "" swinging round " the * cahn water," 
 and the calm water becomes a somewhat monotonous 
 thing to look at, particu irty if not transparently dear; 
 witness the thousands who pass by without looking on 
 it at aD. What was it attracted the thousands to the 
 launch? they might have seen the poeucal "cahn water," 
 atWapping,orintbe " London Dock," or in the Pad- 
 dington Canal, or in a horse-pond, arm a sfop-basm, or 
 in any other vase. They might have heard the poetical 
 winds howling through the chinks of a pig-*ty, or the 
 garret- window ; they might have seen the son ihinhig 
 on a footman's livery, or on a brass warming-pan ; but 
 could the "cahn water," or the "wind," or the "son," 
 make aD, or any of these, "poetical?" I think not. 
 Mr. Bowles admits "the ship" to be poetical, but only 
 from those accessories : now if they cwi/er 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 can- 
 vas," and "taD poles." So they are; and porcelain is 
 day, and man is dust, and flesh is grass, and yet the 
 tiro latter at least are the subjects of much poesy. 
 
 Did Mr. Bowles ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
 hat be has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
 ever paint the sea omfy, without the addition of a ship, 
 boat, wreck, or some such adjunct ? Is the sea itself a 
 more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object 
 with or without a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing 
 monotony? Is a storm more poetical without a ship? 
 or, in the poem of the Shipwreck, is k the storm or the 
 ship which most interests? both succn, undoubtedly ; but 
 without the vessel, what should we care for the tempest? 
 b would sink into mere descriptive poetry, which in 
 self was never esteemed a high order of that art. 
 
 I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval mat- 
 ters, at least to poets : with the exception of Waker 
 Scott, Moore, and Southey, perhaps (who have been 
 voyagers), I have aacm more miles than aD the rest of 
 them together now living ever joabo, and have fired 
 for months and months on ship-board ; and during the 
 whole period of my fife abroad, have scarcely ever passed 
 a month out of sight of the ocean: besides being brought 
 op from two years till ten on the brink of it. I recol- 
 lect, when anchored off Cape Sig*um. in 1810, in an 
 English frigate, a violent squall coming on at sunset, so 
 violent as to make us imagine that the ship would part 
 able, or drive from her anchorage. Mr. Hobbouse and 
 wrseu^and some officers, had been up the Dardanelles 
 p Abydos, and were jost returned in time. The aspect 
 of a storm in the Archipelago is as poetical as need be, 
 Ae sea being particularly short, dashing, and dangerous, 
 and the navigation intricate and broken by the isles and 
 currents. Cape Sigaam, the tamwE of tteTroad, Lem- 
 ons, Tenedos, all added to the wiario of the time. 
 Hut what seemed the most "oaetioat" of aflat the mo- 
 toent were the numbers (about two hundred) of Greek 
 74 
 
 and Turkish craft, which were obliged to " ent and ran * 
 before the wind, from their unsafe anchorage, some fo 
 Tenedos, some for other isles, some for the main, an. 
 some it might be for eternity. The sight of these finfe 
 rurinmg vessels, darting over the foam m the twiight 
 m aopearing and now disappearing between the waves 
 in the ooud of night, with their pecufiariy dbife saik 
 (the Levant sails not being of "atone CBBCBS," hot of 
 white cotton ), skimming along as quickly, bat lev safely 
 than the sea-men* which hovered over them; thexrevi- 
 
 dtstance. their crowded succession, therr tutting*, as 
 with the giant element, which made oar 
 
 stout forty-four's fan* timbers (she was bunt m India) 
 creak again; their aspect and their motion, aO struck 
 as something tar more "poetical" than the mere 
 broad, brawling, sUpless sea, and the suflea winds, 
 could passably have been without them. 
 
 The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the port 
 of Constantinople the most beautiful of harbours, and 
 yet I cannot hut think that the twenty sal of the one, 
 of one hundred am 4 jorty guns, rendered k mot* 
 u poeucal " by day m the son, and by night perhaps sol 
 more, for the Turks SBi-ig thev vessels of war m a 
 cr me most picturesque and yet al this is rtyt- 
 As for the Eoxme, I stood upon the Symplegades 
 I swod by the broken altar still exposed to the winds 
 upon one of them I (eft al the "p<wby"of theskua- 
 as I repealed the first 5nes of Medea ; but would 
 not that "poetry "have been heightened by use Argf t 
 It was so even by the appearance of any merchant 
 tad arriving from Odessa. Bat Mr. Bowles says, 
 why bring your ship off the stocks?" for no reason 
 that I know, except that ships are buik to be b*H. 
 The water, etc., undoubtedly HEIGHTENS the poetical 
 associations, but k does not mulct titan; and the ship 
 amply repays the obfigation: they aid each other ; the 
 water is more poetical with the ainp the ship less so 
 without the water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, it 
 a grand and poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel up- 
 wards, wrecked upon the barren sand, M a "poetical" 
 object (and Wordsworth, who made a poem about a 
 washing-tub and a blind boy, may tel yon so as wcL 
 as I); whilst a long extent of sand and unbrobtq water 
 without the boat, would be as Eke dun prose *s any 
 pamphlet lately published. 
 
 What makes the poetry m the image of th "ston* 
 of Tarfswr," or Granger's "Ode to SoJimde," 
 so much admired by Johnson? Is k the msriie," or 
 the "awsfe," the ortyGcMf or the mntarof object? The 
 "waste" is fikeal other aaasfcs; but the "marOe n at 
 Palmyra makes the poetry of the passage as of tha 
 
 The beautiful but barren Hymettns, the whole coast 
 
 mus,FhikipapDU5,etc.,etc.,are in themselves poeoeal, 
 and would he so if the name of Athens, of Alhfiuana. 
 and her very runs, were swept from the earth. Bat 
 am I to be told that the " nature "of Attica wonU t 
 tore poetical without toe art"of the Acropofis ? trf 
 the Temple of Theseus? and of the still al Greek aw> 
 glorious miatumeiilt of her exqujgitely artificial fciVau? 
 Ask the trareBer what strikes him as most poetica* 
 the Parthenon, or the rock on which k stands? TM 
 coLpxxsof CapeCoioona,or the Cape kseif? Tt* 
 rocks, ai the foot ofk, or the recolefia* that Fxoner<*
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 skip was bulged upon them. There are a thousand 
 rocks and oapes, far more picturesque than those of 
 the Arropo'iis and Cape Sun'mm in themselves ; what 
 are they to a thousand scenes in the wilder parts of 
 Greece, of Asia Minor, Switzerland, or even of Cintra 
 in Portugal, or to many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras 
 of Spain ? But it is the " art" the columns, the tem- 
 ples, the wiecked 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, without poetry, as without exist- 
 ence : but to whatever spot of earth these ruins were 
 transported, if they were capable of transportation, 
 like the obelisk, and the sphinx, and the 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 so ? 
 The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in 
 the Parthenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock are less 
 so without them. Such is the poetry of art. 
 
 Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
 Egypt are poetical, because of " the association with 
 boundless deserts," and that a " pyramid of the same 
 dimensions " would not be sublime in " Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields ;" not so poetical, certainly ; but take away the 
 " pyramids," and what is the " desert ?" Take away 
 Stone-henge from Salisbury plain, and it is nothing 
 more than Hounslovv Heath, or any other uninclosed 
 down. It appears to me that St. Peter's, the Coliseum, 
 the Pantheon, the Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoon, 
 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 those of ancient 
 Greece, still extant in that country, or transported to 
 England), are as poetical as Mont Blanc or Mount ./Etna, 
 perhaps still more so, as they are direct manifestations 
 of mind, and presuppose poetry in their very concep- 
 tion ; and have, moreover, as being such, a something 
 of actual life, which cannot belong to any part of inani- 
 mate nature, unless we adopt the system of Spinosa, 
 that the world is the deity. There can be nothing more 
 poetica 1 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 it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
 prison, or the " Bridge of Sighs " which connects them, 
 that render it poetical ? Is it the " Canal Grande," cr 
 the Rialto which 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 wood, with a shining bit of 
 nmtasUcal'.y-formed iron at the prow, " wii'ioui" the 
 water. And I tell him that without these the water 
 would be nothing but a clay-coloured ditch, and who- 
 ever says the contrary, deserves to be at the bottom of 
 that where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud- 
 Mympns. There would be nothing to make the canal 
 uf Venice more poetical tnan that of Paddington, were 
 it not for the artificial adjuncts above mentioned, al- 
 iougti it is a pfect,v natural canal, formed by the 
 
 sea, and the innumerable islands which constitute tho 
 site of this extraordinary city. 
 
 The very Cloacae of Tarquin at Rome are as po- 
 etical as Richmond Hill ; many will think more so. 
 Take away Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven 
 hills, in the nature of Evander's time ; let Mr. Bowles, 
 or Mr. Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any of the 
 other " naturals," make a poem upon them, and then 
 see which is most poetical, 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. The ground interests in Virgil, 
 because it wiU be Rome, and not because it is Evan 
 der's rural domain. 
 
 Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into his 
 service, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campbell's, that 
 " Homer was a great describer of x works of art." Mr. 
 Bowles contends, that all his great power, even in this, 
 depends upon their connexion with nature. The 
 " shield of Achilles 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 Patroclus, and the celestial armour, and 
 the very brazen greaves of the well-booted Greeks ? Is 
 it solely from the legs, and the back, and the breast, and 
 the human body, which they inclose ? In that case, 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 
 chariots, 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 
 kicking, and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and 
 gouging, in all the poetry of martial nature, unencum- 
 bered with gross, prosaic, artificial arms, an equal su- 
 perfluity 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. Bowles have had him kick them 
 with his foot, or smack them with his hand, as bein 
 more unsophisticated ? 
 
 In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than 
 his " shapeless sculpture ?" Of sculpture in general, 
 it may be observed, that it is more poetical than nature 
 itself, inasmuch as it represents and bodies forth that 
 ideal beauty and sublimity which is never to be found 
 in actual nature. This at least is the general opinion 
 but, always excepting the Venus di Medicis, I differ 
 from that opinion, at least as far as regards female 
 beauty, for the head of Lady Charlemont (when I first 
 saw her, nine years ago) seemed to possess all that 
 sculpture could require for its ideal. I recollect seeing 
 something of the same kind in the head of an Albanian 
 girl, who was actually employed in mending a road in 
 the mountains, and in some Greek, and one or two 
 Italian faces. But of sublimity, I have never seen any 
 thing in human nature at all to approach the expression 
 of sculpture, either in the Apollo, the Moses, or other 
 of the sterner works of ancient or modern art. 
 
 Let us examine a little further this " babble of jrecu 
 fields," and of bare natu.e in general, as superior to 
 artificial imagery, for the. ooet cal purposes of the fine
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 arts. In landscape painting, the great artist does not 
 give you a literal copy of a country, but he invents and 
 composes one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not 
 furnish him with such existing scenes as he requires. 
 Even where he presents you with some famous city, or 
 celebrated scene from mountain or other nature, it 
 must be taken from some particular point of view, and 
 with such light, and shade, and distance, etc. as serve 
 not only to heighten its beauties, but to shadow its de- 
 formities. The poetry of nature alone, exactly as she 
 appears, is not sufficient to bear him out. The very sky 
 of his painting is not the portrait of the sky of nature ; 
 it is a composition of different skies, observed at dif- 
 ferent times, and not the whole copied from any particu- 
 lar day. And why? Because Nature is not lavish of 
 her beauties ; they are widely scattered, and occasionally 
 displayed, to be selected with care, and gathered with 
 difficulty. 
 
 Of sculpture I have just spoken. It is the great 
 scope of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic 
 beauty, i. e. in plain English, to surpass his model. 
 When Canova forms a statue, he takes a limb from one, 
 a hand from another, a feature from a third, and a 
 shape, it may be, from a fourth, probably at the same 
 time improving upon all, as the Greek of old did in 
 embodying his Venus. 
 
 Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in ac- 
 commodating the faces with which Nature and his sit- 
 ters have crowded his painting-room to the principles of 
 his art ; with the exception of perhaps ten faces in as 
 many millions, there is not one which he can venture to 
 give without shading much and adding more. NaturCj 
 exactly, simply, barely nature, will make no great artist 
 of nny 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 foun- 
 tain is as clear or clearer than glass," to express its 
 beauty 
 
 " O fons BandusiaD, gplendidior vitro !" 
 
 In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Cassar is 
 displayed, but so also is his mantle 
 
 'You all do know this mantle," etc. 
 
 1 Look ! in this place ran Cassias' dagger through." 
 
 If the poet had said that Cassius had run his fiat 
 through the rent of the mantle, it would have had more 
 of Mr. Bowles's " nature" to help it ; but the artificial 
 dagger is more poetical than any natural hand without it. 
 In the sublime of sacred poetry, " Who is this that cometh 
 from Edom? with dyed garments from Bozrah?" Would 
 "the comer" be poetical without his " dyed garments ?" 
 which strike and startle the spectator, and identify the 
 approaching object. 
 
 The mother of Sisera is represented listening for the 
 " wheels of his chariot." Solomcn, in his Song, com- 
 pares the nose of his beloved to a " tower," which to us 
 appears an eastern exaggeration. If he had said, that 
 br statue was like that of " a tower," it would have 
 een as poetical as if he had compared her to a tree. 
 
 " The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex," 
 an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
 uperiority. But Solomon, it is probable, did not com- 
 pare his beloved's nose to a " tower" on account of its 
 
 length, but of its symmetry ; and, maiting alltf "anos I> 
 eastern hyperbole and the difficulty of finding a discrec- 
 image for a female nose in nature, it is perhap*- as gooa 
 a figure as any other. 
 
 Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes 
 What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble objec 
 of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, thei 
 dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial sym 
 metry of their position and movements. A Highland 
 er's plaid, a Mussulman's turban, and a Roman toga 
 are more poetical than the tattooed or untattooed but- 
 tocks of a New-Sandwich savage, although they were 
 described by William Wordsworth himself like the 
 " idiot in his glory." 
 
 I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
 fleets than the generality of landsmen : and, to my mind, 
 a large convoy, with a few sail of the line to conduct 
 thorn, is as noble and as poetical a prospect as all that 
 inanimate nature can produce. I prfefer the " mast of 
 some great ammiral," with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir 
 or the Alpine tannen : and think that more poetry has been 
 made out of it. In what does the infinite superiority of 
 " Falconer's Shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, con- 
 sist ? In his admirable application of the terms of his 
 art ; in a poet-sailor's description of the sailor's fate. 
 These very terms, by his application, make the strength 
 and reality of his poem. Why ? because he was a poet, 
 and in the hands of a poet art will not be found less 
 ornamental than nature. It is precisely in general na- 
 ture, and in stepping out of his element, that Falconer 
 fails ; where he digresses to speak of ancient Greece, 
 and " such branches of learning." 
 
 In Dyer'sjGrongar Hill, upon which his farhe rests, 
 the very appearance of Nature herse'f is moralized into 
 an artificial image : 
 
 " Thus is Nature's vesture wrujght. 
 To instruct our wandering thought ; 
 Thus sho dresses green and gay, 
 To disperse our cares away." 
 
 And here also we have the telescope, the niisuse of 
 which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so vi> 
 umphant over Mr. Campbell: 
 
 " So we mistake the 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 truad the sa-mc 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 Mdamocco, which curbs the Adriatic, 
 and pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely 
 that Roman work (I mean Roman in conception and 
 performance), which says to the ocean, " 'hus far shak 
 thou come, and no further," and is obeyed, >s not less 
 sublime and poetical than the angry waves which vaimv 
 break beneath it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a "hip's poesy de- 
 pend on the " wind:'' then why is u ship iinucr sai mora 
 poetical than a hog in a high wind ? The hog is aJi 
 nature, the ship is all art, " coarse canvas," " blue 
 bunting," and " tall poles ;" both are violent
 
 548 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 upon by the wind, tossed here and there, to and fro ; 
 Rnd 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 walur which it conveys ? Let him look 
 on that of Justinian, on those of Rome, Constantinople, 
 Lisbon, and EU as, 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 patent 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 cathedral ; was it less poeti- 
 cal, as an object, than before ? Ask a foreigner on his ap- 
 proach to London, what strikes him as the most, no^tical 
 
 of the towers before him ; he. will point out St. Paul's and i 
 Westminster Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing thcj 
 names or associations of cither, 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 mon- 
 arch, or a Waterloo column, or a Trafalgar monument, 
 but because its architecture is obviously inferior. 
 
 To the question, " whether the 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, that the materials are certainly 
 not equal ; but that " the artist" who has rendered 
 \ the " game of cards poetical," is by far the greater of 
 the two. But all this "ordering" of poets is purely ar- 
 bitrary 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, how- 
 ever, 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 re- 
 collect that descriptive poetry has been ranked as among 
 the lowest branches of the art, and description as a mere 
 ornament, but which should never form " the subject" 
 of a poem. The Italians, with the most poetical lan- 
 guage, and the most fastidious taste in Europe, possess 
 now live great poets, they say, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
 Passo, and lastly Alfieri ; and whom do they esteem one 
 jf the highest of these, and some of them the very 
 highest? Petrarcfi, the sonnetteer ; it is true that some of 
 his ranzoni arc not less esteemed, but not more ; who 
 erer 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 
 lave bf>i<re said, the ooet who executes best is the high- 
 
 est, 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 odd- 
 would be insufficient for his fame. The leprcciation 
 of Pope is partly founded upon a false idea of the 
 dignity of his order of poetry, to which he has partly 
 contributed by the ingenuous boast, 
 
 " That not in fancy's maze lie wander'd Ions, 
 But stoop'd to truth, and moralized his song." 
 He should have written " rose to truth." In my mind, 
 the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as the high 
 est of all earthly objects must be moral truth. Religion 
 does not make a part of my subject ; it is something 
 beyond human powers, and has failed in all human 
 hands except Milton's and Dante's, and even Dante's 
 powers are involved in the delineation of human pas- 
 sions, though in supernatural circumstances. What 
 made Socrates the greatest of men ? His moral truth 
 his ethics. What proved Jesus Christ the Son of God 
 
 r less than his miracles? His moral precepts. 
 
 f ethics have made a philosopher the first of men, 
 and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his gosite. 
 by the Deity himself, are we to be told that cthica. 
 poetry, or didactic 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 ex er were " walked" for their " descrip- 
 tion," and all the epics that ever were founded upon 
 fields of battle. The Georgics are indisputably, and, 
 I believe, undisputedly, even a finer poem than the 
 ^Eneid. Virgil knew this ; he did not order tliem 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 
 commonest 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 of Latin 
 poems. What then has ruined it? His ethics. Pope 
 has not this defect ; his moral is as pure as his poetrv 
 is glorious. In speaking of artificial objects, I have 
 omitted to touch upon one which I will now mention. 
 Cannon may be presumed to be af highly poetical as 
 art can make her objects. Mr. Bowles will, perhaos. 
 tell me that this is because they resemble that grand 
 natural article of sound in heaven, and simile upon 
 earth thunder. I shall be told triumphantly, thai 
 Millon made sad work with his artillery, when he arm'tf 
 his devils therewithal. He did so ; and this artifiua. 
 object must have had much of the sublime to attract 
 his attention for such a conflict. He has made an 
 absurd use of it; but the absurdity consists tret in 
 using cannon against the angels of God, but anv 
 material weapon. The thunder of the clouds wou'd 
 have been as ridiculous and vain in the hands of the 
 
 devils, as'he " villanous saltpetre " the sn^'lj were .is 
 impervious to the one as to the other, li.e tl.und^- 
 bolts became sublime in the hands of the Alivgni /, not
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 as such, but because he deigns to use them as a means 
 of repelling the rebel spirits ; but no one can attribute 
 their defeat to this grand piece of natural electricity : 
 the Almighty willed, and they fell ; his word would have 
 been enough ; and Milton is as absurd (and in fact, 
 blasphemous) in putting material lightnings into the 
 r-amls Df the Godhead as in giving him hands at all. 
 
 The artillery of the demons was but the first step of 
 his mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a step lower. 
 It would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 
 The subject altogether was essentially unpoetical ; he 
 has made more of it than another could, but it is be- 
 yond him and all men. 
 
 In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
 Pope " envied Phillips" because he quizzed his pastorals 
 in the Guardian in that most admirable model of 
 irony, his paper on the subject. If there was any 
 thing enviable about Phillips, it could hardly be his 
 pastorals. They were despicable, and Pope expressed 
 his contempt. If Mr. Fitzgerald published a volume of 
 onnets, or a " Spirit of Discovery," or a " Missionary," 
 and Mr. Bowles wrote in any periodical journal an 
 ironical paper upon them, would this be "envy?" The 
 authors of the " Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the 
 sixteen or twenty " first living poets " of the day ; but 
 do they " envy " them ? " Envy " writhes, it don't laugh. 
 The authors of the " Rejected Addresses" may despise 
 some, but they can hardly " envy" any of the persons 
 whom they have parodied : and Pope could have no 
 more envied Phillips than he did Welsted,or Theobalds, 
 or Smediey, 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, when he asked him, "how came your 
 Pyirhus to drive oxen, and say, I am goaded on by 
 love?" This question silenced poor Phillips ; 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 unparalleled success of his " Beggar's 
 Opera?" We may be answered that these were his 
 friends true ; but does friendship prevent envy ? 
 Study the first woman you meet with, or the first scrib- 
 bler, let Mr. Bowles himself (whom I acquit fully of 
 such an odious quality) study some of his own poetical 
 intimates : the most envious man I ever heard of is a 
 poet, and a high one ; besides it is an universal passion. 
 Goldsmith envied not only the puppets for their danc- 
 ing, and broke his shins in the attempt at rivalry, but 
 was seriously angry because two pretty women re- 
 ceived more attention than he did. This is envy ; but 
 where does Pope show a sign of the passion ? In that 
 case, Dryden envied the hero of his Mac Flecknoe. Mr. 
 Bowles compares, when and where he can, Pope with 
 Cowpcr (the same Cowper whom, in his edition of Pope, 
 ne hughs at for his attachment to an old woman, Mrs. 
 C T nwin : search and you will find it ; I remember the 
 passage, though not the page); in particular he re- 
 quotes Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood, drawn 
 up like a seedsman's catalogue, 1 with an affected imi- 
 
 1 1 wiK submit to Mr. Bowles's own judgment a passage 
 Tom another poem of Cowper's, to be compared with the 
 sume writer's Sylvan Sampler. In the .ines to Mary, 
 *' Thy needles, once a shining store. 
 For my sake restless heretofore. 
 Now rust disused, and shino no more, 
 
 My Mary," 
 2Z 
 
 tation of Mi'ton's style, as burlesque as the " Splendid 
 Shilling." These two writers (for Cowper is no poet) 
 come into comparison in one great work liie trans 
 lation of Homer. Now, with all the great, and mam 
 fest, and manifold, and reproved, and acknowledged, 
 and uncontroverted faults of Pope's translation, ana 
 all the scholarship, and pains, and time, and trouble, and 
 blank verse of the other, who can ever read Cowper f 
 and who will ever lay down Pope, unless for the 
 original ? Pope's was " not Homer, it was Spondanus ;" 
 but Cowper's is not Homer, either, it is not even Cow- 
 per. As a child I first read Pope's Homer with a rap- 
 ture which no subsequent work could ever afford ; and 
 children are not the wors: judges of their own lan- 
 guage. As a boy I read Homer in the original, as we 
 have all done, some of us by force, and a few by 
 favour ; under which description I come is nothing to 
 the purpose, it is enough that I read him. As a man 
 I have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found it 
 impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded ? 
 
 And now that we have heard the Catholic reproached 
 with envy, duplicity, licentiousness, avarice what was 
 the Calvinist? He attempted the most atrocious of 
 crimes in the Christian code, viz. suicide and why? 
 Because he was to be examined whether he was fit for 
 an office which he seems to wish to have made a sine- 
 cure. His connexion with Mrs. Unwin was pure enough, 
 for the old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
 why then is the infirm and then elderly Pope to be re- 
 proved for his connexion with Martha Blount? Cow- 
 per was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but Pope's 
 charities were his own, and they were noble and ex- 
 tensive, far beyond his fortune's warrant. Pope waj 
 
 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 1 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 eminently poetical and pathetic as ad- 
 dressed by Cowper to his nurse'? The trash of trees reminds 
 me of a saying of Sheridan's. Soon after the "Rejected Ad- 
 dress '' scene, in 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of din- 
 ner, he said, "Lord Byron, did you know that amongst tho 
 writers of addresses was Whitbread himself?" 1 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 phan'X in it." " A phoenix ! ! Well, how did he de- 
 scribe it ?" " Like a poulterer," answered Sheridan " it wa 
 green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not let us oft* 
 for a single feather." And just sucli as this poulterer's ac- 
 count of a phoenix, is Cowper's stick-picker's detail of a wood, 
 with all its petty minutia; 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 Mutinous! IB there any thing in nature like thn 
 marble, excepting the Venus? Can there be more poetry 
 gathered into existence than in that wonderful creation of per- 
 fect beauty? But the poetry of this bust is in no respect de- 
 rived from nature, nor from any association of moral exulted 
 ness ; for what is there in common with moral n iture and the 
 male minion of Adrian? The very execution i. not natural 
 but super-natural, or rather super-artificial, for nature hu 
 never done so much. 
 
 Away, then, with this cant about nature and "invariant 
 principles of poetry!" A great artist will make a block of 
 stone as sublime as a mountain, and a good poet can imbuo 
 a pack of cards with more poetry than inhabits the forests ot 
 America. It is the business and the proof of a poet to cue 
 the lie to the iroverb. and sometimes to " make a silken pursi 
 out of a souTs ear;" and to conclude with another homely 
 proverb, " a good workman will not find fault with his tcob
 
 550 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 the tolerant yet steadv adherent of the most bigoted of 
 sects ; aid Cowper the most bigoted and despondent 
 sectaiy r'lat ever anticipated damnation to himself or 
 others, is this harsh ? I know it is, and I do not assert 
 it as my opinion of Cowper personally, but to show 
 what might be said, with just as great an appearance of 
 truth and candour, as all the odium which has been 
 accumulated upon Pope in similar speculations. Cow- 
 per 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 
 forward the names of Southey and Moore. Mr. Southey 
 "agrees entirely with Mr. Bowles in his invariable 
 principles of pctry." The least that Mr. Bowles can 
 do in return is to approve the " invariable principles of 
 Mr. Southoy." I should have thought that the word 
 41 invariable" 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 Ait the nail in the head, and **** [Pope, I 
 presume! on the head also." 
 
 I remain, yours, affectionately, 
 
 (Four Asterisks.) 
 
 And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this person 
 may be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, 
 that "the nail" which Mr. Bowles has hit in the 
 hsad should be driven through his own ears ; I am 
 sure lhat they a 5 long enough. 
 
 The attention >f the poetical populace of the present 
 day to obtain an stracism against Pope is as easily ac- 
 counted for as tl t Athenian's shell against Aristides ; 
 they are tired of I earing him always called " the Just." 
 They are also fig.iting for life ; for if he maintains his 
 station, they will reach their own falling. They have 
 raised a mosque by the side of a Grecian temple of the 
 purest architecture ; and, more barbarous than the 
 barbarians from whose practice I have borrowed the 
 figure, they are nc< contented with their own grotesque 
 edifice, unless they destroy the prior and purely beauti- 
 ful fabric which preceded, and which shames them and 
 tiieirs for ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst 
 those I have been (or it may be still am) conspicuous 
 tun:, 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 destroyers of 
 the classic temple of our predecessor. I have loved 
 and honoured the fame and name of that illustrious 
 and unrivalled man, far more than my own paltry 
 renown, and the trashy jingle of the crowd of 
 * schools " and upstarts, who pretend to rival, or even 
 surpass him. Sooner than a single leaf should be 
 .orn from his laurel, it were better that all which these 
 lien, and that I, as one of their set, have ever written, 
 ihoijld 
 
 " Linu trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
 Beliinge the rails of Bedlam or Soho !" 
 
 Tuer are those who will believe this, and those who 
 
 will not. You, sir, know how fa' I am sincere, and 
 whether my opinion; not only in the short work in- 
 tended for publication, and in private letters which 
 can never be published, has or has not been the same. 
 I look upon this as the declining age of English poetry; 
 no regard for others, no selfish feeling, can prevent me 
 from seeing this, and expressing 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. Gobbet's rough' but strong attack upon 
 Shakspeare and Milton, than to allow this smooth and 
 
 candid" undermining of the 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. / 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 that 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; 
 
 the maker," " the creator " why must this mean lh 
 
 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 St. Sophia's), that Socrates was a greater man 
 than Mahomet. But if I say that he is very near them, 
 it is no more than has been asserted of Burns, who .s 
 supposed 
 
 " To rival all but Shakspeare's name below." 
 I say nothing against this opinion. But of what " order" 
 according to the poetical aristocracy,are Burns's poems? 
 These are his opus magnum, " Tarn 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 of 
 Burns is the very first of his art. Of Pope I have ex- 
 pressed my opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect 
 which the present attempts at poetry have had upon 
 our literature. If any great national or natural con- 
 vulsion could or should overwhelm your country, in 
 such sort as to sweep Great Britain from the kingdoms 
 of the earth, and leave only that, 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 pos- 
 terity 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 ; bui 
 the surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, 
 and let the rest sink with the people. He is the moral 
 poet of all civilization, and, as such, let us hope that 
 he will one day be the national poet of mankind . He 
 is the only poet that never shocks ; the only poet whose 
 faultlessness has been made his reproach. Cast your 
 eye over his productions ; consider their extent, and
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 contemplate their variety : pastoral, passion, mock- 
 neroic, translation, satire, ethics, all excellent, and 
 often perfef t. If his great charm be his melody, how 
 comes it that foreigners adore him even in their diluted 
 translation ? But I have made this letter too long. 
 G : ./d my compliments to Mr. Bowles. 
 
 Yours ever, very truly, 
 
 BYRON. 
 To J. Murray, Esq. 
 
 Post scriptum. Long as this letter has grown, I 
 ftcd it necessary to append a postscript, if possible, a 
 short ane. 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 testi- 
 mony that might show me he was not so." This testi- 
 mony 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 legatee." Whatever she 
 thought upon this point, her words are in Pope's favour. 
 Then there is Alderman Barber see Spence's Anec- 
 dotes. 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 own two lines 
 
 "And, thanks to Homer, since I live and thrive. 
 Indebted to no prince or peer alive " 
 
 written when princes would have been proud to pen- 
 sion, and peers to promote him, and when the whole 
 army of dunces were in array against him, and would 
 have been but too happy to deprive him of this boast 
 of independence. But there is something a little more 
 serious in Mr. Bowles's declaration, that he "would have 
 ipoken" 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 
 hi 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 poetical ? Does he present us with his faults 
 and with his foibles ? Does he sneer at his feelings, and 
 doubt of his 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 that "they did not occur to his recollection?" 
 Is this the frame of mind and of memory with which the 
 illustrious dead are to be approached? If Mr. Bowles, 
 who must have had access to all the means of refreshing 
 las memory, did not recollect these facts, he is unfit for 
 liis task ; but if he did recollect, and omit them, I know 
 not what he is fit for, but I know what would be fit 
 ior him. Is the plea of " not recollecting" such promi- 
 nent facts to be admitted ? Mr. Bowles has been at a 
 jublic school, and, as I have been publicly educated 
 a.so, I can sympathize with his predilection. When we 
 were in the third form even, had we pleaded on the 
 Monday morning, that we had not brought up the Satur- 
 day's exercise because " we had forgotten it," what 
 would have been the reply ? -And is an excuse, which 
 would not be pardoned to a school-boy, to pass current 
 fti a matter which so nearly concerns 'he fame of the 
 first poet of his age, if not of his country? If Mr. Bowles 
 so readily forgets the virtues of others, why complain 
 BO grievously that others have a better memory for his 
 wn faults ? They are but the faults of an author ; 
 
 while the virtues he omitted from his catalogue are 
 essential to the justice due to a man. 
 
 Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptible beyond 
 the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedica- 
 tion to Mr. Gifford, 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," 
 approves of Mr. Bowles's publication. Now, it seems 
 to me the more impartial, that, notwithstanding that the 
 great writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions op- 
 posite to the able' article on Spence, nevertheless thai 
 essay was permitted to appear. Is a review to be de- 
 voted to the opinions of any one man? Must it not 
 vary according to circumstances, and according to tha 
 subjects to be criticised? I fear that writers must tako 
 the sweets and bitters of the public journals as they 
 occur, and an author of so long a standing as Mr. Bowles 
 might have become accustomed to such incidents ; he 
 might be angry, but not astonished. I have been re- 
 viewed in the Quarterly almost as often as Mr. Bowles, 
 and have had as pleasant things said, and some as un- 
 pleasant, as could well be pronounced. In the review 
 of" The Fall of Jerusalem," it is stated that I have de- 
 voted " my powers, etc. to the worst parts of mani- 
 cheism," which, being interpreted, means that I wor- 
 ship the devil. Now, I have neither written a reply, nor 
 complained to GifFord. 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 1 
 would not, if it were even in my power, have a single 
 line cancelled on my account in that nor in any other 
 publication? Of course, I reserve to myself the privi- 
 lege of response when necessary. Mr. Bowles seems in 
 a whimsical state about 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 entrusted it to me. 
 He is not the person whom Mr. Bowles denounces. Mr. 
 Bowles's extreme sensibility reminds me of a circum- 
 stance which occurred on board of a frigate, in which 
 I was a passenger and guest ot the captain's for a con- 
 siderable time. The surgeon on board, a very gentle 
 manly young man, and remarkably able in his profes 
 sion, wore a wig. Upon this ornament he was extremely 
 tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes a little rough, 
 his brother-officers made occasional allusions to this 
 delicate appendage to the doctor's person. One day a 
 young lieutenant, in the course of a facetious discus- 
 sion, said, " Suppose, now, doctor, I should take off 
 your hat." " Sir," replied the doctor, " I shaii talk no 
 longer with you ; you grow scurrilous." 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's 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 a? a publisher, nor for the 10- 
 demption of Pope from Mr. Bowles, and of the pubiM 
 taste from rapid degeneracy.
 
 ( 562 ) 
 
 June 17, 1816. 
 
 If the year 17 . having for some time determined 
 on a journey through countries not hitherto much fre- 
 quented by travellers, I set out, accompanied by a friend 
 wnom I shall designate by the name of Augustus Dar- 
 rell. He was a few years my elder, and a man of con- 
 siderable fortune and ancient family advantages which 
 an extensive capacity prevented him alike from under- 
 valuing or overrating. Some peculiar circumstances in 
 his private history had rendered him to me an object 
 of attention, of interest, and even of regard, which 
 neither the reserve of his manners, nor occasional indi- 
 cations of an inquietude at times nearly approaching to 
 alienation of mind, could extinguish. 
 
 I was yet young in life, which I had begun early ; 
 but my intimacy with him was of a recent date : we had 
 been educated at the same schools and university ; but 
 his progress through these had preceded mine, and he 
 had been deeply initiated into what is called the world, 
 while I was yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I 
 had heard much both of his past and present life ; and, 
 although in these accounts there were many and irre- 
 concilable contradictions, I could still gather from the 
 whole that he was a being of no common order, and 
 one who, whatever pains he might take to avoid re- 
 mark, would still be remarkable. I had cultivated his 
 acquaintance subsequently, and endeavoured to obtain 
 his friendship, but tliis last appeared to be unattainable; 
 whatever affections he might have possessed seemed 
 now, some to have been extinguished, and others to be 
 concentred : that his feelings were acute, I had suffi- 
 cient 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 appearance of 
 another in such a manner that it was difficult to define 
 the nature of what was working within him ; and the 
 expressions of his features would vary so rapidly, though 
 slightly, that it was useless to trace them to their sources. 
 It was evident that he was a prey to some cureless dis- 
 quiet ; but whether it arose from ambition, love, re- 
 morse, grief, from one or all of these, or merely from 
 a morbid temperament akin to disease, I could not dis- 
 cover : there were circumstances alleged which might 
 have justified the application to each of these 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 sup- 
 posed that there must also be evil : I know not how this 
 may be, but in him there certainly was the one, though 
 I could not ascertain the extent of the other and felt 
 loth, as far as regarded himself, to believe in its exist- 
 ence. My advances were received with sufficient cold- 
 ness ; but I was young, and not easily discouraged, and 
 at lengtn s^'-ceded in obtaining, to a certain degree, 
 that commonplace intercourse and moderate confidence 
 of common and every-day concerns, created and ce- 
 .Tientf.J by similarity of pursuit and frequency of meet- 
 ing, which is called intimacy, or friendship, according to 
 rlie ideas of him who uses those words to express them. 
 
 Uarvell had already travelled extensively, and to him 
 i nod applied for information with regard to the con- 
 
 duct of my intended journey. It was my secret wisa 
 that he might be prevailed on to accompany me : it wa* 
 also a probable hope, founded upon the shadowy rest- 
 lessness which I had observed in him, and to which the 
 animation which he appeared to feel on such subjects, 
 and his apparent indifference 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 expected it, gave me all the pleasure 
 of surprise he consented ; and, after the requisite ar- 
 rangements, we commenced our voyages. After journey- 
 ing through various countries of the south of Europe, 
 our attention was turned towards the east, according 
 to our original destination ; and it was in my progress 
 through those regions that the incident occurred upon 
 which will turn what I may have to relate. 
 
 The constitution of Darvell, which must, from his 
 appearance, 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 seriously altered, 
 that my alarm grew proportionate to what I conceived 
 to be his danger. 
 
 We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on 
 an excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, from 
 which I endeavoured to dissuade him, in his present 
 state of indisposition but in vain : there appeared to be 
 an oppression on his mind, and a solemnity in his man- 
 ner, which ill -'responded with his eagerness to proceed 
 on what I res^ r ted as a mere party of pleasure, littls 
 suited to a valetudinarian ; but I opposed him no longer 
 and in a few days we set off together, accompanied 
 only by a serrugee and a single janizary. 
 
 We had passed half-way towards the remains of 
 Ephesus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs of 
 Smyrna, and were entering upon that wild and ten- 
 antless track through the marshes and defiles which 
 lead to the few huts yet lingering over the broken col- 
 umns of Diana the roofless walls of expelled Christi- 
 anity, and the still more recent but complete desolation 
 of abandoned mosques when the sudden and rapid ill- 
 ness of my companion obliged us to halt at a Turkish 
 cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of which were the 
 sole indication that human life had ever been a sojourner 
 in this wilderness. The only caravansera 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 un- 
 fortunate friend, who seemed on the verge of becoming 
 the last of its inhabitants. 
 
 In this situation, I looked round for a place where he 
 might most conveniently repose : contrary to the usual 
 aspect of Mahometan burial-giounds, the cypresses 
 were in this few in number, and these thinly scattered 
 over its extent : the tombstones were mostly fallen, and 
 worn with age: upon one of the most considerable <! 
 these, and beneath one of the most soreadmg (re
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 553 
 
 r*nrvell supported himself, in a half-reclining posture, 
 with great difficulty. He asked for water. I had some 
 doubts of our being able to find any, and prepared to go 
 in search of it with hesitating despondency but he 
 desired me to remain ; and, turning to Suleiman, our 
 janizary, who stood by us smoking with great tranquil- 
 lity, he said, " Suleiman, verbana su," (i. e. brinjr some 
 
 Why ?" 
 
 "You will see." 
 
 * The ninth day of the month, you say?" 
 
 " The ninth." 
 
 As I observed that the present was the ninth day o 
 the month, his countenance changed, and he paused. At 
 he sate, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with e 
 
 water), and went on describing the spot where it was to j snake in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us ; 
 be found with great minuteness, at a small well for ! and, without devouring her prey, appeared to be sted- 
 camels, a few hundred yards to the right : the janizary j fastly regarding us. I know not what impelled me to 
 
 obeyed i said to Darvell, " How did you know this ?" 
 
 drive it away, but the attempt was useless ; she made a 
 
 He replied, " From our situation ; you must perceive few circles in the air, and returned exactly to the same 
 "hat this place was- once inhabited, and could not have j spot. Danrell pointed to it, and smiled : he spoke 1 
 Aeen so without springs : I have also been here before." know not whether to himself or to me but the words 
 
 " You have been here before ! How came you never were only, "'T is well !" 
 lo mention this to me ? and what could you be doing in 
 a place where no one would remain a moment longer 
 than they could help it?" 
 
 To this question I received no answer. In the mean- i 
 
 " 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." 
 
 fune, Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser- | He then proceeded to give me several directions a* 
 nigee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching of' to the manner in which his death might be best con 
 his thirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mo- cealed. After these were finished, he exclaimed, " Yo 
 ment ; and I conceived hopes of his being able to pro- 'perceive that bird?" 
 
 eced, or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He 
 was silent and appeared to be collecting his spirits for 
 an effort to speak. He began. 
 
 " This is the end of my journey, and of my life 1 
 came here to die : but I have a request to make, a 
 command for such my last words must be. You will 
 observe it?" 
 
 " Most certainly ; but have better hopes." 
 
 " I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this conceal my 
 death from every human being." 
 
 u I hope there will be no occasion ; that you win re- 
 o?ver, and " 
 
 u Peace ! it must be so : promise this." 
 
 "Ido.-' 
 
 " Swear it by all Ihst" He here dictated an oath 
 
 of great solemnity. 
 
 " There is no occasion for this 1 T2! observe your 
 
 request ; and to doubt me is " 
 
 44 It cannot be helped, you must swear." 
 
 1 Certainly." 
 
 " And the serpent writhing in her beak ?" 
 
 " Doubtless : there is nothing uncommon in it ; it 
 her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not de- 
 vour it." 
 
 He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, faintly, u It 
 is not yet time !" As he spoke, the stork flew away. 
 My eyes followed it for a moment ; rt could hardly be 
 longer than ten might be counted. I feh Darvell'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 cauld 
 not be mistaken his 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 remained but to fulfil his request. With the aid 
 
 I took the oath : it appeared to relieve him. He re- j of Suleiman's ataghan and my own sabre, we scooped 
 moved a seal-ring from his finger, on which were some ' a shallow grave upon the spot which Darvell had indi 
 Arabic characters, and presented it to me. He pro- jcated: the earth easily gave way, having already received 
 ceeded (some Mahometan tenant. We dug as deeplv as the 
 
 "'On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely time permitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon all 
 (what month you please, but this must be the day), you ' that remained of the singular being so latelv departed, 
 must fling this ring into the salt springs which run into ! we cut a few sods of greener turf from the less withered 
 the Bay of Eleusis : the day after, at the same hour, ' soil around us, and laid them upon his sepulchre, 
 you must repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, I Between astonishment and grief, I was tearless, 
 and wait one hour." * * ***** 
 
 pcccftcs. 
 
 UEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IX THE 
 HOUSE OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 
 
 THE order of the day for the second reading of this 
 bill being read, 
 
 LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) ad- 
 eresseJ their lordships, as follows: 
 2x2 75 
 
 Mr LORDS the subject now submitted to your loro- 
 ships for the first time, though new M the House, is by 
 no rowans new to the country. I believe it haJ occtr 
 pied the serious thoughts of all descriptions of perauna, 
 long before its introduction to the notice of that legis- 
 lature, whose interference alone could be of real cr 
 vice. As a person in tone degree connected wfch tfa*
 
 554 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 suffering county, though i stranger not only to this 
 House in general, but to almost every individual whose 
 attention I presume to solicit, I must claim some por- 
 tion of your lordships' indulgence whilst I offer a few 
 observations on a question in which 1 confess myself 
 deeply interested. 
 
 To enter into any detail of the riots would be super- 
 fluous : the House is already aware that every outrage 
 short of actual bloodshed has 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 Nottingham- 
 shire, not twelve hours elapsed without some fresh act 
 of violence ; and on the day I left the county, I was in- 
 formed that forty frames had been broken the preced- 
 ing 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 circumstances of the most unparalleled 
 distress. The perseverance of these miserable men in 
 their proceedings, tends to prove that nothing but abso- 
 lute 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 burthened with large detach- 
 ments 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 the fact, against whom there existed 
 legal evidence sufficient for conviction. But the police, 
 however useless, were by no means idle : several noto- 
 rious delinquents had been detected ; men, liable to 
 conviction, on the clearest evidence, of the capital crime 
 of poverty : men who had been nefariously guilty of 
 lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks to 
 the times ! they were unable to maintain. Considerable 
 injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved 
 frames. These machines were to them an advantage, 
 inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing 
 a number of workmen, who were left in consequence 
 to starve. By the adoption of one species of frame in 
 particular, one man performed the work of many, and 
 the superfluous labourers were thrown out of employ- 
 ment. Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus 
 executed was inferior in quality ; not marketable at 
 home, and merely hurried over with a view to exporta- 
 tion. It was called, in the 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 beneficial to mankind, 
 conceived themselves to be sacrificed to improvements 
 in mechanism. In the foolishness of their hearts they 
 imagined, that the maintenance and well-doing of the 
 industrious poor were objects of greater consequence 
 than the enrichment of a few individuals by any im- 
 provement, in the implements of trade, which threw 
 Ihe workmen out of employment, and rendered the 
 labourer unworthy of his hire. And it must be con- 
 incsiid tha although the adoption of the enlarged ma- 
 
 chinery, in that state of our commerce which the court- 
 try once boasted, might have been beneficial to the 
 master without being detrimental to the servant ; yet. 
 in the present situation of our manufactures, rotting in 
 warehouses, without a prospect of exportation, with 
 the demand for work and workmen equally diminished ; 
 frames of this description tend materially to aggravate 
 the distress and discontent of the disappointed sufferers. 
 But the real cause of these distresses and consequent 
 disturbances lies deeper. When we are told that these 
 men are leagued together not only for the destruction 
 of their own comfort, but of their very means of sub- 
 sistence, can we forget that it is the bitter policy, the 
 destructive warfare of the last eighteen years, which 
 has destroyed their comfort, your comfort, all men's 
 comfort? That policy which, originating wilh " great 
 statesmen now no more," has survived the dead to be- 
 come 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 
 they were become actual impediments to their exertions 
 in obtaining their daily bread. Can you, then, wonder 
 that in times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted 
 fraud, and imputed felony are found in a station not 
 far beneath that of your lordships, the lowest, though 
 once most useful portion of the 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 mechanic, who 
 is famished into guilt. These men were willing to dg, 
 but the spade was in other hands : they 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 been stated that the persons in the temporary 
 possession of frames connive at their destruction ; if 
 this be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such 
 material accessaries to the crime should be principals 
 in the punishment. But I did hope, that any measure 
 proposed by his majesty's government, for your lord- 
 ship's decision, would have had conciliation for its basis; 
 or, if that were hopeless, that some previous inquiry, 
 some deliberation would have been deemed requisite; 
 not that we should have been called at once with- 
 out examination, and without 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 evinced in the 
 method chosen to reduce them ! Why were the military 
 called out to be made a mockery of, if ,hey were 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 
 proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the mode of 
 those of the Mayor and Corporation of Garratt. Such 
 marchings and counter-marchings ! from Nottingham 
 to Bullwell, from Bullwell to Banford, from Banford to 
 Mansfield ! and when at length the detachments arrived 
 at their destinations, in all " the pride, pomp, ai-d ci^-
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 rumstance of glorious war," they came just in time lo 
 witness the mischief which had been done, and ascertain 
 the escape of the perpetrators, to collect the " spolia 
 trpima" in the fragments of broken frames, and return 
 to their 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 
 formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see the policy of 
 placing them in situations where they can only be made 
 ridiculous. As the sword is the worst argument that can 
 be used, so should it be the last. In this instance it has 
 been the first ; but providentially as yet only in the 
 scabbard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it 
 from the sheath ; yet had proper meetings been held in 
 the earlier stages of these 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 present 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 apprized 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 was a-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 let loose against your fellow-citizens. 
 You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, 
 and ignorant ; and seem to think that the only way to 
 quiet the " Bellua mullorum 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 concilia- 
 tion and firmness, than by additional irritation and re- 
 doubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations 
 to a mob ? It is the mob that labour 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 ca- 
 lamity have driven them to despair. You 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 
 lo fly to the succour of your distressed allies, leaving 
 the distressed of your own country to the care of Provi- 
 dence, or the parish. When the Portuguese suffered 
 under the retreat of the French, every arm was stretch- 
 ed out, every hand was opened, from the rich man's 
 largess to the widow's mite, all was bestowed to enable 
 ihem to rebuild their villages and replenish their gran- 
 aries. And at this moment, when thousands of misguided 
 jut most unfortunate fellow-countrymen are strug- 
 gling with the extremes of hardships and hunger, as 
 <our charity began abroad, it should end at home. A 
 4iuch less sum, a tithe of the bounty bestowed on Por- 
 tugal, even if those men (which I cannot admit with- 
 out inquiry) could not have been restored to their em- 
 ployments, would have rendered unnecessary the ten- 
 der mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But 
 doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims to 
 wid'. i orosnect of domestic relief; though never did 
 
 such objects demand it. I have traversed the seat of 
 war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most 
 oppressed provinces of Turkey, but never under the 
 most despotic of infidel governments did I behold such 
 squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return 
 in the very heart of a Christian country. And what 
 are your remedies ? After months of inaction, and 
 months of action worse than inactivity, at length comes 
 forth (he grand specific, the never-failing nostrum o 
 all state physicians, 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 
 maukish police, and th? lancets of your military, these 
 convulsions must termi late in death, the sure consum- 
 mation of the prescrip 1 ions of all political Sangrados. 
 Setting aside the palpable injustice, and the certain 
 inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital punish- 
 ments sufficient in your statutes ? 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 com- 
 mit 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 law ? depopulate and lay 
 waste all around you ? and restore Sherwood Forest 
 as an acceptable gift to the crown, in its former condi- 
 tion of a royal chase and an asylum for outlaws? Are 
 these the remedies for a starving and desperate popu- 
 lace ? 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 grena- 
 diers be accomplished by your executioners? If you 
 proceed by the forms of law, where is your evidence ? 
 Those who have refused to impeach their accomplices, 
 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 pre- 
 vious inquiry, would induce even them to change their 
 purpose. That most favourite state measure, so mar 
 vellously efficacious in many and recent instance? 
 temporizing, would not be without its advantages in 
 this. When a proposal is made to emancipate or re- 
 lieve, you hesitate, you deliberate for years, you tem- 
 porize and tamper with the minds of men ; but a death- 
 bill must be passed off hand, without a thought of the 
 consequences. Sure I am, from what I have heard, 
 and from what I have seen, that to pass the Bill under 
 all the existing circumstances, without inquiry, without 
 deliberation, would only be to add injustice to irritation 
 and barbarity to neglect. The framers of such a Bit, 
 must be content to inherit the honours of that Athe- 
 nian lawgiver whose edicts were said to be written nol 
 in ink, but in blood. But suppose it past ; suppose 
 one of these men, as I have seen them, meagre with 
 famine, sullen with despai', careless of a life whu.ii 
 your lordships are perhaps about to value at some- 
 thing less than the price of a stocking-frame sup- 
 pose this man surrounded by the children for whom 
 he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of b.* ex- 
 istence, about to be torn f or e\ er from a fairu'y v;htc*
 
 556 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ne lately supported in peaceful industry, and which it 
 not h * fault th.it he can ho longer so support sup- 
 pose this .nan, 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 Jefferies for a 
 Judge ! 
 
 DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DOXOUGHMORE'S 
 MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE OX THE ROMAN 
 CATHOLIC CLAIMS, APRIL 21, 1812. 
 
 MY LORDS the question before the House has been 
 so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never 
 perhaps more ably than on this night, that it would 
 be difficult 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 conceded to the expediency of relieving 
 the petitioners. In conceding thus much, however, a 
 new objection is started ; 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 it been 
 for the country, that the Catholics possessed at this 
 moment their proportion of our privileges, that their 
 nobles hold their due weight in our councils, than that 
 we should be assembled to discuss their claims. It had 
 indeed been better 
 
 " Non tempore tali 
 Cogere concilium cum rnuros obsidct hostis." 
 
 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 ceremo- 
 nies of religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called 
 together 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, within and without doors, of 
 Church and State, and although those venerable words 
 have been too often prostituted to the most despica- 
 ble of party purposes, we cannot hear them too often ; 
 all, I presume, are the advocates of Church and State, 
 the Church of Christ, and the State of Great Britain ; 
 but not a state of exclusion and despotism ; not an in- 
 tolerant church ; not a church militant, which renders 
 ksell liable to the very objection urged against the 
 Romish communion, and in a greater degree, for the 
 Catholic merely withholds its spiritual 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. 
 ( wks an observation of the great Lord Peterborough, 
 made within these walls, or wi'hm the walls where the 
 1 ,ords then assembled, that he was for a " parliamen- 
 tary king and a parliamentary constitution, but not a 
 iir!iamentary God and a parliamentary religion." 
 
 The interval of a century has not weakened the fon 
 of the remark. It is indeed time that we should leav 
 off these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Lilli- 
 putian sophistries, whether our * eggs art best brokei. 
 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 much already, and those who allege that the lonei 
 orders, at least, have nothing more to require. We irn 
 told by the former, that the Catholics never will be con- 
 tented: by the latter, that they are already too nappy. 
 The last paradox 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 alrcudy de- 
 livered them out of the house of bondage without any 
 petition on their part, but many from their task-masters 
 to a contrary effect ; and for myself, when I consider 
 this, I pity the Catholic peasantry for not having the 
 good fortune to be born black. But the Catholics are 
 contented, or at least ought to be, as we are told : I shall 
 therefore proceed to touch on a few of those circum- 
 stances which so marvellously contribute to their ex- 
 ceeding contentment. They are not allowed the free 
 exercise of their religion in the regular army ; the 
 Catholic soldier cannot absent himself from the service 
 of the Protestant clergyman, and, unless he is quartered 
 in Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligible op- 
 portunities of attending his own ? The permission of 
 Catholic chaplains to the Irish militia regiments was 
 conceded as a special favour, and not till after years of 
 remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, estab- 
 ished it as a right. But are the Catholics properly 
 protected in Ireland? Can the church purchase a rood 
 of land whereon to erect a chapel ? No ; all the places 
 of worship are built on leases of trust or sufferance from 
 the laity, easily broken and often betrayed. The moment 
 any irregular wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent 
 landlord meets with opposition, the doors are barred 
 against the congregation. This has happened continual- 
 ly, but in no instance more glaringly, than at the town 
 ofNewtown Barry, in the county of Wexford. The 
 C atholics, enjoying no regular chapel, as a temporary ex- 
 pedient, hired two barns, which, being thrown into on, 
 served for public worship. At this time, there was quar- 
 tered opposite to the spot an officer, whose mind appears 
 to have been deeply imbued with those prejudices which 
 the Protestant petitions, now on the table, prove to 
 have been fortunately eradicated from the more rational 
 portion of the people; and when the Catholics were 
 assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in peace and good- 
 will towards men, for the worship of their God and 
 yours, they found the chapel door closed, and were 
 told that if they did not immediately retire (and they 
 were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate), 
 the riot act should be read, and the assembly dispersed 
 at the point of the bayonet ! This was complained of to 
 the middle-man of government, the secretary at the 
 Castle in 1806, and the answer was (in lieu of redress) 
 that he would cause a letter to be written to the colonel 
 to prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar dis- 
 turbances. Upon this fact, no very great stress need be 
 laid ; but it tends to prove that while the Catholic church 
 has not power to purchase land for its chapels to stand 
 upon, the laws for its protection are of no avail. In the 
 mean time, the Catholics are at mo mercv ot ever
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 "pelting potty officer," who may choose 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 
 his shoulder-knot for an epaulet, may perform all this 
 and more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very 
 authority delegated to him by his sovereign, for the 
 express purpose of defending his fellow-subjects to the 
 last drop of his blood, without discrimination or dis- 
 tinction between Catholic and Protestant. 
 
 Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by 
 jury ? They have not ; they never can have until they 
 are permitted lo 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 Mac- 
 vournagh : three respectable unconlradicted 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 
 of the bar, and indignation of the court, the Protestant 
 juiy acquitted the accused. So glaring was the par- 
 tiality, that Mr. Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind 
 over the acquitted, but not absolved assassin, in large 
 recognizances, thus for a time taking away his license 
 to kill Catholics. 
 
 Are the very laws passed in their favour observed ? 
 They arc rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious cases. 
 By a late act, Catholic chaplains are permitted in jails, 
 but in Fermanagh county the grand jury lately persisted 
 in presenting a suspended clergyman for the office, 
 thereby evading the statute, notwithstanding the most 
 pressing remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate, 
 named Fletcher, to the 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 vexatious, 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 
 ihe head of the Irish administration, did appear to in- 
 terest himself in its advancement ; and during the gov- 
 ernment of a noble Duke (Bedford), who, like his 
 ancestors, has ever been the friend of freedom and 
 mankind, and who has not so far adopted the selfish 
 policy of the day as to exclude the Catholics from the 
 number of his fellow-creatures ; with these exceptions, 
 in no instance has that institution been properly en- 
 couraged. There was indeed a time when the Catholic 
 Jergy were conciliated, while the Union was pending, 
 hat Union which could not be carried without them, 
 while their assistance was requisite in procuring ad- 
 dresses from the Catholic counties ; then they were 
 cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and given to 
 understand that " the Union would do every thing ;" 
 ut, the moment it was passed, they were driven back 
 with contempt into their former obscurity. 
 
 In the contempt pursued towards Maynooth college, 
 .very thing is done to irritate and perplex every thing 
 s de<ie to efface the slightest impression of gratitude 
 Catholic mind ; the very hay made upon the 
 
 lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allow-to- 
 must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true. 
 this economy in miniature cannot be sufficiently com- 
 mended, particularly at a time when only the insect 
 defaulters of the Treasury, your Hunts and you/ 
 Chinnerys, when only these " gilded bugs" can escape 
 the microscopic eye of ministers. But when you com* 
 forward session after session, as your paltry pittance t 
 wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, U 
 boast of your liberality, well might the Catholic ex- 
 claim, in the words of Prior, 
 
 "To John I owe some obligation, 
 
 But John unluckily thinks fit 
 To publish it to all the nation. 
 
 So John and I are more than quit." 
 
 Somo persons have compared the Ca'holics to th 
 beggar ><a Gil Bias. Who made them beggars ? Who are 
 enriched 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 benev- 
 olence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools; 
 to them you have lately granted 41,0001. : 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 beau 
 tiful system was taken from the gypsies. These schooli 
 are recruited in the same manner as the Janizaries 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 Catholic 
 connexions by their rich and powerful Protestant neigh- 
 bours : 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 property) died, 
 leaving two girls, who were immediately marked out as 
 proselytes, and conveyed to the charter school of Cool- 
 greny. Their uncle, on being apprized of the fact, which 
 took place during his absence, applied for the restitution 
 of his nieces, offering to settle an independence on 
 these relations ; his request was refused, and not till 
 after five years' struggle, and the interference of very 
 bigh authority, could this Catholic gentleman obtain 
 back his nearest of kindred from a charity charter 
 school. In this manner are proselytes obtained, ana 
 mingled with the offspring of 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 ques- 
 tions relative to the Protestant religion ; one of these 
 queries is, " Where was the Protestant religion before 
 Luther?" Answer, " In the Gospel." The remaining 
 forty-four pages and a hah" regard the damnable iaoia 
 Iry of Papists ! 
 
 Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, if 
 his training up a child in the way which he should go ' 
 [s this the religion of the gospel before the time <rf 
 Luther? that religion which preaches " Peace on earth, 
 and glory to God ?" Is it bringing up infants to ts nier, 
 or devils ? Better would it be to send them any wrert 
 than teach them such doctrines ; lx ttei ss id thsnt if
 
 558 
 
 BYUON'S WORKS. 
 
 'hose iian I > & *< Sooth Seas, where they might more 
 Mmanery tan. 10 become cannibals ; it would be less 
 fagMSting that u>ey were brought up to devour the 
 4tad, than persecute the living. Schools do you call 
 hem ? call them rather dunghills, where the riper of 
 intolerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth 
 ore cut and their poison is mature, they may issue forth, 
 fclthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are 
 these the doctrines 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 o( different religious persuasions, 
 should not sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the 
 tame 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 nature, 
 to Christianity? 
 
 I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
 severely felt by the peasantry, but it mav be proper to 
 ooserve that there is an addition to the burthen, a per- 
 centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes 
 to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in 
 many large livings in Ireland, the only resident Prot- 
 estants are the tithe proctor and his family. 
 
 Among many causes of irritation, too numerous for 
 recapitulation, 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 pro- 
 mote harmony amongst the men, who are thus indi- 
 ridually 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 ought to be contented ? If they are, 
 they belie human nature ; they are then, indeed, un- 
 worthy to be any thing but the slaves you have made 
 them. The facts stated are from most respectable au- 
 thority, or I should not have dared in this place, or an 
 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. 
 
 But there are, who assert that the Catholics have 
 aiready been too much indulged: see (cry they) what 
 has been done : we have given them one entire college, 
 ve allow them food ana raiment, the full enjoyment ol 
 the elcm^aits, and leave to fight for us as long as they 
 have limns and lives to offer ; and yet they are never to 
 be satisfied ! Generous and just dcclaimers ! To this, 
 and to this only, amount the whole of your arguments, 
 when stript of their sophistry. These personages re- 
 mind me of the story of a certain drummer, who being 
 railed upon in the course of duty to administer punish- 
 ment to a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to 
 Hog high ; he did to flog low, he did to flog in the 
 mid-lie, he did high, low, down the middle, and up 
 again, but all in vain, the patient continued his com- 
 ixaints with the most provoking pertinacity, until the 
 r, exhausted and angry, flung down his scourge, 
 
 exclaiming, "the devil burn you, there 's no pleasing 
 you, flog where one will !" Thus it is, you have flogged 
 the Catholic, high, low, here, there, and every where, 
 and then you wonder he is not pleased. It is true, that 
 time, experience, and that weariness which attends 
 even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you to floj 
 a little more gently, but still you continue to Jay sn the 
 lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may he 
 wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs oi 
 yourselves and your posterity. 
 
 It was said by someb'xly in a former debate (I forget 
 by whom, and am not very anxious to remember), if th 
 Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews ? If this 
 sentiment was dictated by compassion {or the Jews, it 
 might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Cath- 
 olic, what is it but the language of Shy lock transferred 
 torn his daughter's marriage to C atholic emancipation 
 
 " Would any of the tribe of Barrabbas 
 Should have il rather than a Christian." 
 
 I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the 
 opinion of him whose taste only can be called in ques- 
 tion 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 tire in the deluge." 
 This is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these 
 antediluvians 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 out- 
 cries. And as it is an infallible symptom of that dis- 
 tressing malady with which I conceive them to be 
 afflicted (so any doctor will inform your Lordships) for 
 the unhappy invalids to perceive a flame perpetually 
 flashing before their eyes, particularly when their eyes 
 are shut (as those of the persons to whom I allude have 
 long been), it is impossible to convince these poor crea- 
 tures, that the fire against which they arc perpetually 
 warning us and themselves, is nothing but an ifnit 
 r >jiuus of their own drivelling imaginations. 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 
 against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- 
 dress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and 
 common sense, can urge against the delusions of then 
 absurd delirium. 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 
 actually 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 beep 
 wasted ! What talents have been lost by the selfish 
 system of exclusion ! You already luiow the value of 
 Irish aid ; at this moment the defence of England is 
 entrusted to the Irish militia ; at this moment, whila 
 the starving people ar'. rising in th<; fierceness of de- 
 
 7 fi
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 p*ir, the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal 
 energy is imparted throughout by the extension of free- 
 Join, you cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength 
 which you are glad to interpose between you and do- 
 ftructioa. Ireland has done much, but win do more. 
 At this moment the only triumph obtained through 
 jong years of continental disaster has been achieved 
 oy an Irish general ; it is true he is not a Catholic ; had 
 ae been so, we should hare been deprived of his exer- 
 tions ; but I presume no one will assert that his religion 
 would hare unpaired his talents or diminished his pa- 
 triotism, though in that case he must have conquered 
 in the ranks, for he never could hare commanded an 
 army. 
 
 But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics 
 abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated 
 their cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depre- 
 ciate by the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a 
 third of his kindred, as unlike as unequal, has been 
 combating against his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with 
 circular letters, edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dis- 
 persions all the vexatious implements of petty war- 
 ewe that could be wielded by the mercenary guerillas 
 of government, dad in the rusty armour of their obso- 
 lete statutes. Tour lordships will, doubtless, divide new 
 honours between the saviour of Portugal, and the dis- 
 penser of delegates. It is singular, indeed, to observe 
 the difference between our foreign and domestic poli- 
 cy ; if Catholic Spam, faithful Portugal, or the no less 
 Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily (of which, 
 by the by, you hare lately deprived him), stand in 
 need of succour, away goes a fleet and an army, an 
 ambassador and 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 
 minions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who fight 
 and pay and. labour in your behalf, they must be treated 
 as aliens, and although their " father's boose has many 
 mansions," there is no resting-place for them. Allow 
 me to ask, are yon not fighting for the emancipation 
 
 of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, and 
 consequently, in all probability, a bigot ; and hare you 
 aiore regard for a foreign sovereign than your own 
 feDow-cubjects, who are not fools, for they know your 
 interest better than yon know your own ; who are not 
 bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but who are 
 in worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inas- 
 much 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 eipatiate ; yon 
 know them, you wiH fed them, and your children's 
 children when you are passed away. Adieu to that 
 Union so called, as u LJ*M a mm baatdo," a Union 
 from never uniting, which, in its first operation, gave 
 ticiih-biow to the independence of Ireland, and in 
 its last may be the cause of her eternal separation from 
 Uiis country. If it must he called a Union, it is the 
 uion of the shark with his prey ; the spoiler swallows 
 op his victim, and thus they become one and indrri*- 
 b!e. Thus has Great Britain swallowed up the par- 
 iament, the constitution, the indeprcdenee of Ireland, 
 ind refuses to disgorge even a aing?e privilege, although 
 fcr the relief of her swollen and distempered body 
 politic. 
 
 Aud now, my lords, before I sit down, wifl bis maj- 
 
 esty's minister* permit me to ray a few words, not oa 
 their menu, for that would be superfluous, but on thr 
 degree of estimation in which they are held by the 
 people of these realms. The esteem in which they aw 
 held has been boasted of in a triumphant tone on 
 late occasion within these walls, and a comparison m 
 stituted between their conduct, and that of noble lord 
 on this side of the house. 
 
 What portion of popularity may hare fallen to t w 
 share of my noble friends (if such I may presume U 
 caB them), I shall not pretend to ascertain ; but thai 
 of bis majesty's ministers it were rain to deny. It is-, 
 to be sure, a hide Eke the wind, w no one knows whence 
 it cometh or whither it goeth," but they fed it, they 
 enjoy it, they boast of it. Indeed, modest and unos- 
 tentatious as they are, to what part of the kingdom, 
 eren the most remote, can they flee to avoid the tri- 
 umph which pursues them? If they plunge into the' 
 midland counties, there they wifl be greeted by the 
 manufacturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, 
 and those hahers 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 
 Dona ghaHee, there will they rush at once into the em- 
 braces of four Calholic miHimm, to whom their rot* 
 of this night is about to endear them for ever. Whan 
 they return to the metropolis, if they can pass undei 
 Temple Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sigh) 
 of the greedy niches over that ominous gateway, the] 
 cannot escape the acclamations of the livery, and UK 
 more tremulous, but cot less sincere, applause, the 
 blessings not load bat deep" of baakrnpt merchants 
 and doubting stockholders. If they look to the army, 
 what wreaths, not of laurel, but of nightshade, are 
 preparing for the heroes of Wakheren! It is true there 
 are few bring deponents left to testify to then- merits 
 on that occasion ; buta u doudof witnesses'' are gone 
 above from that gallant army which they so generously 
 and piously despatched, to recruit the "noble army of 
 martyrs." 
 
 What H; in the course of this triumphal career (m 
 which they win gather as many pebbles as Caligula's 
 army did on asimilar triumph, the prototype of their own), 
 they do not perceive any of those memorials which a 
 grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors; what 
 although not eren a sign-post will condescend to depose 
 the Saracen's bead in favour of the likeness of the con- 
 querors of Waleheren, they will not want a picture 
 who can always hare a caricature ; or regret the ontts- 
 of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted 
 
 But their popularity is not limited to the 
 narrow bounds of an island; there are other ectmtrie* 
 where their measures, and, above all, their conduct U 
 the Catholics, must render them pre-eminently pofiulai 
 If they are bdored here, in France they must be adored 
 There is no measure more repugnant to the designs and 
 feefings of Buonaparte than Caibooc emancipation ; no 
 fine of conduct more propitious to bit projects, than 
 that which has been puisued, i pursuing, and, I feat, 
 win be pursued, towards Ireland. What s Eng!W 
 without Ireland, and what is Ireland without the C* 
 tholics? If is on the basis of your tyraont
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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 cargoes of Sevres 
 china and blue ribands (tilings in great request, and of 
 equal value at this moment), blue ribands of the legion 
 of honour for Dr. Duigenan 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 honour- 
 able, as we are told, to the British name, and so de- 
 structive to the best interests of the British nation : 
 above all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by 
 ministers towards the Catholics. 
 
 1 have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, 
 ' pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon 
 their indulgence, 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 CARTWRtGHT'S PETITION, 
 JUNE 1, 1813. 
 
 LORD BYRON rose and said: 
 
 MY LORDS, the Petition which I now hold for the 
 purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I 
 humbly conceive requires the particular attention of 
 your lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a 
 single individual, it contains statements which (if not 
 disproved) demand most serious investigation. The 
 grievance of which the petitioner complains is neither 
 selfish nor imaginary. It is not his own only, for it 
 has been, and is still felt by numbers. No one with- 
 out these walls, nor indeed within, but may to-morrow 
 be made liable to the same insult 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 petitioner, 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, wnatever difference of opinion may 
 exist as to nis political tenets, few will be found to 
 question the integrity of his intentions. Even now, 
 oppressed with years, and not exempt from the infirm- 
 ities attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in tal- 
 ent, and unshaken in spirit u frangas non Jfectes" 
 lie has received many a wound in the combat against 
 corruption ; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of 
 wftich he complains, may inflict another scar, but no 
 dishonour. Tne petition is signed by John Cartwright, 
 and it was in behalf of the people and parliament, in 
 the lawful pursuit of that reform in the representation 
 winch is the best srvice to be rendered both to parlia- 
 ment and people, that he encountered the wanton out- 
 rage which fon.is the subject matter of his petition' to 
 /our lordships. It is couched in firm, yet respectful 
 .menage- in the language of a man, not regardless 
 of what * uue to himself, but at the same time, I trust, 
 
 equally mindful of the deference to be paid to tnii 
 House. The petitioner slates, amongst other matter 
 of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
 British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, 
 that on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, him- 
 self and six other persons, who, on hearing of his ar- 
 rival, had waited on him merely as a testimony of re- 
 spect, 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 officer 
 relative to the character of the petitioner; that he (the 
 petitioner) was finally carried before a magistrate ; and 
 not released till an examination of his papers proved 
 (hat there was not only no just, but not even statuta- 
 ble charge against him ; and that, notwithstanding the 
 promise and order from the presiding magistrates of a 
 copy of the warrant against your petitioner, it was after- 
 wards withheld on divers pretexts, and has never 
 until this hour been granted. The names and condi- 
 'tion of the parties will be found in the petition. To 
 the other topics touched upon in the petition, I shall 
 not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the 
 time of the House ; but I do most sincerely call the at- 
 tention of your lordships to its general contents it is 
 in the cause of the parliament and people that the 
 rights of this venerable freeman have been violated, 
 and it is, in my 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 re- 
 monstrance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mix- 
 ed with regret for the occasion, that I have this oppor- 
 tunity of publicly stating the obstruction to which the 
 subject is liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful 
 and imperious of his duties, the obtaining by petition 
 reform in parliament. I have shortly stated his com- 
 plaint; the petitioner has more fully expressed h. 
 Your lordships will, I hope, adopt some measure fully 
 to protect and redress him, and not him alone, but the 
 whole body of the people insulted and aggrieved in his 
 person by the interposition of an abused civil, and un- 
 lawful military force beUyeen them and their right of 
 petition to their own representatives. 
 
 His lordship then presented the petition from Major 
 Cartwright, tf hich was read, complaining of the circum- 
 stances at Huddersfield, 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 this petition to their lordships' con- 
 sideration. The noble Earl had contended that it was 
 not a petition but a speech ; and that, 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 should pray to others. He had only to say 
 that the petition, though in some parts expressed strongly 
 perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of adiiress. 
 but was couched in respectful language towards chew 
 lordships; he should therefore trust the r lorjj<iip 
 would allow the petition to be received .
 
 ( 561 ) 
 
 Son 
 
 Difficile est proprie communia dicere. 
 
 HOR. Epist. ad Pisa*. 
 
 Dost them think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more 
 Cakes and Ale ? Yes, by St. Anne ; and Ginger shall be hot i' the 
 mouth, too. Ticclft/i Might; or What i/ouWOL 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 i. 
 
 1 WANT a hero: an uncommon want, 
 
 When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
 Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 
 
 The age discovers he is not the true one; 
 Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
 
 I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan ; 
 We all have seen him in the pantomime 
 Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 
 
 II. 
 Vcrnon, the butcher, Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 
 
 Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, 
 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, 
 
 And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now ; 
 Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
 
 Followers of fame, " nine farrow" of that sow : 
 France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 III. 
 Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
 
 Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
 Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
 
 And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
 Joubcrt, Hoche, Marceaii, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau, 
 
 With many of the military set, 
 Exceeding'.y remarkable at times, 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 IV. 
 Nelson 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, 
 
 'T is 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 flrave men were living before Agamemnon, 1 
 Vnd since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
 \ good deal like him too, though quite the same none, 
 
 Mut 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 
 ft for my poem (that is, for my new one); 
 Bo, as I said, I '11 take my friend Don Juan. 
 3 A 76 
 
 VI. 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 That is the usual method, but not mine 
 
 My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
 The regularity of my design 
 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 
 And therefore I shall open with a line 
 
 (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 
 Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 
 And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. 
 
 VIII. 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 His father's name was Jose Don, of course, 
 
 A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 
 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
 Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
 Begot but that 's to come Well, to renew : 
 
 X. 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 
 For every branch of every science known 
 In every Christian language ever named, 
 
 With virtues equalled by her wit alone, 
 She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
 
 And even the good with inward envy groan, 
 Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 In their own way by all the things that she did. 
 
 XI. 
 Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
 
 All Caideron and greater part of Lope, 
 So that if any actor miss'd his part, 
 
 She could have served him for the prompters cop 
 For her Feinagle s were an useless ar, 
 
 And he himself obliged to shut up shop ho 
 Could never make a menu"*/ so fine -s 
 That which adorn'd the brain nf Donna In<-7.
 
 ,"32 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO i 
 
 XII. 
 
 Her fatovnte science was the mathematical, 
 Her noblest virtue .vas her magnanimity, 
 
 Her wit (jhe spmetimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
 Hei serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; 
 
 In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
 A prodig3 f her morning dress was dimity, 
 
 Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
 
 And other stuff's, with which I won't stay puzzling. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 She 1" new 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 've 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 'lam,' 
 
 llio English always use to govern d n." 
 
 XV. 
 
 ****** 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In short, she was a walking calculation, 
 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 
 
 Or"CcElebs' Wife" set out in quest of lovers, 
 Morality's prim personification, 
 
 In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
 To otViers' share let "female errors fall," 
 F >r she had not even one the worst of all. 
 
 * XVII. 
 Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel 
 
 Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 
 So far above the cunning powers of hell, 
 
 He\ guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 
 As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 
 In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
 Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar ! 2 
 
 XVIII. 
 Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
 
 Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
 Where our first parents never Icarn'd to kiss 
 
 Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
 tVHrs all was peace, and innocence, and bliss 
 
 (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), 
 l/iii Jnse. ike a lineal son of Eve, 
 A put plucking various fruit without her leave. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He was a mortal of the careless kind, 
 
 With no great love for learning, or the le&n'M, 
 
 Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
 And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 
 
 The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
 
 To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 
 
 Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said ttoo t 
 
 But for domestic quarrels one will do. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
 A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 
 
 Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
 And such indeed she was in her moralities; 
 
 But then she had a devil of a spirit, 
 And sometimes niix'd up fancies with realities. 
 
 And let few opportunities escape 
 
 Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 This was an easy matter with a man 
 
 Ofl 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 
 
 With persons of no sort of education, 
 Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, 
 
 Grow tired of scientific conversation : 
 I don't choose to say much upon this head, 
 
 I 'm a plain man, and in a single station, 
 But oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
 Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? 
 
 XXIII. 
 Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd why 
 
 Not any of the many could divine, 
 Though several thousand people chose to try, 
 
 'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine : 
 I loathe that low vice curiosity ; 
 
 But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
 'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs, 
 Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 
 
 XXIV. 
 And so I interfered, and with the best 
 
 Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 
 I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
 
 For neither of them could I ever tind, 
 Although their porter afterwards confessed 
 
 But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind. 
 For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
 A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 
 
 XXV. 
 A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 
 
 And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 
 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 fotUi 
 To school, or had him wlnpp'd at home, 
 To teach him manners for the time to come.
 
 (Vf.VTO 1. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 5(5.3 
 
 XXVI. 
 Don Jose and the Donna Inez _ed 
 
 Fv some time an unhappy sort of life, 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
 
 Thoy lived respectably as man and wife, 
 Fheir conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
 
 And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 
 l^nti! at length the smother'd fire broke out, 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 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 bud; 
 
 Yet when they askM 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. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 She kept a journal, where his faults wt/e noted, 
 
 And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 
 All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
 Besides her good old grandmother (who doted) ; 
 
 The hearers of her case became repeaters, 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 An'l then this best and meekest woman bore 
 Vf Uh such serenity her husband's woes, 
 
 Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 
 
 TV ho 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 !" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us 
 
 Is philosophic in our former friends ; 
 T is also pleasant to be deemed magnanimous, 
 
 The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
 And what the lawyers call a "malut animus? 
 
 Conduct like this by no means comprehends ; 
 Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, 
 But then 't is not my fault if other* hurt you. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 fheir friends had tried at reconciliation, 
 Then their relations, who made matters worse 
 
 (* T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to have recourse 
 can r t say much for friend or yet relation) : 
 The lavyers did their utmost for divorce, 
 
 But scarce a fee wai paid on either side 
 
 Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 He died : and most unluckily, because. 
 
 According to all hints I could collec* 
 From counsel learned in those kinds of laws 
 
 (Although their talk's obscure and circunrspect 
 His death contrived to spoil a charming cans* ; 
 
 A thousand pities also with respec* 
 To public feeling, which on this occasion 
 Was manifested in a great sensation. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
 The public feeling and the lawyers' 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Yet Jose was an honourable man, 
 
 That I must say, who knew him very well; 
 
 Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan, 
 Indeed there were not many more to tell ; 
 
 And if his passions now and then outran 
 Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
 
 As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), 
 
 He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
 Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him, 
 
 Let 's own, since it can do no good on earth ; 
 It was a trying moment that which found him, . 
 
 Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 
 
 Where all his household gods lavshiver'd round him, 
 
 No choice was left his feelings or his pride 
 
 Save death or Doctors' Commons so he died. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 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 Arragoni 
 Then for accomplishments of chiva'ry, 
 
 In case our lord the king should go to w 
 He leam'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
 And how to scale a fortress -or a nunnery. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But that which Donna Inez most desired, 
 And saw into herself each day before at 
 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
 Was that his breeding should be strictly mur 
 
 Much into all his studies she inquired, 
 
 And so they were submitted first to her, all. 
 
 Arts, sciences, no hrancn was made a mystir* 
 
 To Juan's eyes, excepting natural liL'loiv.
 
 564 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CASIO 1, 
 
 XL. 
 
 The languages, especially the dead, 
 The sciences, and irost of all the abstruse, 
 
 The arts, at least all such as could be said 
 To be the most remote from common use, 
 
 In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
 But not a page of any thing [that 's loose, 
 
 Or hints continuation of the species, 
 
 Was ever sufler'd, lest he should grow vicious. 
 
 XLI. 
 His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
 
 Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
 Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
 
 But never put on pantaloons or boddiccs; 
 His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 
 
 And for their JEncids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 
 Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 
 For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him ; 
 
 Anacreon's morals are a slill worse sample ; 
 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem ; 
 
 1 don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
 Although 1 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." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 
 
 For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
 I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 
 
 Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
 If K 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 ? 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
 Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
 
 Judiciously, from out the school-boy'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 ; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
 
 Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 
 They stand forth marshali'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, 
 I Jke garden gods and not so decent, either. 
 
 XLVI. 
 7 he MI.5sal loo (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 tuuse figuies on the margin kiss all, 
 
 Could turn t^eir optics to the text and pray 
 Is more than 1 ic.iow but Don Juan's mother 
 Kept Uiis herself, aiid gave her son another. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
 And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 
 
 To- Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 
 
 He did not take such studies for restraints : 
 
 But how faith is acquired, and then insured, 
 So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
 
 As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 
 
 Which make the reader envy his transgressions 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan 
 I can't but say that his mamma was right, 
 
 If such an education was the true one. 
 
 She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 
 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 
 You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; 
 
 She did this during even her husband's life- 
 
 I recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 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 maturcr growth was given . 
 
 He studied steadily and grew apace, 
 And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven 
 
 For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 
 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 L. 
 
 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 toil'd, 
 
 At least at seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 
 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 
 
 Her young philosopher was grown already. 
 
 LI. 
 
 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
 But what I say is neither here nor there ; 
 I knew his father well, and have some skill 
 
 In character but it would not be fair 
 From sire 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. 
 
 LII. 
 
 For my part I say nothing nothing but 
 
 Thit I will say my reasons are my own 
 That if I had an only son to put 
 
 To school (as God he praised that I have nonej 
 'T is 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. 
 
 LIH. 
 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 .ost : 
 
 I say that there 's the place but Verb-urn A 
 I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most, 
 
 Knowledge of matters but, no mailer wna 
 I never married but I think, I know, 
 That sons should not be educated so.
 
 <: JJVTG /. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 505 
 
 LIV. 
 Tonne 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 in 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. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
 
 Selected for discretion and devotion, 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 Of many charms, in her as natural 
 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
 Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid). 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The darkness of her oriental eye 
 
 Accorded with her Moorish origin : 
 (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
 
 In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin). 
 When rjroud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 
 
 Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
 Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
 Her grjat-great-grandmamma chose to remain, 
 
 LVII. 
 
 She married (I forget the pedigree) 
 
 With an Hidalgo, who transmitted do-.vn 
 Flis 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 m, as might be shown, 
 Marrying their cousins nay, their aunts and nieces, 
 Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 
 
 LVIII. 
 This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
 
 Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 
 For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
 
 Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
 The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
 
 But there's a rumour which I fain would hush 
 T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
 Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 
 
 LIX. 
 However this might be, the race went on 
 
 Improving still through every generation, 
 Until it center'd 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. 
 
 LX. 
 tier eye (I 'ra very fond of handsome eyes) 
 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
 Cntil she spoke, then through its soft diSguise 
 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
 And love lhan either; and there would arise 
 
 A sometnirg in them which was not desirf, 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
 
 Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth. 
 
 Mounting at times to a transparent giow, 
 
 As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means comma* 
 
 Her stature tall I hate a dumpy woman. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 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 OE, 
 
 'T were better to have two of five-and-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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 T is 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 flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
 What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 
 Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 
 
 LXIV. 
 Happy the nations of the moral north ! 
 
 Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
 Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth 
 
 ('T was snow that brought Saint Anthony to reason), 
 Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 
 
 By laying whale' er sum, in mulct, they please on 
 The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
 Because it is a marketable vice. 
 
 LXV. 
 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, 
 Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 
 
 And not exactly either one or two; 
 Yet he was jealous, though he did not show h. 
 For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 
 
 LXVI. 
 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 ; 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And that, still keeping up the old connexion, 
 Which time had lately render'd much more chasu 
 
 She took his lady also in affection, 
 And certainly this course was much the best. 
 
 She flatter'd Julia with her sage" protection, 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
 
 And if she could not (who can?) silence scandai. 
 
 Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole, (At least she left it a more slender handJo. 
 
 \
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CASTO L 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 
 With oi her people's eyes, or if her own 
 Disco /enes 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 way. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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 1 should have smiled 
 When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three : 
 
 These few short years make wondrous alterations, 
 
 Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Wliate'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 ; 
 
 Ther* surely will be little doubt with some 
 That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 
 
 But as for Juan, he* had no more notion 
 
 Then he who never saw the sea of ocean. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
 
 And tremulously gentle her small hand 
 Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
 
 A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
 
 'T was but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 
 Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 
 Luke what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
 
 LXXII. 
 And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
 
 She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
 As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
 
 She must not own, but cherish d more the while, 
 For that compression in its burning core ; 
 
 Even innocence itself has many a wile, 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
 
 Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 
 Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
 
 Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, 
 And in whatever aspect it arrays 
 
 Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; 
 Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 
 Ate masks it often wears, and still too late. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Tnen there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
 And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
 
 Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left : 
 A!! these are 'ittlc preludes to possession, 
 
 Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 
 And mer *,\y end to show how greatly love is 
 Cuioa. ra*sM t first starting with a novice. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state : 
 She felt it going, and resolved to make 
 
 The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 
 
 For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : 
 
 Her resolutions were most truly great, 
 
 And almost might have made a Tarqum quak 
 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
 
 As being the best judge of a lady's case. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
 And next day paid a visit to his mother, 
 
 And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
 Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 
 
 Grateful she was, and yet a little sore 
 Again it opens, it can be no other, 
 
 'T is surely Juan now No ! I 'm afraid 
 
 That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 Should rather face and overcome temptation , 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 And even if by chance and who can tell ? 
 
 The devil 's so very sly she should discover 
 That all within was not so very well, 
 
 And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 
 
 Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're ove 
 And, if the man should ask, 't is but denial . 
 I recommend young ladies to make trial. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 And then there are such things as love divine, 
 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 
 Such as the angels 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. 
 
 LXXX. 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 
 Between young persons without any dan?>:i ; 
 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 for the utmost list 
 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger 
 If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, 
 But not my fault I tell them all in time. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 
 
 Was Julia's innocent determination 
 tn young D*n Juan's favour, and to him iis 
 
 Exertion might be useful op occasion 
 And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim a 
 
 Ethcrial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
 He might be taught, by love and ner together- 
 [ really don't know what, nor Tu' a either.
 
 . 
 
 or 
 
 
 I zs ; 
 
 IS KYKS .
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 567 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
 And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
 
 Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable ; 
 Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 
 
 Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded 
 
 That all the apostles would have done as they did. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 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 then she 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 enlre nous, for Julia thought 
 
 [n French, but then the rhyme would go for nought). 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 t 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 this 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. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. 
 
 Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
 Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 
 
 In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
 He puzzled over what he found a new one, 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Silent and pensive,' idle, restless, slow, 
 
 His home deserted for the lonely wood, 
 Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 
 I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
 
 But then I beg it may be understood 
 By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
 A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 * Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 
 Where transport and security entwine, 
 .lore is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
 
 Am! here thoii art a god indeed divine." 
 The bar! I quote from does not sing amiss,* 
 
 With the exception ol the second line, 
 Ki>" that same twining " transport and security " 
 \ rr. twisted . to a uhrase of some obscurity. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 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 <von't gay more about "entwined 1 ' 
 
 Or " transport," as we know all that before, 
 
 But beg " security " will bolt the door. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 
 Thinking unutterable things : he threw 
 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 
 Where the wild branch of the cork forest grrw 
 
 There poets find materials for their books, 
 
 And every now and then we lead them through, 
 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth), so pursued 
 His self-communion with his own high soul, 
 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
 Had mifigated part, though not the whole 
 
 Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
 W T ith things riot very subject to control, 
 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 
 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
 Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
 And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars. 
 
 How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; 
 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 XC1II. 
 
 In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
 Which some are born with, but the most part learr 
 
 To plague themselves withal, they know not whv : 
 'T was strange that one so young should thus concern 
 
 His brain about the action of the sky ; 
 If you think 't was philosophy that this did, 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 XCIV. 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 
 
 And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
 He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
 
 And how the goddesses came down to men . 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 
 
 And, when he look'd upon his watch again, 
 He found how much old Time had been a winner - 
 He also found that he had lost his dinner. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book 
 
 Boscan, or Garcilasso ; by the wind 
 Even as the page is rust'.ed while we look. 
 
 So by the poesy of his own mind 
 Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook. 
 
 As if 'twere onewheicon magicians bind 
 Their spells, and give them to the passing gale 
 According to some pood old woman's la'*
 
 568 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CMJV7 O 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 
 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
 
 But that which chiefly may and must surprise, 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 
 Her only son with question or surmise ; 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
 Or, like all very clever people, could not. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common ; 
 
 For instance gentlemen, whose ladies take 
 Leave to o'crstep the written rights of woman, 
 
 And break the Which commandment is 't they 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. 
 
 XCIX. 
 A real husband always is suspicious, 
 
 But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 
 Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 
 By 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. 
 
 C. 
 
 Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; 
 
 Though watchful 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 blighted 
 
 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. 
 
 CI. 
 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 this new temptation ; 
 But what that motive was, I shan't say here ; 
 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 
 In c.ase he thought his wife too great a prize. 
 
 CII. 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day ; 
 
 Summer 's indeed a very 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, 
 That there are months which nature grows more 
 
 merry in-- 
 Marrh nas its hures, and May must have its heroine. 
 
 CHI. 
 
 'T was on a summer's day the sixth of June : 
 
 I like to be particular in dates, 
 Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 
 
 They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
 Change horses, making history change its tune, 
 
 Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
 Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
 Excepting the post-obits of theology. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 'T was 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 ere huld 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 then well, and may he wear them long. 
 
 CV. 
 
 She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
 How this same interview had taken place. 
 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell- 
 People should hold their tongues in any case ; 
 
 No matter how or why the thing befell, 
 
 But there were she and Juan face to face 
 
 When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 
 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
 CVL 
 
 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 bath led along : 
 The precipice she stood on was immense 
 So was her creed in her own innocence. 
 
 CVII. 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 
 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 
 
 And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
 I wish 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. 
 
 CVIII. 
 When people say, " I 've told you fifty times," 
 
 They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
 When poets say " I 've written fifty rhymes," 
 
 They make you dread that they '11 recite them loo ; 
 In gangs of fifty, thieves commit (heir crimes ; 
 
 At fifty, love for love is rare, 't is true ; 
 But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
 A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.. 
 
 CIX. 
 Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love 
 
 Ivor 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 ;
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 56 
 
 ex. 
 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
 Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 
 
 And to contend with thoughts she could not smother, 
 She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 
 
 'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
 To leave together this imprudent pair, 
 
 She who tor many years had watch'd her son so 
 
 I'm veij eertain mine would not have done so. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
 Gently, bat palpably, confirm'd its grasp, 
 
 As 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. 
 
 CXII. 
 I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
 
 But what he did is much what you would do ; 
 His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
 
 And then, abash'd at his own joy, withdrew 
 In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, 
 
 Love is so very timid when 'tis new: 
 She blush'd and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 
 
 CXIII. 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: 
 
 The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they 
 Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon 
 
 Their nomenclature : there is not a day, 
 Tk.e longest, not the 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. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 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 calling 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. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 
 And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
 
 Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed : 
 Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
 
 Or else 'I were easy to withdraw her waist ; 
 But 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. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Oh, Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 
 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 Of poets and romancers: You're a bore, 
 
 A. cnarlatan, a coxcomb and have been, 
 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 77 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 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 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 '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) ; 
 
 [ care not for new pleasures, as the old 
 
 Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Oh 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, 
 
 But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 
 Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout: 
 
 I'm very sorry, very much ashamed, 
 
 And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Here my chaste muse a liberty must take 
 
 Start not! still chaster reader, she'll benicehenc*. 
 
 Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 
 This liberty is a poetic license 
 
 Which some irregularity may make 
 In the design, and as I have a high sense 
 
 Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit 
 
 To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 This license is to hope the reader will 
 
 Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 
 
 Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 
 
 For want of facts, would all be thrown awayS 
 
 But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
 In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we'll no* 
 
 'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 
 
 About the day the era's more obscure. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 We'll talk of that anon 'Tis sweet to hear, 
 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep , 
 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
 From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky; 
 
 CXXI1I. 
 'Tis sweet to hear the vratch-dog'a honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near ''cum 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come, 
 'T is sweet xo be awaken'd by 'the lark, 
 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hnni 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest <voHk
 
 570 
 
 B\flON'S \VO11KS. 
 
 C.-LVTO 
 
 cxxiv. 
 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grape* 
 
 la Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
 Purple and gushing; sweet are our escape* 
 
 From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-bora's birth; 
 Sweet is revenge especially to women. 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Sweet it a legacy; and passing sweet 
 The unexpected death of some old lady 
 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
 
 Who 're made u us youth" wait too too long already 
 
 For an estate, or cash or country-seat. 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 
 Next owner, for their double-damn'd post-obits. 
 
 CXXVL 
 
 Ts sweet to win, no matter bow, one's laurels 
 By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to pot an end 
 
 To strife ; *tb sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles- ale in barrels ; 
 Dear is the helpless crea/ure we defend 
 
 Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot 
 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 CXXVH. 
 Bat sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
 
 Is first and passionate lore it stands alone, 
 Like Adam's recollection of his faU; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluckM-sJFs known- 
 And fife yields nothing further to recall 
 
 Worthy jf this anirosiai sin so shown, 
 No doubt m fable, as the unforgiven 
 Fire which Prometheus Sch'd for as from heaven. 
 
 cxxvra. 
 
 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: 
 
 This a tne age of oddities let loose, 
 
 Where different talects find their different marts; 
 
 Tou'dbest begin with truth, and when you've lost your 
 
 1 ibour, there's a sore market for imposture, 
 
 CXXK. 
 
 What opposite discoveries we have seen! 
 
 (Signs tf true genius, and of empty pockets:) 
 hie 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, 
 
 , cxxx. 
 
 Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
 Vnd galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 
 
 But has not answerM like the apparatus 
 < >r the Humane Society's beginning , 
 
 Bv which men are unsuffbcated gratis; 
 XV ht wondrous new machines have late been spinning 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 CXXXH. 
 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 
 
 Tunbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 
 Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 
 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 
 
 CXXXII1. 
 Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
 
 And wonderful beyond all wondrous measuie, 
 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 
 
 Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin '* a pleasure j 
 Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
 
 But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 
 The path is through perplexing ways, and when 
 The goal is gain'd, we die, you know and then 
 
 C XXXIV. 
 What then? I do not know, no more do you 
 
 And so good night. 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. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; 
 
 No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
 By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 
 
 Wi:h the piled wood, round which the f-unilv crowd 4 
 There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 
 
 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 
 
 C XXXVI. 
 'T was 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! 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 "For God's sake, Madam Madam here's my mastet 
 
 With more than half the city at his back 
 Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster ? 
 
 Tis not my fault I kept good watch Alack' 
 Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster 
 
 They're on the stair just new, and ia * crac* 
 Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly- 
 Surely the window 's iW 10 ttrti bit S '"
 
 /. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 571 
 
 CX3LXV1IL 
 By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 
 
 With torches, fiends, 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 her husband's temples to encumber : 
 Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
 Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 
 
 CXXXLJL 
 I can't teD how, or why, or what suspicion 
 
 Could enter into Don Alfonso's head, 
 But for a cavalier of his condition 
 
 It sorely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
 Without 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 abhorrM. 
 
 CXL. 
 Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep 
 
 (Mind that I do not say rite 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 doable. 
 
 CXLL 
 
 A&ionia maid 
 
 But Julia 
 
 1 Appeard like two poor harmless 
 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 ho"H ran through. 
 And truant husband should return, and say, 
 u My dear, I was the first who came away." 
 
 . CX1II. 
 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 1 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 win." 
 
 CXLHL 
 He search'd,tfoy search'd, and rummaged every where, 
 
 Closet and ckxhes'-press, chest and window-seat, 
 And found much linen, lace, 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 wkh their swords, 
 And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 Coder tHe bed they search'd, and there they found- 
 No matter what it was not that they sought, 
 Fbey 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: 
 
 Tsf odd, not one of aO these seekers thought, 
 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 
 Of looking at the bed as TveD as under. 
 
 CXLV. 
 During this inquisition Julia's tongue 
 
 Was not asleep "Yes, search and search," she cried, 
 "Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! 
 
 It was for this that I became a bride! 
 For this in silence I have suffer" d long 
 
 A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
 But now 111 bear no more, nor here remain, 
 If there be law, or lawyers, in aB Spain. 
 
 "Yes, Don Alfa 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 now 00 more, 
 
 If ever yon indeed deserved the name, 
 Is't worthy of your years ? you have threescore, 
 
 Fifty, or sixty k 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 yoa think your lady would go on so ? 
 
 CXLVIL 
 
 "Is it for this I have disdain'd to bold 
 
 The common privileges of my sex? 
 That I have chosen a confessor so old 
 
 And deaf, that any other H would vex. 
 And never once be has had cause to scold, 
 
 Bui lound my very miy^cence perp.^x 
 So much, he always doubted I was married 
 How sorry yoa will be when I ' ve miscarried ! 
 
 CXLVUL 
 Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 
 
 I yet have chosen from oat the youth of SevOk? 
 Is it for this I scarce went any where, 
 
 Except to buB-figbts, mass, play, rout, and revel T 
 Is k for this, whate'er my suitors were, 
 
 I favoured DODO nay, was almost uncivil? 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 Who took Algiers, declares I used him vflejy?* 
 
 CXLLX. 
 "Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
 
 Sing at my heart six months at least in Tain? 
 Did not his countryman, Count Corntani, 
 
 Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 
 Were there not also Ruffians, Engush, many? 
 
 The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 
 And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 
 Who bird himself for lore (with wine) last year. 
 
 CL. 
 "Have I not had two bishops at my feet, 
 
 The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez? 
 And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 
 
 I wonder in what quarter now the moon is. 
 I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
 
 Me also, since the time so opportune is 
 Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cocVd triggw 
 Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 
 
 CLL 
 " Was it for this yon took your sudden jomnet . 
 
 Under pretence of business indispensable, 
 With that sublime of rascals your attorney. 
 
 Whom I see standing mere, and lookmg sensuMr 
 Of having phyM the fool? though both I spurn, he 
 
 Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less i\r r rim*mm 
 Because, no doubt, H was for bis dirty fee. 
 And not for any love to you or me.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 CLIl. 
 
 If he comes hei <> 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." 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 " There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
 The ante-chamber search them under, over : 
 
 There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
 The chimney which would really hold a lover. 
 
 I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
 And make no further noise till you discover 
 
 The secret cavern of this lurking treasure 
 
 And, when't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 
 
 CLIV. 
 " 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. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 " At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years 
 
 At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
 Or for so young a husband's jealous fears 
 
 (Antonia! let me have a glass of water). 
 I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
 
 They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 
 My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
 That I should fall into a monster's power. 
 
 CLVI. 
 " Perhaps 't is 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 '11 tell us, 
 
 Or for the sake of decency abide 
 A moment at the door, that we may be 
 DressM to receive so much good company. 
 
 CLVII. 
 u 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 wtongs to whose exposure it is slow: 
 I leave you to your conscience as before, 
 
 T will one day ask you why you used me so ? 
 God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! 
 An'onia' where 's my pocket-handkerchief ?" 
 
 CLVIII. 
 She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 
 
 She lay. her dark eyes flashing through their tears 
 LIKO skiw that rain and lighten ; as a veil 
 
 Waved ar*d o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
 Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
 
 To hide tne giossy shoulder which uprears 
 Its sauw through al! ; h<" soft lips lie apart, 
 Anil b->)er than her breathing beats her heart. 
 
 CLJX. 
 
 The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 
 
 Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
 AnH, 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, 
 Snowing they must be settled by the laws. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood 
 Following Antonia's motions here and there, 
 
 With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
 For reputation he had little cars: 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 cLxin. - 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 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 unexplam'd "hiatus" 
 
 In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
 An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
 The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 
 
 CLXV. 
 No sooner was it bolted, than Oh shame ! 
 
 Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind ! 
 How can you do such things and keep your fame, 
 
 Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
 Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 
 
 But to proceed for there is more behind : 
 With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
 Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 573 
 
 CLXVti 
 
 He had been hid I don't pretend to say 
 How, nor can I indeed describe the where 
 
 Foung, slender, and p&ck'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 ; 
 
 T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 
 
 With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsev butt. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 And, secondly, I pity not, because 
 He had no business to commit a sin, 
 
 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, 
 At least 't was rather early to begin ; 
 
 Hut at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
 So much as when we call our old debts in 
 
 At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
 
 And find a deuced balance with the devil. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Of his position I can give no notion : 
 'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
 
 How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
 Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
 
 When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 
 And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 
 
 Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, 
 
 For David lived, but Juai nearly died. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXX. 
 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, 't is no time now for fooling there," 
 She whisper'd in great wrath " I must deposit 
 This pretty gentleman within the closet : 
 
 CLXXI. 
 14 Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night 
 
 JVho 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 ? 
 Fou '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
 My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 * Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
 Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste) 
 
 dut 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)." 
 3B 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 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 obey'd ; 
 
 However, present remedy was none, 
 And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'J 
 
 Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 
 
 She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 Alfonso paused a minute then begun 
 Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 
 
 He would not justify what he had done, 
 To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding : 
 
 But there were ample reasons for it, none 
 Of which he specified in this his pleading : 
 
 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 
 
 Of rhetoric, which the leam'd call " rigmarole." 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 'T is to retort with firmness, and when, he 
 
 Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 
 
 Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 
 But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds 
 
 But that can't be, as has been often shown ; 
 A lady with apologies abounds : 
 
 It might be that her silence sprang alone 
 From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 
 To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 There might be one more motive, which makes two : 
 
 Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
 Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
 
 Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
 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. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 
 
 Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
 (That modem phrase appears to me sad stuff, 
 
 But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
 Which keeps, whin push'd by questions rather rougti 
 
 A lady always distant from the fact 
 The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
 There's nothing so becoming to the face. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 They blush, and we believe iiem ; at least I 
 Have always done so ; 't u of no great use. 
 
 In any case, attempting a reply, 
 
 For then their eloquence grows quite profuse . 
 
 And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigi,, 
 And cast theii languid eyes down, and let loose 
 
 A tear or two, and then we make it up : 
 
 And then acd then tad then sit dov/n ar.d sm
 
 574 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANT-) L 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Alfons' clp<l his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
 Which Jutia half withheld, and then half granted, 
 
 A nd laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
 Denying several little things he wanted : 
 
 He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden, 
 With us<less penitence perplex'd and haunted, 
 
 Beseeching she no further would refuse, 
 
 When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 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 their fashion, 
 
 And then flew out into another passion. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 
 
 And Julia instant to the closet flew ; 
 44 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." 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 None can say that this was not good advice, 
 
 The only mischief was, it came too late ; 
 Of all experience 't is 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. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 Dire was the scuffle, 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, blasphemed an octave higher ; 
 His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 
 And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could 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 
 Ad how you may be doubly widows wives ! 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
 
 And Juan throttled him to get away, 
 Ami 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 ; 
 Ho flat, like Joseph, leaving it but there, 
 I iiniibt. all likeness ends between the pair. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found 
 An awkward spectacle their eyes ocfore ; 
 
 Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
 Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 
 
 Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
 Some blood, and seveial footsteps, but no more : 
 
 Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 
 
 And, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 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 wt.jr 
 
 And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 
 The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 
 
 The nine days' wonder which was brought to lighi, 
 And how Alfonso sued for a divorce. 
 Were in the English newspapers, of course. 
 
 CLXXX1X. 
 
 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 nonsuit 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. 
 
 cxc. 
 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 
 Of one of the most circulating scandals 
 That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
 
 At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
 First vow'd (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. 
 
 CXCI. 
 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 betta 
 Shown in the following copy of her letter : 
 
 CXCII. 
 " Thjsy tell me 't is decided, you depart : 
 
 'T is wise 't is 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 ; 1 write in haste, and if a stain 
 Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears 
 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears 
 
 CXCIII. 
 " I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 
 
 State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esu 
 And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 
 
 So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
 Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is 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.
 
 CAXTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 ST.? 
 
 CXCIV. 
 
 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 T is woman's whole existence; man may range 
 
 The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart ; 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
 
 And few there are whom these cannot estrange: 
 
 Men have all these resources, we but one 
 
 To love again, and be again undone. 
 
 cxcv. 
 
 " You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 
 Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
 
 For me on earth, 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. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 u My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 
 
 But still, I think, I can collect my mind ; 
 My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 
 
 As roll the waves bofore the settled wind ; 
 My heart is feminine, nor can forget 
 
 To all, except one image, madly blind : 
 So shakes tne needle, and so stands the pole, 
 As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 "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 cmn scarce be more complete : 
 I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
 
 Denth 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!" 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 This note was written upon gilt-edged paper, 
 
 With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new : 
 Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
 
 It trembled as magnetic needles do, 
 And yet she did not let one tear escape her; 
 
 The seal a sun-flower ; " EUe vous tuii parloui," 
 The motto cut upon a white cornelian, 
 The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 
 
 CXCIX. 
 This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 
 
 I shall proceed with his adventure is 
 Dependent on the public altogether: 
 
 VVe '11 see, however, what they say to this 
 (Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, 
 
 And no great mischief's done by their caprice); 
 And, if their approbation we experience, 
 Perhaps they 'II have some more about a year hence. 
 
 cc. 
 
 My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 
 
 Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
 Wiih love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 
 New characters ; the episodes are three : 
 
 A panorama view of hell 's in training, 
 After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
 So ihat my name of Epic 'a no misnomer. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 All these things will be specified in timu. 
 
 With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 
 The vode mecum of the true sublime, 
 
 Which makes so many poets and some fools t 
 Prose poets like blank- verse I 'm fond of rhytnr- 
 
 Good workmen never quarrel with their tools 
 I 've got new mythological machinery, 
 And very handsome supernatural scenery. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 There 's only one slight difference between 
 Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
 
 And here the advantage is my own, I ween, 
 (Not that I have not several merits more); 
 
 But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 
 They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 
 
 Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
 
 Whereas this story 's actually true. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 If any person doubt it, I appeal 
 
 To history, tradition, and to facts, 
 To 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, 
 Sow Juan's last elopement with the devil. 
 
 CCIV. 
 If evor I should condescend to prose, 
 
 I '11 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 the highest pitch : 
 I '11 call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
 Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 
 
 ccv. 
 
 Thou shall believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope : 
 
 Thou shall not set up Words worth, Coleridge, Southc* 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and inouthey 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
 Thou shall not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
 Commit flirtation with the muse of Moore : 
 
 CCVI. 
 Thou shall nol covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
 
 His Pegasus, nor any thing that 's his : 
 Thou shall not bear false witness, like " the Bluft," 
 
 (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this): 
 Thou shall not write, in short, Hut ^-hat I choose : 
 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss 
 Exactly as you please, or not the rod, 
 But if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G-^-a ! 
 
 ccvn. 
 
 If any person should presume In assert 
 
 The story is not moral, first, I pray 
 That they will not cry out before ihey're huu. 
 
 Then that they '11 read it o'er again, and saj 
 (Bu, 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 fo.
 
 57G 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO L 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 If, after all, there should be some so blind 
 To their own good this warning to despise, 
 
 Led by some tortuosity of mind, 
 Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 
 
 And cry that they "the moral cannot find," 
 I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies 
 
 Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 
 
 They also lie too under a mistake. 
 
 CCIX. 
 The public approbation I expect, 
 
 And beg they '11 take my word about the moral, 
 Which I with their amusement will connect 
 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral); 
 Meantime, they '11 doubtless please to recollect 
 
 My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
 For fear some prudish reader should grow skittish, 
 I Ve bribed my grandmother's review the British. 
 
 ccx. 
 
 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. 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 I think that with this holy new alliance 
 
 I may insure the public, and defy 
 AIL 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 't were in vain to try, 
 And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
 Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa 
 
 Consult Planco," Horace said, and so 
 Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 
 
 Hint that some six or seven good years ago 
 I 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. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray 
 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
 I -i-^,,r.Ht of a peruke the other day,) 
 
 ; .icart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
 Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May, 
 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort; I 
 Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
 And deem not, what I deetn'd, my soul invincible. 
 
 CCXIV. 
 No more no more Oh ! never more on me 
 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 Whicn out of all the lovely things we see 
 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 
 
 Think's' thou the honey with those objects grew ? 
 Alas ! 't was not in them, but in thy power, 
 T} double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 ccxv. 
 
 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. 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 My days of love are over me no more ' 
 The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow 
 
 Can make the fool of which they made before 
 In short, I must not lead the life I did do : 
 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er; 
 The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 
 
 So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, 
 
 I think I must take up with avarice. 
 
 CCXVII. 
 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow and rf 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, 1 've sponen, 
 "Time is, time was, time's past," a chymic trtsure 
 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes 
 
 My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 
 
 CC XVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CCXIX. 
 
 What are the hopes ot man ? old Egypt's king, 
 
 Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
 And largest, thinking it was just the thing 
 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
 But somebody or other, rummaging, 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
 Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 But I, being fond of true philosophy, 
 
 Say very often to myself, " Alas ! 
 All things that have been born were born to din, 
 
 And flesh (which death mows down to hay) is gr ASS 
 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." 
 
 CCXXI. 
 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 by ' 
 We 1 meet again, if we should understand 
 
 Each other ; and if not, I shall not trv 
 Your patience further than by this short samf f 
 'T were well if others follow'd my exuu>'.-;.
 
 CANTO ii. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 57 
 
 CCXXII 
 
 - Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 
 
 I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 
 
 The world will find thee after many days." 
 When Southey 's read, and Wordswoi th 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. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 L 
 
 OH ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 
 
 I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 
 
 It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 
 
 The best of mothers and of educations, 
 In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain, 
 
 Since in a way, that 's rather of the oddest, he 
 
 Became divested of his native modesty. 
 
 II. 
 
 riad 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. 
 
 HI. 
 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 (that's quite natural, 
 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 Well well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
 
 And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 
 \nd live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, 
 
 And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 
 Hie 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 ; 
 * can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
 Nor liken it I never saw the like : 
 3 n2 78 
 
 VI. 
 
 An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
 
 New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, 
 No none of these will do ; and then their gatb! 
 
 Their veil and petticoat Alas ! to dwell 
 Upon such things would very near absorb 
 
 A canto then their feet and ancles ! well, 
 Thank Heaven I 've got no met jgjhor quite ready, 
 (And so, my sober Muse come'^et's be steady 
 
 VII. 
 
 Chaste Muse! well, if you must, you mus') the veil 
 Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 
 
 While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
 Flashes into the heart: all sunny land 
 
 Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 
 To say my prayers but never was there plannM 
 
 A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, 
 
 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 
 'T was 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, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Don Juan bade his valet pack his 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, loo, she gave (he never read it) 
 Of good advice and two or three of credit. 
 
 X. 
 
 In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 
 For naughty children, who would rather play 
 
 (Like truant rogues) the devil 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. 
 
 XI. 
 Juan embark'd the ship got under weigh, 
 
 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, the dashing spray 
 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough 
 And there le stood to take, and take again, 
 His first perhaps his last farewell of Spain. 
 
 XII. 
 I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
 
 To see one's native land receding through 
 The growing waters it unmans one quite ; 
 
 Especially when life is rather new : 
 I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white 
 
 But almost every other country's blue, 
 When, gazing on them, mystified bv dis-'.ance. 
 We enter on our nautical existence
 
 0*3 
 
 BYRON S WORKS. 
 
 CAX70 II 
 
 Xllt. 
 8* Jou. SMMM *cmlder*d on the deck: 
 
 TV t A P^. cordage strainY, and sailors swore, 
 And tfesnncreak'd, the town became a speck, 
 
 From w*cr ar ay so fur and fast they bore, 
 fhe best jf lenwfies is a beefsteak 
 
 Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before 
 To* sneer, and I assure yua this is true. 
 For I have fccnd it answer so may yoo. 
 
 xiv. 
 
 Don Juan stand, and, gating from the stem, 
 BeheU bis native Spain reeedmgfkr: 
 
 r ITT! T^**iiTii'> * >r".i : t**p ;" r: i TV: * o 1 *r JTT. * 
 Even nations fed this when they go to war ; 
 
 Tncre & sort, of uoexpress d ooooern^ 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 
 
 A* .tT;~j* fvf-r. U*.; 1 TtKt>; ::r<: .t .= >.'."/. v>cx~'. 
 And places, oae keep* looking at the steeple. 
 
 XT. 
 Bat Joan had got many things to leave 
 
 HH mother, and * mnesa, and no wife, 
 So that he had much better cause to grieve 
 
 Than many persons more advanced m fife; 
 And, if we now and then a sigh most heave 
 
 At quitting even those we quit in strife, 
 No doubt we weep for those the heart endears 
 That is, m deeper griefs congeal oar tan. 
 
 XVL 
 So Jnan wept, as wept the eaptrra Jews 
 
 By Babel's water, stil uaaumlin'mg Sion: 
 I'd weep, bat mine is not a weeping muse, 
 
 And soch Eght griefs are not a thing to die on; 
 Toang mca shonU travel, if but to amuse 
 
 Themsehrcs; and the nexttane their serrants tie on 
 Piihwiii their carnages their new portmanteau, 
 Perhaps it any be fined with this mj canto. 
 
 XVH. 
 And Jnan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thooghl, 
 
 Whie his aak teandrapt into the sak sea, 
 "Sweets to the sweet;" (I nke so much to quote : 
 
 Ton most excuse this extract, *t is where she, 
 The4|neea of Denmark, for Opbe&a broogHt 
 
 Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 
 
 And serioosly resolved on 
 
 xnn. 
 
 r'areweu, my Spain! a fang farewefi !" he cried, 
 Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
 
 Bat die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 
 Of ks own thirst to see again thy shore: 
 
 FarpweO, my mother! and, since al is o'er, 
 F*tewefl. too, dearest Jnfia! n (here be drew 
 flrr fewer out again, and read k through.) 
 
 XIX. 
 And oh! if e'er I should forget, 1 
 
 Sooner shal this bue ocean mek to 
 Sosner shal earth resolve ksctf to sea, 
 
 Than I resign thine image, oh! my fair! 
 Or think of any thmg, ciryptmg thee ; 
 
 Ami 
 Bert ir,e i 
 
 \\ 
 * Sooner shaH hearten kiss crth (Here he fell sio>*f 
 
 Oh, Juba! what is every other vroc! 
 (For God's sake, let me have a gtass of liquor 
 
 Pedro! Battista! help me down bdow). 
 Jofia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) 
 
 Oh, JuHa! (this cursed vessel pitches so) 
 Beloved Julia! hear me stiU beseeching 
 (nere he giew marticiuatQ with t etching). 
 
 XXI. 
 He fek that duffing 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 food hope ends : 
 No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, 
 Bat the sea acted as a strong emetic. 
 
 XXII. 
 Love's a capricious power; IVe known tt bold 
 
 Out through a (ever caused by its own heat, 
 Bat be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
 
 And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 
 Against an noble maladies he's bold, 
 
 But vulgar mnesses don't like to meet, 
 Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh; 
 Nor mfbmmations redden his bond eye. 
 
 XXIII. 
 But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
 
 About the lower region of the bowels ; 
 Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 
 
 Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
 And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
 
 Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how e*j 
 Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 
 Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before 1 
 
 XXIV. 
 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 be had a 
 
 Letter of introduction, which the morn 
 Of his departure had been sent him by 
 Hk Spanish friends for those in Italy. 
 
 XXV. 
 His sake consisted of three servants and 
 
 A tutor, the licentiate Pedriilo, 
 Who several languages did understand, 
 
 Bat now by sick and speechless on his p.Uow, 
 And, rocking in his hammock, long' d for land, 
 
 His head-ache being increased by every billow ; 
 And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
 His birth a liule damp, and him afraid. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
 
 Increased at night, ur.til it blew a gale ; 
 And though *t was not much to a naval mind, 
 
 Some landsmen *rould have lookM t little pale, 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 
 
 At sunset they began to take in sa-L, 
 For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.
 
 T n It. 
 
 DON JUA*l. 
 
 579 
 
 XXVII. 
 At toe o'Hoek, the Triad with 
 
 Threw the chip right, art* Ibe tnotagh of the sea, 
 Wiieh struck her afi,aad made aa wkwrd rift, 
 
 Started the stern-post, also saanerM the 
 Whole of her stem-fame, and, ere die eoaid ml 
 
 Herself from oat her presort jeopardy, 
 
 The raddcr tore waj: 'twas tine to 
 Tbe pomps, ana there were four feet water 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 One gang of peop ouusdv was pot 
 Upon the pamp t aad the rimimrtrr set 
 
 To get op part of the cargo, aad what mat, 
 Bat they eaatd M* came at the leak as jet; 
 
 At tut they did get at it realy, hot 
 StiB their sarratioawas aa eve* bet: 
 
 The water rcab'd through m a. waj qnile 
 
 White lhfeyOKigtri>c<a,AwU,jartm, hair* of 
 
 XXDL 
 
 Into the opening; hot al sodi mgremeats 
 
 Would hare been Tain, and they most have ftonc dona 
 
 Despite of aS ibtir effixts and expedient*, 
 Bat for the pumps: I 'm glad to Make them known 
 
 To aO the bntfber-iars who any have need hence, 
 For fifty toos of waler were npthrown 
 
 By then per boor, aed they had al hem undone 
 
 Bat Cor the anker, Mr. Man, of Loado*. 
 
 As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
 And then the leak they reekoa'd to redaee. 
 
 And keep the ship afloat, tboogb three feet yet 
 Kept two hand and one chant poop sal in 
 
 Use wind blew fredi again: as it grew ble 
 A squall came on, and, whfie 
 
 A ftiut nbiefc afldeieripiwe power n innmh 
 
 Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 
 
 XXXL 
 There she Uy iaiHinlfi, and seen^d npset: 
 
 Tbe water left the hold, and waat'd the decks, 
 And Made a scene Hen do not soon forget; 
 
 For they irajrmbrr battles, fees, and wrecks. 
 Or any other thing that brings regret, 
 
 Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or beads, or necks : 
 Tbn* drowning* are nmeb taJk'd of by the divers 
 
 ^ 
 
 XX3EB. 
 
 were cnt awav, 
 
 irst the nnenwcnt, 
 felow'4: bnt the ship stii lay 
 loe.aod banVdoor inteo. 
 owspritwere cnt down, and they 
 Eased her at last (abboogh we never Meant 
 To part with al til every hope was bEgbted), 
 And then with violence the old ship righted. 
 
 xxxnL 
 
 To lose thek Eves, as wd as spal ibemr diet; 
 That even the able semen, deciding bis 
 
 E^asr'.T o r, ^^fTj-" ^ c^*-^"-*?^- l:- r> r X, 
 tarswsl ask 
 drink ram from the cade. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 There's e*gbt,no dobi,s OMUI ibe sfisw culm. 
 As mm and tnw reByon; tbns it was, 
 
 The high wind nwde ** r*Me, snd ns bass 
 The hoarse harsh wawes kept time; fiigfat enred tbr 
 
 sea- sick maws 
 
 Of i iM bJeUinj 
 
 Cbmoor'd in chora* to the roaring ocean. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Perhaps man mbchief bad bean done, bat iar 
 
 Oar Joan, who, with 
 Got to the 
 
 It with a pair of pbtob; and their fears, 
 As if Death were anre dreaonl bybb door 
 
 Of fire than water, spile of oaths aad tears. 
 Kept stal aloof the erew, who, ere they sank, 
 Thought itwoald be II iii t to die draak. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Give as awre gmg," they cried, far *wfl be 
 Al oae aa hoar beace." Jaaa aaswer'd. - No 
 Tb true mat death awaits both yoa aad UK, 
 Bat let as die hke mea,aot sink below 
 
 aWi to 
 
 And even Pedriaa,hb 
 Wasfbr 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 \^- made i. laal u^: 
 Bepeated al hb cms, aad amde a last 
 
 IflCffOCattbV wW < tCaWVtttMmly 
 
 Nothmg shoaU tempt Ima amre (fhb peri 
 To oil 1 
 
 of the efamie finhanan, 
 To Mow Joan's wake ike Saad 
 XXXVUJ. 
 
 Bat now there came a fa* of hope 
 Day brake, aad the wmd WFd : the m 
 
 The leak incieased ; sboab roand her, bat 
 Tbe vessel swam, yet stsl she heU her 
 
 They tried the pamps again, aad 
 
 sperale efibrfs seem'd al nadeas 
 
 A J,rrnii| i of iiiinn'ir set some haads to 
 
 The stronger pmapM, the weaker rhi amii'd 
 
 a sal. 
 
 TJader the wand's had the nal was paar'd, 
 Aad far me moment it had aaaa efleetj 
 
 Bat with aleak,and aot a stick of mast 
 Sar rag af canvas, what eoaU they espeet? 
 
 Bat sol lie best to ttrogele to me bat, 
 Tb aever too late to be whaty wreekd: 
 
 Aad tboaghtb tree 
 
 Ta ti-y, 
 
 XL. 
 hndhmrd 
 
 v**j n\ mvj 
 
 y; 
 
 F;r v^-r^i-- EavaJ ait r.^-r.-r H 
 re. aaaietaay 
 Oa which they anight repose, or 
 
 A jaiy mill or ladder, or emid say 
 The dap wodd swan aa hoar, which, hj gaod 
 M exaedr a a dara.
 
 A80 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO I) 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 
 
 But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 
 
 To weather out much longer ; the distress 
 Was also great with which they had to cope, 
 
 For want of water, and their solid mess 
 Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 
 
 Was used nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 
 
 Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Again the weather threaten'd, again blew 
 A gale, and in the fere and after hold 
 
 Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
 All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
 
 Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
 Of all our pumps: a wreck complete she roll'd, 
 
 At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
 
 Like human beings during civil war. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then came the carpenter, at last, with tear*, 
 In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
 
 Could do no more ; he was a man in years, 
 And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 
 
 And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
 That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
 
 But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 
 
 Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The ship was evidently settling now 
 
 Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 
 
 Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
 Of candles to their saints but there were none 
 
 To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
 Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 
 
 That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
 
 Who told him to be damn'd in his confusion. 
 
 XLV. 
 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 their hair ; 
 And others wenv on, as they had begun, 
 
 Getting the beats out, being well aware 
 rhat a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
 Unless with breakers ciose beneath her lee. 
 
 XLVI. 
 The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 *T was difficult to get out such provision 
 
 As now might render their long suffering less: 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 
 Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 
 Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 
 Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 
 
 XLVII. 
 But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
 
 Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 
 Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
 
 Sut flasks of wine and they contrived to get 
 < portion of their oeef up from below, 
 
 And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
 Hut scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 
 Thtu there was rum, eight' gallons in a puncheon. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 Been stove in the beginning of the gale : 
 
 And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
 As there were but two blankets for a sail, 
 
 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
 Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 
 
 And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 
 
 To save one half the people then on board. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 'T was twilight, for the sunless day went down 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 
 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose thfi frown 
 Of one whose hate is inask'd but to assail; 
 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
 And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
 
 And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 
 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 L. 
 
 Some trial had been making at a raft, 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 
 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 epileptical, and half hysterical : 
 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
 LI. 
 
 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 off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 
 
 She gave a hesl, and then a lurch to port, 
 
 And, going down head-foremost sunk, in short. 
 
 LII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 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 gush'd, 
 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek the bubbling cry 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 LIV. 
 The boats, as slated, 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 weie too many, thougn so few- 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the bcal, 
 Were counted in them whet they gol afloat
 
 n. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 581 
 
 LV. 
 
 All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
 
 Had left their bodies ; and, what 's worse, alas ! 
 Wnen over Catholics the ocean rolls, 
 
 The} mus*. wait several weeks, before a mass 
 Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 
 
 Because, till people know what 's come to pass, 
 They won't lay out their money on the dead- 
 It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 
 
 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 call'd shortly Tita) 
 
 Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A small old spaniel, which had been Don Jose's, 
 
 His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 
 For on such things the memory reposes 
 
 With tjnderness, stood howling on the brink, 
 Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) 
 
 No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 
 And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 
 Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 He also stuff'd his money where he could 
 
 About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
 Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
 
 Not knowing what himself to say or do, 
 As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
 
 But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 
 And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
 Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 
 
 LX. 
 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
 
 That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
 
 They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
 
 And made them bale without a moment's ease, 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 
 
 LXI. 
 Nine souls more w3nt 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 who perish'd with the cutter, 
 And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 LXII. 
 The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
 
 Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
 Before 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 
 
 Was served out to the peop^j, who begun 
 To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags 
 And most of them had little clothes but rags. 
 
 us 
 
 They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
 
 Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 
 
 They did their best to modify their case, 
 
 One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersi->n 
 
 While t' other half were laid down in their place, 
 At watch 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. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 'T is very certain the desire of life 
 
 Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 
 
 When patients, neither plagued with friends nor w'fe. 
 Survive through very desperate conditions, 
 
 Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
 Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 
 
 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 
 
 And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 'T is said that persons living on annuities 
 
 Are longer lived than others, God knows why 
 Unless to plague the grantors, yet so true it is. 
 
 That some, I really think, do never die ; 
 Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 
 
 And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 
 In my young days they lent me cash that way, 
 Which I found very troublesome to pay. 
 
 LXVI. 
 'Tis thus with people in an open boat, 
 
 They live upon the love of life, and bear 
 More than can be believed, or even thought, 
 
 And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear ; 
 And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 
 
 Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there-- 
 She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
 Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 
 
 LXVII. 
 But man is a carnivorous production, 
 
 And 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, 
 Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 
 
 For on the third day there came on a cann, 
 And though at first their strength it might renfii* 
 
 And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
 Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on 'he blue 
 
 Of ocean, when thoy woke they tell a qualm. 
 And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
 Instead of hoarding it with due precision .
 
 >S-2 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 ro it. 
 
 LHX. 
 
 I/SsS OQB9B(jpEMMCC 
 
 They ate ns>al they had ai^ drank their wiae, 
 la spile of al remoasinneeK, aad then 
 
 OB what, in feet, next day woe they to dme? 
 Thr; hoped the wmd wooU nse, these fodfeh men ! 
 
 Aad carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, 
 Bat.astheyhadbataBcoar,and that bridle, 
 It 
 
 The foarth day came, tat Mt 
 
 And ocean li I d fte an mnrean'd chad: 
 The fifth day, aad their boat lay noatmg there, 
 
 The ML and sky were Moe, and dear, and ntfd- 
 With the* one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
 What coaM they do? aad 'mafei iVi rage grewwfld: 
 
 aid, spite of hk mnralmg, 
 kSFd, aaa porooo'd oat tor present eatmg. 
 
 Oa the HUh dav they fed apon hk hide, 
 
 Warn 
 
 Hthoagh first denied). 
 
 As a great favour, 
 Which he abided warn Pedriao, wh 
 Devoid 4, longing fir the other km 
 
 f.TTn. 
 1W terratk day, aad BO mmt Ihu B 
 
 BbsterM and scorchM; and, stagnant oa the sea, 
 they Say ike taiiam.i ; aad hope 
 ia the breeze that 
 
 each 
 Wi~ 
 Theha^ngi of the 
 
 ant) ia their wolfish eyes. 
 
 Ti 
 
 And oat they spoke of lots for fesh and blood, 
 Aad who aaoaU das to he las felows* food. 
 
 uorr. 
 
 to this, they that day shared 
 
 r- <* 
 
 At kagtb the tots ware torn BB aad prepared, 
 Bat TBBlerBb that aaatf. shock ihe aaae 
 Haviag BO paper, tor the was* of better, 
 TVrtook by farce fiwaJoaa Jaia's fetter. 
 
 Laccr. 
 
 TVe ion were aiBBf.iailBiiifc'd. aad aaVd, aad 
 
 la 
 UN 
 
 uocn. 
 
 He bat requested to be bied to death : 
 
 The surgeon had his imMnnmats and bled 
 
 PedriBo, aad so geatiy ebb'd his breath, 
 Ton hardy cooid perceive when he vj 
 
 He died as bora, a Catholic in faith, 
 
 Like most in the belief in which they 're breo, 
 
 And first a finle crucifix he lossM, 
 
 And then held oat his jugular and wrist. 
 
 Lxxvn. 
 
 The suigeua, as there was no other foe, 
 
 Had hb first choice of morsels for his pains; 
 
 Bat being thirstiest at the moment, he 
 
 Prefofd a draught from the fast-flowing Tens: 
 
 Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 
 Aad sad* things as the entrails and the Drains 
 
 Regaled two sharks, who foBow'd o'er the bilfew 
 
 The salon ate the rest of poor Pednflo. 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 
 The sailors ate ban, al save three or foar. 
 Who were not mate so fond of animal food J 
 
 l~ *._" tt5-6 **':L? c.--~L J"J2Jj. Ttr.O. r-t'Z'TC 
 
 \r-",fT.r r.;- ;WT. ?:-ar..v'.. harc^r cc-'j'.a 
 Feel now ins appetite increased much mr e; 
 
 Twas not to be expected that be should, 
 Even m exbvjmay of then* disaster, 
 Dine with them on lax pastor and his master. 
 
 Twas better that he did not, far, to fact, 
 The consequence was awfbi in the extreme: 
 
 For Aey, who were most ravenous in the act, 
 Went raging mad Lord! how they did biaspbeiae! 
 
 And feaai aad rofl, with strange conTokaozts rack d. 
 Drinking saltwater Eke a anaatain-stream, 
 i 1 M iag, aad gnaaaag, howfing, sereechmg, swearmg, 
 
 And, with hyena laughter, died despairing. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 tiimn'd by tins mfBction, 
 Aad al the rest were ihin enough, Heaven knows ; 
 ad some of diem had lost their reeoBection, 
 Happier thaa they who sd perceived their woes ; 
 Bat others 
 
 As if not wanf d soffioenliy by those 
 Who had already perished, suffering madly, 
 For having ased their appetites so sadly. 
 
 LXXXJ. 
 And next they thought upon the master's orate, 
 
 As fattest; bat he saved himseX; because, 
 
 esides btsag roach averse front such a fate 
 
 There were some other reasons: the first was 
 He had been rad>er indisposed of lale, 
 
 Aad that which chiefly proved his saving dans* 
 Was a smal present made to him at Cadiz, 
 By general inbsuintina of the la dies. 
 
 LXJLJUL 
 Of poor Pedriao something stiS remained, 
 
 Bat it was ased sparingly, come were afraid. 
 And others stall their appetites ooMraia'd, 
 
 Or bat at times a Etde soppei made; 
 Al except Joan, who throughout abstained, 
 
 Chewiag a pieee of bamboo, and some If ao 
 At length theyeaagbt two boobies and a r*dfy 
 And then ther left off eating uW dea^ bod
 
 CAXTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 585 
 
 r vvxiii. 
 
 And if PedriBo's fate should shocking he, 
 
 To ea. tse bead of his arch-enemy 
 
 The moment after he pofiteiy ends 
 His tale; iffbeibefbodmhefi,atsea 
 
 Tis surely fair to dme upon our friends. 
 When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. 
 Without bemg much more horrible than Dante. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And the same night own fel a shower of ram. 
 
 For which their months gaped. Eke the cracks of earth 
 When dried to summer dust; al taught by pain, 
 
 Men reaBy know not what good water 's worth: 
 If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
 
 Orwmhafamish'd boat's-crew had your mrth. 
 Or in the desert beard the earners bel, 
 FTd wish yourself where Truth is m a weL 
 
 LXXXT. 
 It poor'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
 
 Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
 Which served mem as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
 
 They nag k out, and, though a thirsty dkeher 
 
 Might not have thought the scanty draught no sweet 
 As a fbfl pot of porter, to their thinking 
 They ne'er hi now had known the joys of drmkmg. 
 
 LXXXVL 
 
 And their baked fipc, wkh many a bioody crack, 
 Sock'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd ; 
 ofc tangoes were black. 
 
 As the rich man's in bel, who Tandy screamM 
 To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
 
 A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 
 To taste of hearon if this be one, indeed, 
 Some Christians have a comfortable creed, 
 
 LXXXVn. 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Vas mujo niliunl and naiuy to the Tiew, 
 Bnt he died early; and when he was gone, 
 
 ffis nearest >! *! toU his sire, who threw 
 One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's wnl be done! 
 
 I can do nothing!" and he saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 
 
 Lxxxvm. 
 
 The other father had aweakier chid, 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect debate; 
 
 Bat the boy bore op long, and with a mud 
 And patient spirit, beil aloof his fete; 
 
 Lktle he said, and now and then he smned, 
 As if to win a part from oft" the weight 
 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
 
 With die deep deadly thought, that they mnst part. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 
 His eyes from off his face, bat wiped the foam 
 From his pale lips, and erer on him gued; 
 
 And when the wish'd-ior shower at length was come. 
 And the bey's eyes, which the dm* mm half glazed, 
 
 .va'-i, *cd far a uunmnt seem'd to roam, 
 He stiueezen 6-* <* a rag; some drops of rain 
 IL*O hee dyvj 
 
 XC. 
 The boyezpwed-the father held the day. 
 
 And iook'd upon k long, and when at bst 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
 
 Stiff oo his heart, and puke and hope were 
 He watched k wistfully, unti awmV 
 
 T was borne by the'rude wave waerem h was . 
 Then he mm** sunk down,al< 
 And gave no signs of fife, save his 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Now over-head a rainbow, bunting through 
 The scattering* 
 
 Resting its bright base en the qmvermg fame: 
 And al within fes arch appear d to he 
 
 Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
 Wax'd broad and wavm* Eke a kumer fee, 
 
 Then changed Eke to a bow that's bent, and tnos 
 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these sfaipwreck'd men, 
 
 xcn. 
 
 b changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon. 
 The airy chid of vapour and the ton. 
 
 Brought firth in purple, cradled i rimBinu, 
 Baptized in molten gold, and swashed in dun, 
 
 Glittering Eke crescents o'er a Turk's paviion, 
 
 boxwkkont the mufle), 
 
 XCUL 
 Our shipwreck'd seamen thought k a good oma 
 
 It is asweS to think so, now and then; 
 Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
 
 And may riBtomc of great advantage when 
 Fob are discouraged; and most surely no men 
 
 Had greater need to nerve thcumJm. again 
 Than mew, and so this ranmow looVd Ske hope 
 
 JLCIF. 
 
 bme,a beautnul whne bud. 
 
 * \ Cm^lOOtBOuj WOt, mmmmwC ft OOVt SQC 
 
 And pmmage (probablyk might have erHd 
 Upon its course), pass'd oft benre their eyes, 
 
 And tried to perch, akbough k saw and heard 
 The men within the boat, and m this guise 
 
 It came and went, and iutterM round them til 
 
 Night fcB: imsseemM a better omen stiL 
 XCV. 
 
 But in this sxse I aim mnst remark, 
 Twaswei thb bird of pronose did not perch, 
 
 Because die tackle of oar shaiterM bark 
 
 And had k been the doce from Noah's ark, 
 
 Retuning there from her successful search, 
 Winch in then- way mat miiininl chanced to ill, 
 They wmmd have eat her, onve-branch and aE. 
 
 xcn. 
 
 Wkh twmght k again came on to blow, 
 But not wkh violence ; the stars shoae out, 
 
 The boat made way ; yet now they were so ln* 
 They knew not where nor what they were abowl, 
 
 Some fancied they saw land. and some sari -No'" 
 The nauntut fa^banks gave them < 
 
 . g ame swore that they heard breakers, otn^r 
 
 And al undook about the otter once.
 
 584 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 11 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
 When he who had the watch^sung out., and swore 
 
 If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray 
 He wish'J that land he never might see more : 
 
 And the res' rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 
 Or thought they ?aw, and shaped their course for 
 shore ; 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 
 Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 And then of these some part burst into tears, 
 And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
 And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
 
 While a few pray'd (the first time for some years) 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 
 Asleep ; they shook them by the hand and head, 
 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
 
 They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 
 And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
 
 Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
 Proved even still & more nutritious matter, 
 
 Because it left encouragement behind: 
 They thought that in such perils, more than chance 
 Had sent them this for their deliverance. 
 
 C. 
 The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast, 
 
 And higher grew the mountstins as they drew, 
 Set by a current, toward it : they were loi t 
 
 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 jEtna, some the highlands 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 
 
 CI. 
 Meantime tke current, with a rising gale, 
 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
 Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
 
 Their living freight was now reduced to four ; 
 And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
 
 To heave into the deep with those before, 
 Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 
 The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 
 
 CII. 
 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. 
 
 CHI. 
 A. they drew nigh the land, which now was seen, 
 
 Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
 They felt t)>e freshness of its g-owing green, 
 
 That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 
 And fell upon their glazed eyes as i screen 
 
 From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare 
 I .ovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
 /t .rv.- the vast. salt, dread, eternal deep. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without the trace uf map, 
 And girt by formidable waves ; but they 
 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran. 
 Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay 
 
 A reef between them also now began 
 
 To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. 
 
 But, finding no place for their landing better, 
 
 They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 
 
 CV. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his 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) 
 
 Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 
 
 CVI 
 
 So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
 
 With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
 The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 
 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
 That carried off his neighbour by the thigh ; 
 
 As for the other two, they could not swim, 
 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
 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 't was 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 
 
 Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 
 
 Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: 
 And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, 
 
 Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain, 
 And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 
 
 CIX. 
 With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
 
 But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
 And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for thoso 
 
 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. 
 
 ex. 
 
 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 dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 
 And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
 
 His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 
 
 As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 585 
 
 CXI. 
 
 How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 
 
 And time had nothing more of night nor day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim : 
 
 \nd how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 
 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 
 
 far Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 
 
 CXII. 
 Elis 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 eyes was seen 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 '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 his answering spirits back from death: 
 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 
 Vs gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 lb these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 
 CX1V. 
 
 fhen was f he 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 hci tid r isparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 
 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom and hers too. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 And lifting him wih care into the cave, 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant, one 
 
 Young yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
 And more robust of fig 1 ire, then begun 
 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 
 Light to the rocks which rooPd them, which the sun 
 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
 
 In braids behind, and, though her stature were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould, 
 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 
 There was a something which bespoke command, 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 CXVII. 
 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. 
 3C 79 
 
 CXVII1. 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pute <iy-; 
 
 Like twilight rosy still with the sot sun ; 
 Short upper lip sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she *as one 
 Fit for the model of a statuary ^J 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all's done 
 I 've seen much liner women, ripe and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 I 'II tell you why I say so, for 't is 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. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 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 at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 But with our damse! 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. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 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 
 Hr 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. 
 
 CXXJ II. 
 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'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 siryce Heroes** 
 Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 I'll tell you who they were, this female pau, 
 
 Lest they should seem princesses in disguise , 
 Besides I hate all mystery, and that air 
 
 Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize j 
 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
 
 58G 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO n 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 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, 
 
 Psrhaps, 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 piastres. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 A fisher, therefore, was he though of men, 
 Like Peter the Apostle, and he fish'd 
 
 For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, 
 And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 
 
 The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
 
 He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
 
 Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 
 
 By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 
 
 C XX VII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 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 
 So grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 And walking out upon the beach below 
 
 The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 
 Insensible, not dead, but nearly so, 
 
 Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 
 But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
 
 Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 
 As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 
 A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 
 
 CXXX. 
 But taking him into her father's house 
 
 Was not exactly the best way to save, 
 But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
 
 Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
 liecause the good old man had so much "vouj," 
 
 Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 
 He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
 And sold him instantly when out of danger. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 And therefore, with hei maid, she thought it best 
 
 (A virgin always on her maid relies) 
 f'o place him in the cave for present rest: 
 
 And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
 Their charity increased about their guest : 
 
 And their compassion grew to such a size, 
 It opnn'd half the turnpike gates to heaven 
 <Saiii' I'au' says Vs the toll which must be given) 
 
 C XXXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXXXlII. 
 He had a bed of furs and a pelisse, 
 
 For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 
 His couch; and that he might 'be more at ease, 
 
 And warm, in case by chaoce he should awake, 
 They also gave a petticoat apiece, 
 
 She and her maid, and promised by day-break 
 To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish, 
 For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 
 
 C XXXIV. 
 
 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 
 
 Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
 
 Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 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 stay'd, 
 And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 
 
 He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said 
 (The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen)i 
 
 He had pronounced her name but she forgot 
 
 That at this moment Juan knew it not. 
 
 C XXXVI. 
 
 And pensive to her father's house she went, 
 
 Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
 Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, 
 
 She being wiser by a year or two : 
 A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 
 
 And Zoe spent hers as most women do, 
 In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
 Which is acquired in nature's good old colleges. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
 
 Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
 His rest ; the rushing of the neigbouring rill, 
 
 And the young beams of the excluded sun, 
 Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 
 
 And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
 Had sufier'd more his hardships were comparative 
 To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 Not so Haidee ; she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 
 
 And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
 Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stummed 
 
 And handsome corpses strew'd upon' the shore ; 
 And woke her maid so early thai she grumbled. 
 
 And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swrro 
 In several oaths Armenian, ? ark, and Greek, 
 They knew not what to think ol ;ucb a freak.
 
 n. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 587 
 
 CXXXJK. 
 
 But up she got, and up she nade them get, < 
 With some pretence abouv the sun, that makes 
 
 Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 
 And 't is, 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. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
 I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 
 
 I have sat up on purpose all the night, 
 
 Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate ; 
 
 And so all ye, who would be in the right 
 In health and purse, begin your day to date 
 
 From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 
 
 Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 
 
 Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
 Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 
 
 From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
 Like to a torrent which a 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. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 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 wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
 Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
 Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 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 stirlcss 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. 
 
 CXLV. 
 She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 
 
 And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 
 ft nicies, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
 
 A'"l foil her veins ohill'd by the neighbouring sea ; 
 Ami so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
 
 1 can't say that she gave them any tea, 
 But there wero egg*, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 
 Wilt rviu wine, and all for love, not money. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
 
 The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan , 
 
 But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small namL 
 And without word, a sign hep finger drew on 
 
 Her lip, which Zoe needs musrunderstand ; 
 
 And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one. 
 
 Because her mistress would not let her break 
 
 That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek, 
 A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 
 
 On the snow tops of distant hills ; the streak 
 Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, 
 
 Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak , 
 And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
 
 Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
 
 Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 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 ho pray'd, 
 
 He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
 
 To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 CL. 
 
 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, 
 
 Although she told him in good modern Greek 
 With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 
 
 CLI. 
 Now Juan could not understand a word, 
 
 Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 
 That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 
 Without knowing why an overpowering tonn, 
 Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 
 
 CLII. 
 And Juan gazed, as one who is awoka 
 
 By a distant organ, doub'v^g if he H 
 Not yet a dreamer, till the spe'u is brok>. 
 
 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 mgni 
 Shows stars and wonv" w a better light.
 
 588 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 And Juan, toe was help'd out from his dream, 
 Or sj^ep, or n'latsoe'er it was, by feeling 
 
 A most prodif. Ions 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. 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 
 
 Goats' 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 which, 
 This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
 That the old fable of the Minotaur 
 
 From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, 
 Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
 
 A cow's shape for a mask was only (sinking 
 The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
 
 That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
 
 To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 For we all know that English people are 
 Fed upon beef I won't say much of beer, 
 
 Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 
 From this my subject, has no business here : 
 
 We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
 A pleasure like all pleasures rather dear ; 
 
 So were the Cretans from which I infer 
 
 That, beef and battles both were owing to her. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
 
 His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
 A s^>ht on which he had not lately gazed, 
 
 A 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 gn?w, 
 He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 
 
 Who watch'd him like a mother, would have 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 nursed, 
 And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 
 
 CLIX. 
 And so she took the liberty to state, 
 
 Rather 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, 
 Saving. 1>, ha. I gorged enough to make a horse ill. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Next they he being naked, save, \ "af'.er'd 
 Pair of scarce decent trowge./ - jvcnt to work; 
 
 And in the fire his recent rajs *hr,y sc:.tter'd, 
 And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 
 
 Or Greek that is, although it not much matter'd, 
 Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, 
 
 They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 
 
 With a clean shirt, and very spacious breecnes. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 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 
 Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end f 
 
 And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
 Her speech out to her protege and friend, 
 
 Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 
 
 She saw he did not understand Romaic. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
 And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 
 
 And read (the only book she could) the lines 
 Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, * 
 
 The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
 And darts in one quick glance a Ion" reply ; 
 
 And thus in every look she saw exprws'd 
 
 A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 
 A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 
 
 No doubt, less of her language than her look : / 
 
 As he who studies fervently the skies 
 
 Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 
 
 Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
 
 From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
 
 By female lips and eyes that is, I mean, 
 When both the teacher and the taught are young. 
 
 As was the case, at least, where I have been ; 
 They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong 
 
 They smile still more, and then there intervene 
 Pressure of hnnds, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; 
 I learn'd the little that I know by this : 
 
 CLXV. 
 That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 
 
 Italian not at all, having no teachers, 
 Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 
 
 Learning that language chiefly from its preachers. 
 Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
 
 I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
 Of eloquence in piety and prose 
 I hate your poets, so read none of those. 
 
 CLX VI. 
 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 I could lay the lasn on, 
 Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to mo 
 But dreams of what has been, no more to be.
 
 Mi & C E) E
 
 7*. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CLXVil. 
 
 Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
 To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 
 
 Some feelings, universal as the sun, 
 Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
 
 More than within the bosom of a nun: 
 He was in love as you would be, no doubt, 
 
 With a young benefactress, so was she 
 
 Just in the way we very often see. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 And every morn his colour frushlier came, 
 And every day help'd on his convalescence, 
 
 'T was well, DC-cause 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, 
 
 VVithout whom Venus will not long attack us. 
 
 CLXX 
 
 Vhile Venus fills the heart (without heart really 
 Love, though good always, is not quite so good), 
 
 Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 
 For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. 
 
 While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: 
 Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food ; 
 
 But who is their purveyor from above 
 
 Heaven knows, it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
 
 A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
 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. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 Both were so young, and one sa innocent, 
 
 That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan seem'd 
 To her, as 't were the kind of being sent. 
 
 Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 
 A something to be loved, a creature meant 
 
 To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 
 To render happy ; all who joy would win 
 Must share it, happiness was born a twin. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 tt was such pleasure to behold him, such 
 
 Enlargement of existence to partake 
 Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 
 
 To welch him slumbering, and to ice him wake. 
 I o live with him for ever wre too much ; 
 
 But then the thought of parting ma^.e her quake : 
 tie was her OWE, her ocean treasure, cast 
 Like a rich wrerk he: first iov<>, an-1 her last. 
 3 =2 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haides 
 Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
 
 Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
 
 Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook: 
 
 At last her father's prows put out to sea, 
 For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
 
 Not as of yore to carry off an lo, 
 
 But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
 
 So that, her father being at sea, she was 
 Free as a married woman, or such other 
 
 Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 
 Without even the encumbrance 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. 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 
 
 (For they must talk), and he had learnt 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 slati 
 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. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
 
 With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 
 
 Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 
 
 With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
 
 A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 
 
 And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 
 
 Save on the dead long summer days, which inaks 
 
 The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 
 
 Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagiw, 
 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, 
 Sermons and soda-water the day after. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 
 
 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 IHe'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. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Ring for your valet bid him quickly bring 
 
 Some hock and soda-water, th<;n you "11 know 
 
 A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
 
 For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow. 
 
 Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 
 Nor Burgundy in all its sunset gluw. 
 
 After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughtei , 
 
 Vie with that draught of hock and sodn-watm .
 
 VjO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 n 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The coast--! think it was the coast that 1 
 
 Was just depcribing Yes, it was the coast 
 Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 
 
 The sands untuinbled, the blue waves untoss'd, 
 And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
 
 And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 
 By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 
 Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 
 
 As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
 And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 
 
 Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
 She waited on her lady with the sun, 
 
 Though daily service was her only mission, 
 Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, 
 And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 
 
 CLXXXI1I. 
 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. 
 
 CLXXXI V. 
 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 clasped by an arm, 
 Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 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, ad 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 ; 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 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, 
 Wl>erc neart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
 
 And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 
 Each kiss a heart-quake, for a kiss's strength, 
 I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 By length I mean duration'; theirs endured 
 
 Heaven knows how long no doubt they never 
 
 reckon'd ; 
 And if they had, they could not have secured 
 
 The sum of their sensations to a second: 
 Thi:y had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 
 
 As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
 WInr.li, bciiig jom'd, like swarming bees they clung 
 Tlietr hearts tne flowers from whence the honey sprung. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 They were alone, yet not alone as they 
 Who, shut in chambers, think it .oneliness ; 
 
 The silent ocean, and the star-light bay, 
 
 The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 
 
 The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
 Around them, made them to each other press, 
 
 As if there were no life beneath the sky 
 
 Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
 They felt no terrors from the night, they were 
 
 All in all to each other: though their speech 
 
 Was broken words, they 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. 
 
 cxc. 
 
 Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 
 Nor offer' d any; she had never heard 
 
 Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
 Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 
 
 She was all which pure ignorance allows, 
 
 And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 
 
 And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
 
 Had not one word to say of constancy. 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 She loved, and was beloved she adored, 
 
 And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 
 
 Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 
 
 If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, 
 
 But by degrees their senses were restored, 
 Again to be o'ercomc, again to dash on ; 
 
 And, beating 'gainst Ms bosom, Haidee's heart 
 
 Felt as if never more to beat apart. 
 
 CXCII. 
 
 Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 
 
 So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
 Was that in which the hear* is always full, 
 
 And, having o'er itself no further power, 
 Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, 
 
 But pays ofT moments in an endless shovei 
 Of hell-fire all prepared for people giving 
 Pleasure or pain to one another living. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 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 hell and purgatory but forgot 
 Just in the very crisis she should not. 
 
 CXCIV. 
 They look upon each other, and their eyes 
 
 Gleam in the moon-light ; and her white arm cl&spt 
 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 quu<< antiue. 
 Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.
 
 CAXTO II. 
 
 J)ON JUAN. 
 
 cxcv. 
 
 And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
 And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 
 
 She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
 Sustain d his head upon her bosom's charms, 
 
 And now and then her eye to neaven is cast, 
 
 And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 
 
 Pillow'd on her o'erflowing neart, which pants 
 
 With all it granted, and with a" it grants. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 An infant when it gazes on a light, 
 
 A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
 A devotee when soars the host in sight, 
 
 An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
 A sailor, when the prize ha3 struck in fight, 
 
 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. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 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 't is giving, 
 
 All it hath felt, inflicted, pass''d, and proved, 
 
 Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; 
 
 There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 
 
 And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 The lady watch'd her lover and that hour 
 
 Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
 O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 
 
 Amidsi the barren sand and rocks so rude 
 She ani 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. 
 
 CXCIX. 
 Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
 
 And if 't is 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. 
 
 CC. 
 They're right; for man, to man so oft unjust, 
 
 Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
 Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
 
 Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
 Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
 
 Buys them in marriage and what rests beyond? 
 A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 
 Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
 Some mind their household, others dissipation, 
 
 Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 
 Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 
 
 Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
 Theirs being an unnatural situation, 
 
 From tne uisll palace to tl.e dirty hovel : 
 
 Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this 
 Haidee was passion's child born where the sun 
 
 Showers triple light, ?id 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. 
 
 ccm. 
 
 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 jo> 
 
 To make us understand each good old maxim, 
 
 So good I wonder Casllereagh don't tax 'em. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 And now 'twas done on the lone shore were plighted 
 Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 
 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 
 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and united, 
 Their priest was solitude, and they were wed : 
 
 And they were happy, for to their young eyes 
 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 ccv. 
 
 Oh love ! of whom great Caesar 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. 
 
 CCVI. 
 Thou makest 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 luck holds, 
 They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 
 
 CCVII. 
 Thou makest philosophers : there 's Epicurus 
 
 And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
 Who to immoral courses would allure us 
 
 By 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. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 
 
 And should he have ibrgotten her so soon? 
 I can't but say it seems t > me most truly a 
 
 Perplexing question ; but, o doubt, the moon 
 Does these tlrngs for us, and whenever new.y a 
 
 Palpitation rises, 't is her boon, 
 Else how the devil '<s 't that fresh features 
 1 Have such a charm for u ooor hurran creature*
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAMTO J. 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 1 hate inconstancy I loathe, detest, 
 Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
 
 Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
 No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
 
 Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 
 And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
 
 Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 
 
 ccx. 
 
 But soon philosophy came to my aid, 
 
 And whispcr'd, " think of every sacred tie !" 
 
 " I will, my dear philosophy !" I said, 
 
 " But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven ! her eye ! 
 
 1 '11 just inquire if she be wife or maid, 
 Or neither out of curiosity." 
 
 "Stop!" cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 
 
 (Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian) 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 " Stop !" so I stopp'd. But to return : that which 
 Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
 
 Than admiration due where nature's rich 
 Profusion with young beautv covers o'er 
 
 Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 
 A lovely statue we almost ar'ore, 
 
 This sort of adoration of the rial 
 
 Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 
 
 CCXII. 
 '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 
 To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 
 Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
 
 For surely if we always could perceive 
 In the same object graces quite as killing 
 
 As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
 'T would save us many a heart-ache, many a shilling 
 
 (For we must get them any how, pr grieve), 
 Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, 
 How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 
 
 CCXIV. 
 The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
 
 But changes night and day too, like the sky ; 
 Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
 
 And darkness and destruction as on high ; 
 But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, 
 
 Its scorms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
 Pours forth at last tne heart's blood turn'd to tears, 
 Which make the English climate of our years. 
 
 ccxv. 
 
 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, 
 I .ike knois of vipers on a dunghill's boil, 
 
 Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
 ^o that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
 take earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " central." 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 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 '11 allow 
 
 Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 
 And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
 
 For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 
 
 CANTO m. 
 
 I. 
 
 HAIL, Muse ! et ccelera. We left Juan sleeping, 
 Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 
 
 And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
 And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 
 
 To feel the poison through her spirit ,reeping, 
 Or knew who rested there ; a foe >o rest 
 
 Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 
 
 And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 
 
 Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 
 With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers 
 
 And ir.ade thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
 As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers, 
 
 And place them on their breast but place to die 
 Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
 Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 
 
 III. 
 In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
 
 In all the 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 him in the plural number, 
 Not finding that the additions much encumber. 
 
 IV. 
 I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 
 
 But one thing 's pretty 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 
 
 Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
 Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, 
 But those who have ne'er end with only one. 
 
 V. 
 'T is 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 sami! f imt . 
 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.
 
 :ANTO in. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 503 
 
 VI. 
 
 There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, 
 Between their present and their future state; 
 
 A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 
 
 Is used, until the truth arrives too late 
 
 Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
 The same things change their names at such a rate j 
 
 For instance passion in a lover's glorious, 
 
 But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 
 
 They sometimes also get a little tired 
 (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: 
 
 The same things cannot always be admired, 
 Yet 't is " so nominated in the bond," 
 
 That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
 Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
 Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
 Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 
 
 Romances paint at full length 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: 
 
 Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 
 
 He would have written sonnets all his life? 
 
 IX. 
 
 All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
 All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 
 
 The future states ofboth 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, 
 
 They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 
 
 X. 
 
 The only two that in my recollection 
 
 Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 
 Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 
 
 Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
 Of fault or temper ruiu'd the 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. 
 
 XL 
 
 Some persons say that Dante meant theology 
 
 By Beatrice, and not a mistress I, 
 Although my opinion may require apology, 
 
 Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
 Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 
 
 Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
 1 think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
 Meant to personify the mathematics. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Haidee and Juan were not married, but 
 The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 
 
 Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
 The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 
 
 Then, if you 'd have them wedded, please lo shut 
 The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 
 
 fieforo the consequences grow too awful 
 
 T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 
 80 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet they were happy, happy in the illicit 
 Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
 
 But, more imprudent grown with everv visit. 
 Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
 
 When we have wh$we like, 'tis hard to miss if. 
 At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
 
 Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
 Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 
 
 For into a prime minister but change 
 His title, and 't is nothing but taxation ; 
 
 But 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
 
 By winds and waves, and some important capture* 
 
 And, in the hope of more, at sea remained, 
 
 Although a squall or two had damped his raptures 
 
 By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd 
 His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 
 
 In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 
 
 And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollais 
 
 XVL 
 
 Some he dispcsed of off Capo Matapan, 
 
 Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 
 
 To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
 Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old) ; 
 
 The rest save here and there some richer one, 
 Reserved for future ransom in the hold, 
 
 Were link'd alike j as for the common people, he 
 
 Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The merchandise was served in the same way, 
 Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 
 
 Except some certain portions of the prey, 
 Light classic articles of female want, 
 
 French stuffs, 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackavv. 
 
 Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kill-;:ifl 
 He chose from several animals he saw 
 
 A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 
 Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 
 
 The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance ; 
 These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 
 He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 
 
 XIX. 
 Then having settled his marine affairs, 
 
 Despatching single cruisers here anu 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 *nd '>arn. 
 And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile. 
 His port lay on the other side o' the isio
 
 694 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 111 
 
 XX. 
 
 A.nd .here he went r.shore without delay, 
 Having no custom-house or quarantine 
 
 To ask him awkwa d questions on the way 
 About the time and place where he had been : 
 
 He left his ship to be hove down next day, 
 With orders to the people to careen ; 
 
 So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
 
 In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Arriving at the 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 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 ofT with the butler. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 An honest gentleman at his return 
 
 May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 
 
 Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
 Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 
 
 The odds are that he 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 his Argus bites him by the breeches. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 If single, probably his plighted fcir 
 
 Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 
 
 Hut all the better, for the happy pair 
 
 May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
 
 He may resume his amatory care 
 As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 
 
 And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 
 
 Write odes on the inconstancy of woman. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
 
 Some chaste 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 ; 
 I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a-day. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Latnbro, o\ir sea-solicitor, who had 
 
 Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 
 On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 
 
 But nut knowing metaphysics, had no notion 
 Ot tne true reason of his not being sad, 
 
 Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
 He Wed *>is child, and would have wept the loss of her, 
 But Knew cn cause no more than a philosopher. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
 His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 
 
 He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 
 
 The distant dog-bark; and perceived between 
 
 The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, 
 The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 
 
 Of arms (in the East all arm), and various dye 
 
 Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
 
 Surprised at these unwonted sighs of idling, 
 He hears alas ! no music of the spheres, 
 
 But an unhallow'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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
 
 Descending rather quickly the declivity, 
 Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
 glancing, 
 
 'Midst other indications of festivity, 
 Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
 
 Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 
 To which the Levantines are very partial. 
 
 XXX. 
 And further on a group of Grecian girls, 
 
 The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 
 Were strung together like a row of pearls ; 
 
 Link'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) , 
 TheL leader sang and bounded to her son^ 
 With coral step and voice, the virgin throng. 
 
 XXXI. 
 And here, assembled cross-legg'd round trtiir trays, 
 
 Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 
 
 And flasks of Simian and of Chian wine, 
 And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 
 
 Above them their desert grew on its vine, 
 The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
 Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store. 
 
 XXXII. 
 A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
 While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
 His sober head majestically tame, 
 
 Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
 His brow as if in act to butt, and then, 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Their classical profiles, an^ glittering dresses, 
 
 Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks. 
 The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
 So that the philosophical beholder 
 Sigh'd for their sakes that they should e'er grs> it olae.
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
 To a sedate jrray 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 bewitched that open to the knockers, 
 
 Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 
 
 Transforni'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact), 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
 
 For the imagination or the senses, 
 Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 
 
 All pretty pastime in- which no offence is; 
 But Lainbro 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. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
 The happiest mortals even after dinner 
 
 A day of gold from out an age of iron 
 Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; 
 
 Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
 That lures to flay alive the young beginner ; 
 
 Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 
 
 Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 He being a man who seldom used a word 
 Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 
 
 (In general he surprised men with the sword) 
 His daughter had not sent before to advise 
 
 Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
 
 And long he paused to reassure his eyes, 
 
 In fact much more astonish'd than delighted 
 
 To find so much good company invited. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
 
 That a report (especially the Greeks) 
 Avouch'd his death (such people never die), 
 
 And put his house in mourning several weeks. 
 But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
 
 The bloom too had return'd to Haidee's cheeks ; 
 Her tears too being relurn'd into their fount, 
 She now kept house upon her own account. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
 
 Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure ; 
 The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
 
 A life which made them happy beyond measure. 
 Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 
 
 Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure ; 
 T was wonderful how things went on improving, 
 While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 
 
 XL. 
 Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 
 
 He flew into a passion, and in fact 
 1 liere was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 
 
 Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
 Tl.> whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
 
 1< teach his people to be more exact, 
 And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
 do show'd ths royal penchant* of a pirate. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 You 're wrong. He was the mildest-manner'd ma 
 That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 
 
 With such true breeding of a gentleman, 
 You never couU divine his real thought; 
 
 No co irtier could, : und scarcely woman can 
 Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
 
 Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
 
 He was so great a loss to good society. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 
 
 Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 
 
 With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
 Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 
 
 He ask'd the meaning of this holiday? 
 
 The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 
 
 His question, much too merry to divine 
 
 The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And, without turning his facetious head, 
 Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 
 
 Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
 
 1 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 Ins heir." 
 Our mistress!" quoth a third: " Our mistress! pooh! 
 
 You mean our master not the old, but new." 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
 They thus address'd and Lambro's visage fell 
 
 And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 
 
 Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 
 
 The expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
 His smile, requested one of them to teU 
 
 The name and quality of his new patron, 
 
 Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
 He is, nor whence he came and little care , 
 
 But this I know, that this roast capon 's fal, 
 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 '11 answer all for better or for worse, 
 
 For none likes more to hear himself converse." 1 
 XLVI. 
 
 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, 
 
 tVho all the time were eating up his mutton. 
 XLVII. 
 
 Sow in a person used to muo.h command- 
 To bid men come, and go, and come again 
 To see his orders done too out of hand 
 
 Whether the word was death, or but the chaiu- 
 
 t may seem strange to find his manners bland 
 
 Yet such things are, .vhich I cannot explain, 
 Though doubtless he who can comma nd himself 
 
 s good to govern almost as a Guelf
 
 >96 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO III 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Not that he was not sometimes rash o.' 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 no blood, 
 
 But in his silence there was much to rue, 
 
 And his one blow left, little work for two. 
 
 XLIX. 
 He'ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
 
 On to the house, but by a private way, 
 So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
 
 So little they expected him that day ; 
 If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
 
 For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 
 But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, 
 This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 
 
 L. 
 
 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 whate'er 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. 
 
 LI. 
 He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
 
 A thing to human feelings the most trying, 
 And harder for the heart to overcome 
 
 Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying ; 
 To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 
 
 And round its once warm precincts palely lying 
 The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 
 Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 
 
 LII. 
 
 He enter'd in the house his home no more, 
 
 For without hearts 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 undented. 
 
 LIII. 
 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 
 
 For something better, if not wholly good ; 
 His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 
 Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 
 
 LIV. 
 The .eve of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
 
 The hardness by long habitude produced 
 The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
 
 The mercy he had granted oft abused, 
 Tlic eights he was accustom'd to behold, 
 
 T!ie wild seas and wilu men with whom he cruised, 
 Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 
 And ina 'if; nim a food frier.d, but bad acquaintance. 
 
 LV. 
 
 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 : 
 
 'T is true he had no ardent love for peace ; 
 Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 
 
 Hate to the world and war with every nation 
 
 He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
 Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 
 
 Its power 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 crystals, and a joy in flowers, 
 
 Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 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 anf 1 sc^n, 
 
 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 blindnes*. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
 Is 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 si><" 'jy its own shock, 
 
 Than the stern, single, aeep, and wordless ire 
 
 Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 It is a hard, although a common case, 
 
 To find our children running restive they 
 In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
 
 Our little selves reform'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. 
 
 LX. 
 Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 
 
 (Provided they don't come in after dinner); 
 'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 
 
 Her children up (if nursing them don't thin he* t 
 Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 
 
 To the fireside (a sight to touch a sinner). 
 A lady with her daughter or her nieces 
 Shine 5ke a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 
 
 LXI. 
 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 most 
 Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costiv
 
 CANTO 111. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 597 
 
 LXII. 
 The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 
 
 Lamb anu 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
 And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 
 
 And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 
 
 In small fine China cups came in at last 
 
 Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 
 
 The hand from burning, underneath them placed ; 
 
 Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too, were boil'd 
 
 Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
 Of velvet panels, each of different hue, 
 
 And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid : 
 And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
 
 The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
 Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
 
 Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
 
 From poets, or the moralists their betters. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 These oriental writings on the wall, 
 
 Quite common in those countries, are a kind 
 
 Of monitors, adapted to recall, 
 
 Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 
 
 The words which shook Be'.shazzar 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. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
 
 A genius who has drunk himself to death, 
 A rake turn'd methodistic or eclectic 
 
 (For that's the name they like to pray beneath) 
 But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
 
 Are things that really take away the breath, 
 And show that late hours, wine, and love, are able 
 To do not much less damage than the table. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 
 
 On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 
 Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
 
 Of the apartment and appeal 'd quite new; 
 The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) 
 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowng centre grew 
 A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 
 Meridian-like, were seen all light 'o issue. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
 
 Had done their work of splendour, Indian mats 
 And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, 
 
 Over tlie floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like thinffs, that gain 
 
 Their bread as ministers and favourites (that's 
 To say, by degradation) mingled there 
 As plentiful as in a court or fair. 
 3D 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 
 
 The tables, 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 sprea* 
 With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine 
 Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidee's: 
 
 She wore two jelicks one was of pale yellow ; 
 
 Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow , 
 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 
 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 
 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
 Lockless 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. 1 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd, 3 
 
 Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; har veil's fine *ola 
 
 Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be tola ; 
 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 
 
 About the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 
 Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the 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. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 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 ere she grew a wife 
 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 Her overpowering presence made "cu feel 
 It would not ue idolatry to kneel. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tingtAi 
 (It is the country's custom), but in vain; 
 
 Frr those large black eyes were so blackly frinpeo, 
 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 co< ild not look more rosy tb in oefor*
 
 598 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 LANTO 11} 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The henna should be deep!/ 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." 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
 
 But a white baracan, and so transparent, 
 The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
 
 Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 
 His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 
 
 An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 
 Surmounted as its clasp a glowing crescent, 
 Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 And now they were diverted by their suite, 
 Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 
 
 Which made their new establishment complete ; 
 The last was of great fame, and liked to show it : 
 
 His verses rarely wanted their due feet 
 And for his theme he seldom sung below it, 
 
 He being paid to satirize or flatter, 
 
 As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 He praised the present and abused the past, 
 Reversing the good custom of old days, 
 
 An eastern anti-jacobin at last 
 He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise 
 
 For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
 By his seeming independent in his lays, 
 
 But now he sung the Sultan ana the Pacha, 
 
 With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 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 with such a fervour of intention 
 There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 But he had genius when a turncoat has it 
 
 The " vales irritabilis " takes care 
 That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 
 
 Even good men like to make the public stare: 
 But to my subject let me see what was it ? 
 
 Oh ! the third canto and the pretty pair 
 Tnoir loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode 
 Oi living in their insular abode. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Their noet. a sad trimmer, but no less 
 
 In company a very pleasant fellow, 
 Had been the favourite of full many a mess 
 
 Ot' men, and made them speeches when half mellow; 
 And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 
 
 Y.t sun they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
 I'hr gtonous meed of popular applause, 
 'f winch the first ne'er knows the second cause. 
 
 Lxxxni 
 
 But now being lifted into high scj-.-ty, 
 
 And having pick'd up se/erzJ jdds and ends 
 
 Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety, 
 
 He deem'd, being in a lone isle among fiiends, 
 
 That without any danger of a riot, hs 
 
 Might for long lying make himself amends , 
 
 And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, 
 
 Agree to a short armistice with truth. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 He had travell'd 'monostlhe Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
 And knew the self-loves of the different nations . 
 And, having lived with people of all ranki, 
 
 Had something ready upon most occasions- 
 Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
 
 He varied with some skill his adulations ; 
 To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
 Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sins, 
 
 He gave the different nations something national ; 
 
 'T was all the same to him " God save the King," 
 Or " Ca i'ro," according to the fashion all ; 
 
 His muse made increment of any thing, 
 From the high lyrical to the low rational : 
 
 If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 
 
 Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 
 
 In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
 In Spain, he 'd make a ballad or romance on 
 
 The last war much the same in Portugal ; 
 In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 
 
 Would be old Goethe's (see what says de StaS I 
 In Italy, he 'd ape the " Trecentist! ;" 
 In 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 Bless d." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I drcam'd that Greece might still be free ; 
 
 For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 And men in nations ; all were his ! 
 
 He counted tnem at break of day 
 And when thr sun set, where were thf1
 
 t'.JNTO III. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 Tht 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 bless'd ? 
 
 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 Thermopylae. 
 
 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, we come ! " 
 'T is 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 vine ! 
 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. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 The Heracleidan blood mijjht own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks 
 They have a king who buys and sells. 
 
 fn native swords, and native ranks, 
 The only hop' of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins rf^ce 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 Sunium's marbled steep 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 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 dene much worse : 
 
 His strain display'd some feeling right or wrong ; 
 And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
 
 Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, 
 
 And take all colours like the hands of dyers. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 But words are things, and a small drop of ink 
 
 Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think 
 
 'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses, 
 Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
 
 Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
 Frail man, when paper even a rag like this, 
 Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
 
 His station, generation, even his nation, 
 Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
 
 In chronological commemoration, 
 Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 
 
 Or graven stone found in a barrack's station, 
 In digging the foundation of a closet, 
 May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 
 
 XC. 
 
 And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
 
 'T is 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 Marl borough's skill in giving knock*, 
 Until his late Life by Archdeaco.i Coxe. 
 
 XCI. 
 Milton 's the prince of poets so we say ; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
 An independent being in ms day 
 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine , 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way, 
 
 We're told this great high uriest of ail tho Nirw 
 Was whipt at college a harsh sire odd spouse. 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.
 
 BOO 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 7/1 
 
 XC1I. 
 
 All thjse 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. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 AH are not moralists like Southey, when 
 He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy ;" 
 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
 Season'd his pedlar po".ms with democracy ; 
 
 Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
 Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 
 
 When he and Southey, following the same path, 
 
 Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 
 
 XCIV. 
 Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
 
 Tnc very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 
 Their loyal treason, renegado vigour, 
 
 Are good manure for their more bare biography. 
 Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
 
 Than any since the birth-day of typography : 
 \ clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 
 \Vrit in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 He there builds up a formidable dyke 
 
 Between his own and others' intellect; 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followere, like 
 
 Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, 
 Are things which in this century don't strike 
 
 The public mind, so few are the elect ; 
 And the new births of both their stale virginities 
 Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 
 
 XCV'I. 
 But let me to my story : I must own, 
 
 If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
 Leaving my people to proceed alone, 
 
 While I soliloquize beyond expression; 
 But these are my addresses from the throne, 
 
 Which put off business to the ensuing session: 
 Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
 The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 I kiiow that what our neighbours call "longueurs" 
 
 (We've not so good a word, but have the thing 
 In that complete perfection which insures 
 
 An epic from Bob Southey every spring) 
 Form not the true temptation which allures 
 
 The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring 
 Some tine examples of the 6pap6e, 
 Io piovu its grand ingredient is ennui. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 \Ve leam from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps ; 
 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes 
 To show with what complacency he creeps, 
 
 vVith his dear "Waggoners," around his lakes; 
 He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps 
 
 Ol ocean? no, of air; and then he makes 
 Another ouicrv for " a little boat," 
 And drive's stas to set it well afloat. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 f he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his " waggon," 
 ould he not beg the loan of Charles's wain? 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
 
 )r 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, 
 ould not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 
 
 C. 
 
 'Pedlars," and "boats," and "waggons ! " Oh ! ye shade* 
 Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 
 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
 
 Tloats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
 Of sense and song above your graves may hiss- 
 
 Phe " little boatman " and his " Peter Bell " 
 sneer at him who drew " Achitophel !" 
 
 CI. 
 
 T' our tale. The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 
 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
 And every sound of revelry expired ; 
 
 The lady and her lover, left alone, 
 
 The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; 
 
 Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 
 
 That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest theel 
 
 CII. 
 
 Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
 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 stirr'd with prayer 
 
 cm. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is thx; hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is 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 't is but a pictured image strike 
 That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 
 
 CIV. 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
 
 In nameless print that I have no devotion ; 
 But set those persons down with me to pray, 
 
 And you shall see who has the properest notion 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
 Earth, air, stars, all that springs from the great whole, 
 Who hath produced, and will receive the soUi. 
 
 cv. 
 
 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 Caesarean fortress stood, 
 Ever-green forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thefe!
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 GO 
 
 CVI. 
 
 The slirill cicalas, people of the pine, 
 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
 And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Gnesu'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. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Oh Hesperus !* thou bringest all good things 
 % Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 To the young bird ihe parent's brooding wings, 
 
 The welcome stall to the o'eilabour'd steer; 
 Whate'er of peace about our rearthstone clings, 
 
 Whate'er our household gol-t protect of dear, 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, fo the mother's breast. 
 
 CVII1. 
 
 Soft hour ! 6 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 fitls with love the pilgrim on his way, 
 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 
 
 CIX. 
 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, 
 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 
 
 Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb :' 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 
 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 ex. 
 
 But I 'm digressing : what on earth has Nero, 
 
 Or any such 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). 
 
 CXI. 
 I feel this tediousness will never do 
 
 'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 
 (In copying) this long canto into two : 
 
 They '11 never find it out, unless I own 
 The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
 
 And ihcn as an improvement 'twill be shown: 
 I '11 prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 
 From Aristotle passim. See TIoiijTiKijs. 
 
 3u2 
 
 81 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 i. 
 
 NOTHING 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 hurlM from heaven for sinning ; 
 
 Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
 Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
 Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 
 
 II. 
 But time, which brings all beings to their level, 
 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
 
 And wish'd that others held the same opinion 
 
 They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
 And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 
 
 Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
 Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, 
 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
 
 Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 
 
 rv. 
 
 And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
 
 'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
 'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
 
 Itself to apathy, which we must steep 
 First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, 
 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep , 
 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 
 A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 
 
 V. 
 Some have accused me of a strange design 
 
 Against the creed and morals of the land, 
 And trace it in this poem every line : 
 
 I don't pretend that I quite understand 
 My own meaning when I would be very fine ; 
 
 But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 
 Unless it was 'to be a moment meiry, 
 A novel word in my vocabulary. 
 
 VI. 
 
 To the kind reader of our sober clime 
 This way of writing will appear exotic ; 
 
 Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
 Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotit , 
 
 And reveil'd in the fancies of the time, 
 
 True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings * 
 potic ; 
 
 But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
 
 1 chose a modern subject as more meet.
 
 002 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How I have treated it, I do not know 
 
 Perhaps no better than they have treated me 
 
 Who have imputed such designs as show, 
 
 Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see ; 
 
 Ujt if it gives them pleasure, be it so, 
 T lis is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 
 
 Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
 
 And tells me to resume my story here. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
 To their own hearts' most sweet society; 
 
 Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 
 
 With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 
 
 Si< T h'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
 Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 
 
 Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, 
 
 Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 
 
 IX. 
 
 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 They 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 
 
 XI. 
 
 The heart which may be broken : happy they ! 
 
 Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile mould, 
 The precious porcelain of human clay, 
 
 Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
 '1 he long year link'd with heavy day on day, 
 
 And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
 While life's strange principle will often lie 
 Deepest in those who long the most to die. 
 
 XII. 
 " Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, 1 
 
 And many deaths do they escape by this : 
 The death of friends, aivl, that which slays even more 
 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
 
 Awaits 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 Haidec and Juan thought not of the dead ; 
 
 The heavens, uid earth, and air, seem'd made for them: 
 ^ hey found no fault with time, save that he fled ; 
 
 They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: 
 P.ach was tne other's mirror, and but read 
 
 Joy sparking in their dark eyes like a gem, 
 And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
 Of tt.oir exchanging glances of affection. 
 
 xrv. 
 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
 The least glance better understood than worus. 
 
 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 sucn 
 As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
 
 Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
 
 To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 flower*, 
 
 And never know the weight of human hours. 
 
 *XVI. 
 
 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 cloyi ; 
 
 For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
 By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 
 
 Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 
 
 A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know. 
 
 Enough. The faithful and the fairy pair, 
 Who never found a single hour 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 This is in othei-s a factitious state, 
 
 An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
 But was in them their nature or their fate ; 
 
 No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
 For 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. 
 
 XX. 
 They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour 
 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
 For it had made them 'vhat they were : the powet 
 
 Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies 
 When happiness had been their only dower. 
 
 And twilight saw them link'd in pa>t, on's tics ; 
 Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
 The past still well ome as the present though*.
 
 CAXTO IV 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 60.S 
 
 XXI. 
 
 1 know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
 Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 
 
 And swept, as 'l were, 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 That 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
 Which makes not others smile ; then inrn'd aside : 
 
 Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
 And master'd 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 snail not survive to see." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Jjan 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 that fond kiss ; 
 
 And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best: 
 Some people prefer wine 't is not amiss : 
 
 [ have tried both ; so those who would a part take 
 
 May choose between the head-ache and the heart-ache. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 One of the two, according to your choice, 
 
 Women or wine, you 'II have to undergo ; 
 Both maladies are ta.xes 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 belter to have both than neither. 
 
 XXVI. 
 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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
 
 Why did they n^ t^en die ? they .had lived too long, 
 Should an hour comt .o bid them breathe apart; 
 
 Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong, 
 The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
 
 Fu* beings passionate as Sappho's song; 
 Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 
 f. >vas (heir very spirit not a sense. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 They should have lived together deep in woods 
 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
 Unfit to mix in these->thick solitudes 
 
 Call'd social, where all vice and hatred are: 
 How lonely every freeborn 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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
 
 Haidee and Juan their s^sta 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 : 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
 
 Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 
 Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream, 
 
 The mystical usurper of the mind 
 O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
 
 Good to the soul which we no more can bind , 
 Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 
 Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 
 
 XXXI. 
 She dream'd -of being alone on the sea-shore, 
 
 Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stu 
 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 fierce and high 
 Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 
 
 XXXII. 
 Anon she was released, and then she stray'd 
 
 O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 
 And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
 
 And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 
 Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid ; 
 
 'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to met 
 Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
 And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 The dream changed : in a cave she stood, its walls 
 
 Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 
 
 Where waves might wash, and seals might bretd and 
 
 lurk ; 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
 
 Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and rnu* 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
 Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
 
 Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
 Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
 
 Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now ' i 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
 
 Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges low 
 Rang in her ad ears like a mermaid's song. 
 And that brief dream appcar'd a life too IMIJ.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANltf 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
 Faded, or al'er'd into something new 
 
 Like to her father's features, till each trace 
 More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew 
 
 With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
 And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 
 
 Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she there? 
 
 'T is 't is her father's fix'd upon the pair ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
 With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 
 
 Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
 The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 
 
 Perchance the death of one she loved too well ; 
 Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 
 
 It was a moment of that awful kind 
 
 I have seen such but must not call to mind. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Up Juan sprung to Haidee'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." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is 
 'T is Lambro 't is my father ! Kneel with me 
 
 He will forgive us yes it must be yes. 
 Oh ! dsarest 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." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Hip.h and inscrutable the old man stood, 
 
 Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye 
 Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
 
 He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 
 Then turned 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. 
 
 XL. 
 "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." 
 
 Ther. look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
 T was fresh for he had lately used the lock 
 And next proceeded quietly to cock. 
 
 XLI. . 
 
 It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
 
 Thai cocking of a pistol, when you know 
 A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
 
 Upon vour person, twelve yards off, or so ; 
 A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
 
 If you have got a former friend for (be ; 
 Hat afte- being fired at once or twice, 
 TW ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Lambro presented, and one instant more 
 
 Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breatn, 
 
 When Haidee threw herself her boy before, 
 
 Stern as her sire: " On me," she cried, " let dcati 
 
 Descend the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
 
 He found but sought not. I have pledged my faith; 
 
 I love him I will die with him : I knew 
 
 Your nature's firmness know your daughter's too." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
 And tenderness, and infancy : but now 
 
 She stood as one who champion'd human fears 
 Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow ; 
 
 And tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 
 She drew up to her height, 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 
 How like they look'd ! the expression was the samej 
 
 Serenely savage, with a little change 
 
 In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 
 
 For she too was as one who could avenge, 
 If cause should be a lioness, though tame : 
 
 Her father's blood before her father's face 
 
 Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 I said they were alike, their features and 
 Their stature differing but in sex and years; 
 
 Even to the delicacy of their 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, 
 
 Show what the passions are in their full growth. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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 7," 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 duly how thou hast 
 Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 
 
 XLVII. 
 " 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." 
 
 XLVHI. 
 Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
 
 His daughter ; while compress'd within his grasp, 
 'Twist 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 ; sare the foremost, who 
 Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through.
 
 L'ANTO IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 XLIX. 
 The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
 
 The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 
 The blow* 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. 
 
 L. 
 
 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. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The world i? full of strange vicissitudes, 
 And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 
 
 A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 
 
 Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 
 
 Just at the very time when he least broods 
 On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 
 
 Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 
 
 And all because a lady fell in love. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Here I n.ust leave him, for I grow pathetic, 
 Moved by the Chinese nymph of .ears, 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: 
 
 'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, 
 
 For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 
 
 MIL 
 
 Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac! 
 
 Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
 f> 
 
 Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 
 
 And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill 1 
 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 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 1 
 She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
 
 And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 
 tier mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
 Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 
 
 LV. 
 .There the large olive rains its amber store 
 
 In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 
 Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 
 
 But there too many a poison-tree has root, 
 And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 
 
 And long, kng deserts scorch the camel's foot, 
 Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan, 
 ind as the soil is, so the heart of man. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
 Her human clay is^ kindled : full of power 
 
 For good or evil, bur-'Sng 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. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 
 
 Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 
 
 Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
 Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 
 
 Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
 But, overwrought with passion and despair, 
 
 The fire bursl forth from her Numidian veins, 
 
 Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
 And he himself o'ormaster'd and cut down ; 
 
 His blood was running a-, the very floor 
 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own : 
 
 Thus much she vie.w'd an instant and no more^ 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 
 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 A vein had burst,* and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 
 
 And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids, DCM 
 
 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 Kfe could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Days lay she in that stain unchanged, though chill, 
 
 With 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 
 
 All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred 
 New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul, 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 LXI. 
 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 Gladiators air, 
 Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
 Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 
 
 LXII. 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 
 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd something ne*, 
 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 tries 
 Brought back the sense of pain without the causa. 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause.
 
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 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO I\ 
 
 xci. 
 
 They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 
 
 Waiting for his sublimity's firman 
 T!iC 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 chained and lotted out per couple 
 For the slave-market of Constantinople. 
 
 XCI1. 
 
 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 doom'd to be male, 
 
 They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
 Were link'd together, and if happen'd the male 
 
 Was Juan, who an awkward thing at his age 
 
 I'air'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 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 esl blackguards both. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 
 
 But bred within the March of old Ancona, 
 
 With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 
 (And other chief points of a " bella donna"), 
 
 Bright and as black and burning as a coal ; 
 And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 
 
 Great wish to please a most attractive dower, 
 
 Especially when added to the power. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 But all that power was wasted upon him, 
 
 For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 
 Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
 
 And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
 rouch'd his, nor that nor any handsome limb 
 
 (And she had some not easy to withstand) 
 Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle ; 
 Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 
 
 XCVI. 
 No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
 
 But facts are facts, no knight could be more true, 
 And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
 
 We will omit the proofs, save one or two. 
 Tis said no one in hand "can hold a fire 
 
 By thought of frosty Caucasus," but few 
 I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
 Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Ilt-re i might enter on a chaste description, 
 
 Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
 But hear that several people take exception 
 
 At the first two oooks having too much truth ; 
 Therefore I '" make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 
 
 Because 'the publisher declares, in sooth, 
 Iliroueh needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
 lo pass, than .hose two cantos into families. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 'Tis all the same to rm>, I'm fond of yielding, 
 
 And therefore leave them lo the 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* 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble , 
 But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
 
 Leaving such to the literary rabble. 
 Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 
 
 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. 
 
 C. 
 
 Of poets, who come down to us through distance 
 Of time and tongues, the foster-babes "f fame, 
 
 Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
 Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
 
 "T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
 From every flake, and yet rolls on th" same, 
 
 Even ti'.l an iceberg it may chance to grow, 
 
 But after all 't is nothing but cold snow. 
 
 CI. 
 
 And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 
 And love of glory 's but an airy lust, 
 
 Too often in its fury overcoming all 
 
 Who would, as 't were, identify their dust 
 
 From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all 
 Leaves nothing till the coming of the just 
 
 Save change : I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
 
 And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 
 
 CII. 
 
 The very generations of the dead 
 
 Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 
 Until the memory of an age is fled, 
 
 And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom . 
 Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? 
 
 Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, 
 Which once-named myriads nameless he beneath, 
 And lose their own in universal death. 
 
 CHI. 
 I canter by the spot each afternoon 
 
 Where perish 'd in his fame the hrro-boy, 
 Who lived too long for men, but dicJ too soon 
 
 For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 
 A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn, 
 
 But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 
 Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 
 While weeds and ordure rankle -ound the base. 4 
 
 CIV. 
 I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 
 
 A little cupola, more neat tl an 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'u, 
 
 The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume. 
 Will sink where lie the songs and w.'irs of cans. 
 Before Pelides' death or Homer's b,' th.
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 609 
 
 cv. 
 
 With human blood that column was cemented, 
 With human filth that column is defiled, 
 
 As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented, 
 To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'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 sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Yet there will still be bards ; though fame is smoke, 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; 
 
 And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
 
 Song in the world, will seek what then they sought ; 
 
 As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
 Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, 
 
 Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
 
 Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 [f in the course of such a life as was 
 At once adventurous and contemplative, 
 
 Men who partake all passions as they pass, 
 Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
 
 Their images again, as in a glass, 
 And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
 
 You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
 
 But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 
 
 Benign, ceruleans of the second sex ! 
 Who advertise new poems by your looks, 
 
 Your "imprimatur" will ye not annex? 
 What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, 
 
 Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
 Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be 
 Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea? 
 
 CIX. 
 
 What, can I prove " a lion " then no more ? 
 
 A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
 To bear the compliments of many a bore, 
 
 And sigh " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling. 
 Why then I '11 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. 
 
 CX. 
 
 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 
 have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
 Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
 
 Round the patrician left-iegs, which adorn 
 
 The festal midnight and the levee morn. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Yc aome of you are most seraphic creatures 
 But limes are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 
 
 You read my stanzas, and I read your features: 
 And but no matter, all those thing? are over ; 
 
 Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 
 For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; 
 
 I Know one woman of that purple school, 
 
 The loveliest, chastest, best, but quite a fool. 
 3E 82 
 
 CXII. 
 
 lumbo dt, " the first of travellers," but not 
 The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
 
 nvented, by some mime I have forgot, 
 As well as the suU'me discovery's date, 
 
 \n airy instrument, with which he sought 
 To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
 
 Jy measuring " the intensity of blue ." 
 
 )h, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 Jut to the narrative. The vessel bound 
 With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
 After the usual process, might be found 
 At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
 ler cargo, from the plague being safe and SOUIIL', 
 
 Were landed in the market, one and all, 
 And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
 Sought up for different purposes and passions. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Some went off dearly : fifteen hundred dollars 
 For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 
 
 rVarranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 
 Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven: 
 
 ler sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, 
 Who bade on till the hundreds rsach'd eleven; 
 
 But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
 
 T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
 Which the West-Indian market scarce would bring ; 
 
 Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
 What 'twas ere abolition; and the thing 
 eed not seem very wonderful, for vice 
 Is always much more splendid than a king: 
 
 The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 
 
 Are saving vice spares nothing for a rarity. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 But for the destiny of this young troop, 
 How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, 
 
 How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
 And others rose to the command of crews 
 
 As renegadoes ; while 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. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 All this must be reserved for further song; 
 
 Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
 (Because this canto has become too long), 
 
 Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 
 I ':n sensible redundancy is wrong. 
 
 But could not for the muse of me put less ji p 
 And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
 Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan.
 
 610 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 r. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 i. 
 
 WHEX amatory poets sing their lores 
 
 In I'quid 1 nes mellifluously bland, 
 And praiie Jieir 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 with due severity, 
 Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 
 
 II. 
 [ therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
 
 Except in such a way as not to attract ; 
 Plain simple short, and by no means inviting, 
 
 But with a moral to each error tack'd, 
 Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
 
 And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 
 Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 
 This poem will become a moral model. 
 
 III. 
 The European with the Asian shore 
 
 Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream,' 
 Ilere 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 I could dream, 
 F;ir less describe, present the very view 
 Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 
 
 For once it was a magic sound to me, 
 And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
 
 Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
 A d foelings changed, bat this was last to vary, 
 
 A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: 
 But I grow sad and let a tale grow cold, 
 Which must not be pathetically told. 
 
 V. 
 The wind swept down the Euxine and the wave 
 
 Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 
 Tts a grand sight, from oft' " 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. 
 
 VI. 
 T wa a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
 
 When nights are equal, but not so the days; 
 Che Parcse then cut short the further spinning 
 
 Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
 The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
 
 In all who o'er the great deet> take their ways: 
 They vow 10 amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 
 Because if drown'd, they can't if spared, they won't. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A crowd if shivering slaves of every nation, 
 And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 
 
 Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
 
 Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly change 1 
 
 All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 
 From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged t 
 
 The negroes more philosophy display'd, 
 
 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 
 
 As most at his age are, of hope, and he&Ith ; 
 
 Yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 
 And now and then a tear stole down by stealth; 
 
 Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
 His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 
 
 A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 
 
 To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
 Upon the whole his carriage was serene: 
 
 His figure, and the splendour of his dress, 
 
 Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 
 
 Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
 He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 
 
 And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 
 
 And then they calculated on liis ransom. 
 
 X. 
 
 Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 
 
 With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale! 
 
 Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
 
 Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 
 
 It chanced, amongst the other people lotted, 
 A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 
 
 V\ ith resolution in his dark-gray eye, 
 
 Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He had an English IOOK ; that is, was square 
 
 In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 
 Good teeth, with curling rather dark-brown hair, 
 
 And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 
 An open brow a little mark'd with care : 
 
 One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 
 And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greatet 
 Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 
 
 XII. 
 But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 
 
 Of a high spirit evidently, though 
 At present weioh'd down by a doom which had 
 
 O'erthrown even men, he soon b^gan to show 
 A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
 
 Lot of so young a partner in the woe, 
 Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
 Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 
 
 XIII. 
 "Mybov!" said he, "amidst this motley crew 
 
 Of Georgians, Russian?, Nubians, and vhi.t 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 oug', t : 
 If I could yield you any consolation, 
 'T would give me pleasure. Pray, what is yi wr naiio*) 7 *
 
 CAXfO V. 
 
 DOX JUAN. 
 
 61 
 
 XIV. 
 
 When Juan answer' d "Spanish!" he replied, 
 44 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, 
 
 Hut that's her way with all men til! they're tried: 
 But never mind, she "J turn, perhaps, next week ; 
 
 She has served me also much the same as you, 
 
 Except that I have found it nothing new." 
 
 XV. 
 
 u Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 
 
 IVhat brought you here?" "Oh! nothing very rare 
 
 Six Tartars and a drag-chain " " To this doom 
 
 By what conducted, if the question 's fair, 
 
 Is that which I would learn." " I served for some 
 Months with the Russian army here and there, 
 
 And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
 
 A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widin." 
 
 XVL 
 
 "Have you no friends? " "I had but,by God's blessing, 
 Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
 
 ( have answer'd all your questions without pressing, 
 And you an equal courtesy should show." 
 
 "Alas!" said Juan, " 't were a tale distressing, 
 And long besides." " Oh ! if 't is really so, 
 
 You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
 
 A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 
 
 XVII. 
 " But droop not : Fortune, at your lime 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 : 
 Hen are the sport of circumstances, when 
 The circumstances seem the sport of men." 
 
 XVIII. 
 44 'T is not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
 
 I mourn, but for the past; I loved a maid:" 
 He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 
 
 A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
 A moment, and then dropp'd ; u but to resume, 
 
 'T is not my present lot, as I have said, 
 Which I deplore so much ; for J have borne 
 Hardships which hare the hardiest overworn, 
 
 XIX. 
 44 On the rough deep. But this last blow " and here 
 
 He stopp'd again, and turn'd awa\ 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 wifS's dying day, 
 And also when my second ran away : 
 
 XX. 
 44 My ihird" "Your third !" quoth Juan, turning round ; 
 
 " You scarcely can be thirty : have you three ?" 
 44 No only two at present above ground : 
 
 Surelv 't is nothing wonderful to see 
 One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 
 
 " Wei!, then, your third," said Juan ; " what did she? 
 She did nox tun away, too, did she, sir?" 
 No, faith." " What then?" "I ran away from her." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. Why," 
 
 Replied the other, " what ra n i man do 7 
 There still are many r : nhows :n your SKY. 
 
 But rnb:e ha^e va/.ish'd. All, when life is new, 
 Commence wit&Seeiings warm and prospects higfc ; 
 
 But time strips our illusions of their hue. 
 And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
 Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 
 
 XXII. 
 " 'T is 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, giory, glue 
 The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 
 Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 
 
 XXIIL 
 u 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 win allow, 
 By setting things in their right point of view, 
 
 Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now, 
 We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
 May teach us better to behave when masters." 
 
 XXIV. 
 u Would we were masters now, if but to try 
 
 Their present lessons on our pagan friends here," 
 Said Juan swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
 
 " Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune send* 
 
 here 1" 
 " Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 
 
 Rejom'd the other, " when our bad luck mends here. 
 Meantime (von old black eunuch seems to eye us) 
 I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us ! 
 
 XXV. 
 " But after all, what is our present state ? 
 
 'T is bad, and may be better all men's lot . 
 Most men cr slaves, none more so than the great, 
 
 To their own whims and passions, and what nut ; 
 Society itself, which should create 
 
 Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
 To feel for none is the true social art 
 Of the worH's stoics men without a heart " 
 
 XXVL 
 Just now % black old neutral personage 
 
 Of thf third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 
 The captives, seemM to mark their looks, and age, 
 
 And capabilities, as to discover 
 If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
 
 No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 
 Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor. 
 Fee by a counsel, feloa by a jailor, 
 
 XXVII. 
 As is a slave by his intended bidder. 
 
 *T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creature* , 
 And ali are to be sold, if you consider 
 
 Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by feature* 
 Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 
 
 Some by a place as tend their years cr naturw , 
 The most by readv cash but all have prices, 
 From crowns to kicks, according to their now.
 
 612 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
 Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 
 
 First but for one, and after for the pair ; 
 They haggled, wrangled, swore, too so they did ! 
 
 A* though they were in a mere Christian fair, 
 Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 
 
 So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
 
 For this superior yoke of human cattle. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
 And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
 
 Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
 Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
 
 And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, 
 Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
 
 And then the merchant, giving change and signing 
 
 Receipts in full, began to think of (lining. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 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 oppress'd one, 
 I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
 Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Voltaire says "No;" he tells you that Candide 
 Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
 
 lie 's wrong unless man was a pig, indeed, 
 Repletior. 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); 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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, 
 
 Cu.n give us either pain or pleasure, who 
 Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
 Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The other evening ('t was on Friday last) 
 
 This is a fact, and no poetic fable 
 Just as my great coat was about me cast, 
 
 My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
 I heard a shot 'twas eight o'clock scarce past 
 
 And running out as fast as I was able, 3 
 > loutiit the military commandant 
 b'retch'd in tne street, and able scarce to pant. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
 
 They had slain him with five slugs ; and left, him there 
 i'o parish on the pavement: so I had 
 
 Him borne into the house and up 'he stair, 
 And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 
 
 More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 
 the man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
 Kill il by five buLels from an old gun-barrel. 4 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 
 
 And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
 Saw one, whom such an accident befell, 
 
 So calm ; though pierced through stomach, heart 
 
 and liver, 
 He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 
 
 (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
 Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: 
 So as I gazed on him, I thought or said 
 
 XXXVI. 
 "Can this be death? then what is life or death? 
 
 Speak!" but he spoke not: "wake!" but still he slept: 
 But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? 
 
 A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
 In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, 
 
 1 Go,' and he goeth ; * come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
 The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb 
 And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And they who waited once and worshipp'd they 
 
 With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 
 To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 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 ; 
 
 XXXIX. 
 But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 
 
 And there we go : but ishere 1 five bits of lead, 
 Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
 
 And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 
 Can every element our elements mar? 
 
 And air earth water fire live and we dead ? 
 We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more . 
 But let us to the story as before. 
 
 XL. 
 The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
 
 Bore off his, bargains to a gilded boat, 
 Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 
 
 As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
 They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
 
 Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
 Up in a little creek below a wall 
 O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 
 
 XLI. 
 Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
 
 Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and 
 He led them onward, first through a low thicket 
 
 Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either haml- 
 They almost lost their way, and had to pick it 
 
 For night was closing ere they came to la^ 
 The eunuch made a sign to those on board. 
 Who row'd off, leaving them without a w <rc
 
 6ANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 613 
 
 XLII. 
 
 As they were plodding on their winding way, 
 Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth, 
 
 (Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
 There being no such profusion in the North 
 
 Of oriental plants, " et caetera," 
 
 But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
 
 Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 
 
 Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks) : 
 
 XLin. 
 
 As they were threading on their way, there came 
 Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 
 
 Whisper'd to his companion : 't was the same 
 Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 
 
 ' Methinks," said he "it would be no great shame 
 If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 
 
 Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head, 
 
 And march away 'twere easier done than said." 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 * Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 
 
 How get 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. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 tt We must be near some place of man's abode ; 
 
 For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 
 With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
 
 Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; 
 A single cry would bring them all abroad : 
 
 'T is therefore better looking before leaping 
 And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 
 By Jove, a noble palace ! lighted too." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 "t 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 
 
 The arts of which these lands were once the font : 
 
 Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 
 
 New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 
 
 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." 
 
 XLYIII. 
 
 Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
 Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 
 
 The last of these was never much the fashion, 
 For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 
 
 Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
 But more or less continue still to tease on, 
 
 With arguments according to their "forte;" 
 
 Bui no one ever dreams of being short. 
 3x2 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But I digress : of all appeals, although 
 I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 
 
 Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, no 
 
 Method 's mor%sure at moments to take hokl 
 
 Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
 More tender, as we every day behold, 
 
 Than that all-softening, o'erpowering knell, 
 
 The tocsin of the soul the dinner-bell. 
 
 L. , 
 
 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 barcA 
 And gazed around them to the left and right 
 With the prophetic eye of appetite. 
 
 LI. 
 
 And giving up all notions of resistance, 
 
 They foilow'd close behind their sabje guide, 
 
 Who little thought that his own crac*'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, 't was open'd mde, 
 
 And a magnificent large hall display'd 
 
 The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade,. 
 
 LH. 
 
 I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
 But every fool describes in these bright days 
 
 His wond'rous journey to some foreign court. 
 And spawns his quarto, anu 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, illustrations 
 
 LIII. 
 
 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.* 
 
 LIV. 
 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, 
 
 Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
 Some nodded to the negro from their station, 
 But no one troubled him with conversation. 
 
 LV. 
 He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping 
 
 On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 
 Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, 
 
 A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
 Of night, which robe the chamber, or where penning 
 
 Some female head most curiously piesumes 
 To thrust its black eyes through the door 01 .a 
 As wondering what the devil noise that is.
 
 CI4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
 Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
 
 But not enough to show the imperial halls 
 In all the flashing of their full array ; 
 
 Perhaps there 's nothing I '11 not say appals, 
 But saddens more by night as well as day, 
 
 Than an enormous room without a soul 
 
 To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Two or three seem so litVle, one seems nothing : 
 In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
 
 There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
 The spots which were her realms for evermore: 
 
 But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
 More modern buildings and those built of yore, 
 
 A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 
 
 Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A. neat, snug study on a winter's night, 
 A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
 
 Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 
 Are things which make an English evening pass ; 
 
 Though certes by no means so grand a sight 
 As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
 
 I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
 
 A nd that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little: 
 I grant you in a church 'tis very well : 
 
 What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
 But strong and lasting, till no tongue can toll 
 
 Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill 
 And huge tombs worse mankind, since Adam fell : 
 
 Metliinks the story of the tower of Babel 
 
 Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
 A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 
 
 Where Nabuchadonoso'r, king of men, 
 Reign'd, till one summer's Jay he took to grazing, 
 
 And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
 The people's awe and admiration raising ; 
 
 T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 
 
 And the calumniated Queen Semiramis. 
 LXI. 
 
 LXH. 
 
 Bix to resume, should there be (what may not 
 Be in these days ? ) some infidels, who don't, 
 
 Because they can't find out the very spot 
 Of that same Babel, or because they won't 
 
 lThou<;h C.audius Rich, esquir , some bricks has get, 
 And written laiely two memoirs upon 't), 
 
 Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 
 
 Must bf be.ievecl, though they believe not you : 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Yet let them think that Horace has express'U 
 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 .as* 
 A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 
 
 And " Et scpulcri immemor struis domos" 
 
 Shows that we build when we should but entomb us 
 
 LX1V. 
 
 At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
 *Vhere 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. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 It seem'd however, but to open on 
 
 A range or suite of further chambers, which 
 
 Might lead to heaven knows where ; but in th ^ 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. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The black, however, without hardly deigning 
 
 A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonaer. 
 
 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 which you may see 
 
 Or if you don't, the fault is not in me : 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 I wish to be perspicuous : and the black, 
 
 I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 
 A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
 
 Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
 And of variety there was no lack 
 
 And yet, though I have said there was no dearth 
 He chose himself to point out what he thought 
 Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 The suit he thought most suitable to each 
 
 Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
 A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 
 
 And trowsers not so tight that they would burs' 
 But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
 
 A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nursl 
 Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 
 In short, all things which form a Turkisk dandy. 
 
 LXIX. 
 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, 
 " 'T would greatly tend to better their condJ' ton, 
 If they would condescend to circumcision.
 
 CM.YTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " 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, thanking him for this excess 
 Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 
 
 In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
 " Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 
 Of ill the customs of this polish' d nation. 
 
 LXXI. 
 44 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." 
 14 Will it ?" said Juan, sharply ; " Strike me dead, 
 Jlut they as soon shall circumcise my head 
 
 LXXII. 
 tc Cut ofFa 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 supp'd, 
 I shall perpend if your proposals may 
 
 Be such as I can properly accept : 
 Provided always your great goodness still 
 Remits the matter to our own free-wilL" 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Baba eyed Juan, and said " Be so good 
 
 As dress yourself " and pointed out a suit 
 In which a princess with great pleasure would 
 
 Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 
 As not being in a masquerading mood, 
 
 Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; 
 And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 
 Replied, " Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady." 
 
 LXXIV. 
 44 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." 
 
 44 At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 
 The cause of this odd travesty?" "Forbear," 
 
 Said Baba, " to be curious : 't will transpire, 
 No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 
 
 have no authority to tell the reason." 
 
 LXXV 
 Then if I do," said Juan, " I '11 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." 
 44 What, sir," said Juan, 44 shall it e'er be told 
 
 That I unsex'd my dress ?" But Baba, stroking 
 The things down, said "Incense me, and I call 
 Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 4 1 offer you a handsome suit of clothes : 
 
 A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause 
 Why you should wear them." " What, though my 
 soul loathes 
 
 The effeminate garb?" Thus, after a short pause, 
 SighM .luan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
 
 What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 
 Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 
 Which 'cr se'. ofT & marriage-morning face. , 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 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, 
 
 Which girt a^light 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 arc not more imperative than rhymes) 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 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 help'd a little too, 
 
 When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard j 
 And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 
 He paused and took a survey up and down. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 One difficulty still remam'd, his hair 
 
 Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 
 So many false long tresses all to spare, 
 
 That soon his head was most completely etc .vn'd, 
 After the manner then in fashion there; 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXX. 
 And now being femininely all array'd, 
 
 With some small aid from scissors, paint, and 
 
 tweezers, 
 He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 
 
 And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, "You see, si.s, 
 A perfect transformation here display'd ; 
 
 And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, 
 That is the lady:" clapping his hands twice. 
 Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 44 You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
 
 "Will please to accompany those gentlemen 
 To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
 
 Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 
 I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
 
 What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 
 Why 'tis a palace, where the truly wise 
 Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 " You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm.' 
 
 41 So much the better," Juan said, "for them: 
 Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
 
 Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 
 I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 
 
 If any take rne for that which I seem ; 
 So that I vrust, for every body's sake, 
 That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; wnM 
 
 Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
 Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a (* 
 
 Upon the metamorphosis in view, 
 
 Farewell !" they mutually exclaim'd : " this soil 
 
 Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; 
 One's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid. 
 By this old black enchanter's unsought aid."
 
 BYRUiS'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 t arewell . said Juan ; " should we meet no more, 
 I svish you a good appetite." "Farewell!" 
 
 Replied the other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
 When we next meet we '11 have a tale to tell; 
 
 We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
 Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell." 
 
 "Nay," quoth the maid, "the Sultan's self shan't carry me, 
 
 Unless his highness promises to marry me." 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 
 
 Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
 Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 
 
 Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
 Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 
 
 And \\ afted far arose a rich perfume : 
 It seem'J as though they came upon a shrine, 
 P or all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 The giant door was broad, and bright and high, 
 Of gilded bronze, and carved in furious 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 
 
 OI Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 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 features,'' 
 
 You never thought about these little creatures, 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 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, \vhich no pen 
 Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
 
 They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb 
 
 Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Their duty was for they were strong, and though 
 They look'd so little, did strong things at times 
 
 Tr ope this door, which they could really do, 
 The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 
 
 Ami now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
 As is the custom of those eastern climes, 
 
 To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 
 
 For mutes are generally used for that. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Phey 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 
 
 luan a moment, as this pair so small 
 With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
 
 It was as if their little looks could poison 
 
 >>c fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
 
 To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 
 " If you could just contrive," he said, "to sUnt 
 
 That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 
 'T would be as well, and (though there 's not much 
 in 't) 
 
 To swing a little less from side to side, 
 Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; 
 And also, could you look little modest, 
 
 XCII. 
 'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
 
 Like needles, which might pierce those petticoats ; 
 And if they should discover your disguise, 
 
 You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats , 
 And you and I mav 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." 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 With this encouragement, he led the way 
 
 Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
 A rich confusion form'd a disarray 
 
 In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
 Could hardly carry any thing away, 
 
 Object on object flash'd so bright and fast ; 
 A dazzling mass of gems, and gold nd glitter, 
 Magnificently mingled in a litter. 
 
 XCIV. 
 Wealth had done wonders taste not mucn ; 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), 
 Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
 
 Much lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
 Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 
 On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 In this imperial hall, at distance lay 
 
 Under a canopy, and there reclined 
 Quite in a confidential queenly way, 
 
 A lady. Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sigu'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. 
 
 XCVI. 
 The 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 remain'd below. 
 
 XCVII. 
 Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 
 
 Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
 Whose force description only would abate : 
 
 I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
 Than lessen it by what I could relate 
 
 Of forms and features; it would si like you Wind, 
 Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
 So, luckily for both, my phrases fail.
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 xcvra. 
 
 This much however I may add her years 
 
 Wre 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 1'Enclos. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 She spake some words to her attendants, who 
 Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 
 
 And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
 Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 
 
 They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 
 
 Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 
 
 As far as outward show may correspond ; 
 
 I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 
 
 C. 
 
 They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring 
 
 But not by the same door through which came in 
 
 Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
 At some small distance, all he saw within 
 
 This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
 
 Marvel and praise: for both or none things win; 
 
 And I must say I ne'er could see the very 
 
 Great happiness of the " Nil admirari." 
 
 CI. 
 
 "Not to admire is all the art I know, 
 
 ( Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech ) 
 To make men happy, or to keep them sc ;" 
 
 (So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
 Thus Horaca wrote, we all know, long ago ; 
 
 And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 
 From his translation ; but had none admired,- 
 Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 
 
 cn. 
 
 Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
 Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
 
 A second time desired him to kneel down 
 And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 
 
 He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
 Drew himself up to his full height again, 
 
 And said " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
 
 To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 
 
 cm. 
 
 Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 
 
 Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
 He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
 
 About a bowstring 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. 
 
 CIV. 
 lie stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
 
 About Jis ears, and nathless would not bend ; 
 The blooa of all his line's Castilian lorJs 
 
 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 ; 
 4t length perceiving the "foot" could not stand, 
 Baoa proposed that he should kiss the hand. 
 83 
 
 CV. 
 
 Here was an honourable compromise, 
 
 A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
 Where they might meet in much more-peaceful guise., 
 
 And Juan now his willingness express'd 
 To use all fit and' proper courtesies, 
 
 Adding, that this, was commonest and best. 
 For through the South the custom still commands 
 The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
 Though on more thorough-bred* or fairer finger* 
 
 No lips ere left their transitory trace : 
 
 On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, f 
 
 And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
 As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 
 
 In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 
 
 An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
 Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
 
 As if well used to the retreating trade ; 
 
 And taking hints in good part all the while. 
 
 He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 
 
 And, looking on him with a sort of smile, 
 
 Took leave with such a face of satisfaction, 
 
 As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 
 
 cvra. 
 
 When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
 I know not what might be the lady's thought, 
 
 But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, 
 And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 
 
 Blood-red as sunset summer ciouds which range 
 The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 
 
 A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 
 
 Of half voluptuousness and half command. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Her form had all the softness of her sex, 
 Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
 
 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. 
 
 ex. 
 
 Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
 A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 
 
 Was thrown, as 't were, 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 't is in vain 
 
 We would against them make the flesh obty 
 
 The spirit in the end will have its way. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Her very smile was haugnty, though so sweei , 
 
 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 stalton 
 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 nmiet.
 
 .13 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CA.\TO V 
 
 cxn. 
 
 To hear and tt obey" had been from bkth 
 
 The law of aB around her; to fulfil 
 AM phantasiss' which yielded joy or mirth. 
 
 Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her win ; 
 H?r blnon was high, her becjily scaiix 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." 
 
 cxm. 
 
 Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought; 
 
 Whate'er she did mat see, if she supposed 
 It might be seen, with dngence was sought, 
 
 Jsfcd when*! was found straightway the bargain dosed: 
 There was no end unto the dungs she bought, 
 
 Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
 Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
 The women pardoa'd aD except her face. 
 
 cnv. 
 
 Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
 Her eye m passing on his way to saie ; 
 
 She orderM him directly to be bought, 
 And Baba, who bad ne'er been know* to fad 
 
 In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 
 
 Had his instructions where and how to deal : 
 
 Sh bad no prudence, but be had ; and this 
 
 Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 
 
 CXT. 
 
 His youth and features favoured the disguise, 
 Al should yon 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 m wives eyes, 
 
 And kings and consorts oft are mystified, , 
 
 As we may ascertain wmh due precision. 
 
 Some by experience, others by tradition. 
 
 CXVL 
 
 But to the main point, where w bar* been tending: 
 
 She now conceived aD difficulties past, 
 And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
 
 When being made her property at last, 
 Without mme preface, m her brae eyes blending 
 
 Passion and power, a glance oa him she cast, 
 And merely saying, " Christian, canst tbou love?" 
 Conceived mat phrase was quke enough to move. 
 
 CXVIL 
 And so k was. M proper time and plare ; 
 
 But Juan, who had still his mind o'ernowing 
 Wka Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 
 
 Fefc the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, 
 Bush back upon his heart, which fiBM apace, 
 
 And left his cheeks as pale as snow-drops blowing : 
 These words went through his soul Eke Arab spears, 
 Sn that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 
 
 CXVIIL 
 T was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
 
 for women shed and use them at their liking; 
 But there k something when man's eye appears 
 
 Wet,sdU more disagreeable and striking: 
 mmanY 'ear -drop metis, a man half sears, 
 
 I jke molten lead, as if you thrust a pice in 
 IL heart, to force k out, for (to be shorter) 
 TV Jhtr. 'to a refieC to us a torture. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 
 
 Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
 Infected her with sympathy till now, 
 
 And never ha ring dreamt what *t was to bear 
 Aught of a serious so.Towing 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. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
 And when a ttrong although a strange sensalio 
 
 Moves female hearts are such a genial soil 
 For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 
 
 They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
 Samaritans in every situation ; 
 
 And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why 
 
 Fek an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 
 
 CXXI. 
 But lean most stop like all things else; and sooa 
 
 Juan, who for an instant had been moved 
 To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 
 
 >f one who dared to ask if " be Kad loved," 
 CalPd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
 
 Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 
 And although sensitive to beauty, he 
 Felt most indignant stifl at not being free. 
 
 CXXII. 
 Gulbeyar, for the first time in her days, 
 
 Was much embarrass'd, never hating met 
 In al her life with aught save prayers and pnjw j 
 
 And as she also risk'd her life to get 
 Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
 
 Into a comfortable tte-a-t<?te, 
 To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 
 And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 
 
 cxxm. 
 
 I also would suggest the fitting time, 
 
 To gentlemen in any such Eke case. 
 That is to say in a meridian clime ; 
 
 Wkh us there is more law given to the case, 
 But here a small delay forms a great crime : 
 
 So recollect that the extremest grace 
 b just two minutes for your declaration 
 A mum cut more would hurt your reputation. 
 
 CXX1V. 
 Juan's was good ; and might have been still bet let 
 
 But he bad got Haidea mm ffis head : 
 However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
 
 Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
 Gulbeyaz, who kmk'd on him as her debtor 
 
 For having had him to the palace led, 
 Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
 Grow deadly pale, and then bhnh back again. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 At length, in an imperia. way, she laid 
 
 Her hand on his, and bending on his eves, 
 
 Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
 Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 
 
 Her brow grew black, bnt 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 awi there ->e grew
 
 v. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 XXVL 
 
 Tlu was aa awkward test, as Joan found, 
 But he was cteeTd by sorrow, wrath, awl phde; 
 
 With gentle force her while aims he 
 And seated her afl droopmg by his side. 
 
 And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
 The prisonM eagle wffl not pair, nor I 
 Serve a suhana's sensual phantasy. 
 
 cxxvn. 
 
 "Thou ask'st if lean tore? be uns the proof 
 How much I fame fared that I lore not wee/ 
 
 In this rile garb, the distaff's web and woof 
 Were fitter for me: love is for the free! 
 
 I am not dazzled by ami splendid root 
 
 Wbate'er thy power, and great it if ram to hi 
 
 Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 
 
 And hands obey our beans are stil our own." 
 
 CXXVHL 
 This was a truth to us extremely trite. 
 
 Not so to her who ne'er had beard such things; 
 She deem'd her least command must yield lini^t. 
 
 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 bom votaries, when 
 Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
 
 As eren in a much humbler lot had made 
 A kingdom or conumnu anywhere; 
 
 And abo, as may be presumed, she bid 
 Some stress upon those rhirmi which seldom are 
 
 By the possessors thrown into the shade ; 
 She thought hers gare a double "right dmue," 
 And half of that opinion's abo mine. 
 
 CXXX. 
 
 Remember, or (if you cannot) "j-^ 
 
 Ye ! who bare kept your chastity when young, 
 
 Whie some more desperate dowager has been waging 
 Lore with you, and been in the dog-days stung 
 
 By roar refusal, recollect her lining' 
 Or recollect all that was said or sung 
 
 On such a subject; then suppose the face 
 
 Of a young downright beauty in this case. 
 
 CXXXL 
 Suppose, but you already hare supposed, 
 
 The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
 Phedra,and afl which story has disclosed 
 
 Of good examples; pity that so few by 
 Poets and prirale tutors are exposed. 
 
 To educate ye youth of Europe you by ! 
 But when you hare supposed she few we know, 
 Ton can't suppose GUberax' angry brow. 
 
 CXXXIL 
 
 V tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 
 
 Or any interesting beast of prey, 
 \re un : !es at hand for the distress 
 
 Of lames who cacnot hare their own way; 
 tut though my turn iB not be served with less, 
 
 These don't express one half what I should say: 
 r or waat M mnlmg yoiuu, ones, few or many, 
 To co**Sc lt ihesr hopes of having any? 
 
 CXXXQL 
 The lore aC offspring's nature's general law, 
 
 From tigresses and cubs to ducks and duekhap , 
 There's nothing IM.U the beak or aim* the daw 
 
 Like an mrasioa of their babes and cuekunp. 
 And afl who hare seen a human nursery, saw 
 
 How mothers lore then- children's son*** and chuck 
 
 This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
 Tour piricncc) shows the cause must stiB be strongs* 
 
 C XXXIV. 
 If I said fire flash'd from GuJberaz' eyes, 
 
 T were nothing far her eyes flash'd always fire 
 Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
 
 I should bat bring disgrace upon the dyer. 
 So supernatural was her passion's rise; 
 
 For ne'er til now she knew a cbeck'd desire: 
 Even yon who know what a eheek'd woman K, 
 (Enough, God knows!) would much fal short of uns. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Her rage was but a mmute's, and 'twas we! 
 
 A moment's more had shun her; but the wfcsk 
 It bated, 'twas like a short glimpse of hefl: 
 
 Nought's more snbome than energetic hie. 
 Though horrible to see yet grand to id. 
 
 Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle; 
 
 nd the deep passions flashing through her farm 
 Blade her a beautiful embodied storm. 
 
 CXXXVL 
 A vulgar tempest 'twere to a Typhoon 
 
 To match a cnmmnu fury with her rage, 
 
 nd yet she did not want to reach the moon. 
 
 Lie moderate Hotspur on the immiul page; 
 Her anger pkch'd into a lower tune, 
 
 Perhaps die fault of her soft sex and age 
 Her wish was hot to km, km, k*V ike Lear's, 
 And then her thirst of blood was oaench*d in team 
 
 CXXXV1L 
 A storm it raged, and hke the storm it passed, 
 
 Pass'd winwnt words fact she conU not speak , 
 And then her sex's 
 
 But now it AWd m natural and fast, 
 
 As water through an umipaiied leak. 
 For she fek bmnbled and lunil.li . 
 Is inmri'imrt good far people in her station. 
 
 CXXXVllL 
 It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 
 
 It abo gently hints to them that others, 
 AMhough of day, are not yet mute of mud ; 
 
 That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
 And works of the name pottery, had or good. 
 
 Though not afl bom of the same sires and saotha* 
 It teaches Heaven knows only what it tenches, 
 
 t. sometimes k may mend, and often reache*. 
 
 CXXXCL. 
 Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head: 
 
 Her second, to eat oaiyhk nrimimiance; 
 Her third, to ask him where he had been ored, 
 
 Her fourth, to ratty him mto if pint inn.; 
 Her fifth, to caD her maids and go to bed; 
 
 Her sixth, to stab hersstf; 
 The huh to Baba; but her grand 
 Was to sit drwn again, and err of <
 
 521, 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 CXL. 
 
 tihe thought to stal) 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 't is 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. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 Juan was moved: he had made up his mind 
 To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
 
 For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 
 Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, 
 
 And thus heroically stood resign'd, 
 Rather than sin except to his own wish: 
 
 But all his great preparatives for dying 
 
 Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed, . 
 
 So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not howj 
 And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
 
 And then, if matters could be made up now ; 
 And next his savage virtue he accused, 
 
 Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 
 Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 
 Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 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 natter 
 His peace was making, but before he ventured 
 Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 ' Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 
 ('T was 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."' 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 " Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say ? 
 
 I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
 B Jt 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 " 
 /lore they were interrupted by a humming 
 Sound, and men by a cry, "the Sultan's coming!" 
 
 CXLVI. 
 firs*, came her damsels, a decorous file, 
 
 And then his highness' eunuchs, black and whits , 
 Hie tram might reach a quarter of a mile: 
 
 His TCajesty was always so polite 
 (Vs to announce his visits a long while 
 
 Before he came, especially at night; 
 Fnr hoing the last wife of the emperor, 
 She wa* of course the favourite of the four. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 His highness was a man of solemn port, 
 
 Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eye?, 
 
 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. 9 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 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 ihvme 
 
 No scandals made the daily press a curse 
 
 Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 
 
 CL. 
 
 He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
 Was also certain that the earth was square, 
 
 Because ne had journey'd fifty miles, and found 
 No sign that it was circular any where ; 
 
 His empire also was without a bound: 
 'T is true, a little troubled here and there. 
 
 By rebel pachas, and encroaching giouw, 
 
 But then they never came to " thi. Seven Towet v 
 
 CLI. 
 
 Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
 To lodge there when a v.-ai broke out, accordinj 
 
 To the true law of tial.or.d, which ne'er meant 
 Those scoundrels wno have never had a sword in 
 
 Their dirty diplowavic hands, to vent 
 Their spleen < waking strife, and safely wording 
 
 Their lies, y-'yt despatches, without risk or 
 
 The singeing of a single inky whisker. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 He had fitiy daughters and four dozen sons, 
 Of wkom all such as came of age were stow'd, 
 
 The fo/tner in a palace, where like nuns 
 
 Trw.j lived till some bashaw was sent abroad, 
 hflti she, whose turn it was, wedded at once, 
 Sometimes at six years old though this seems odd, 
 F is true ; the reason is, that the bashaw 
 
 Must make a present to his sire in law. 
 CLIII. 
 
 His sons were kept in orison till they grew 
 Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 
 
 One or the other, but which of the two 
 Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
 
 Meantime the education they went through 
 
 Was princely, as the proofs have always shown 
 
 So that the heir apparent still was found 
 
 No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd.
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CLIV. 
 His 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 who 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. 
 
 CLV. 
 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 Gulbeyaz heaved, 
 " I see you 've bought another girl ; 't is pity 
 That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 
 
 CLVI. 
 This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
 
 The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 
 Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 
 
 Oh, Mahomet ! that his majesty should take 
 feuuh 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. 
 
 CLVII. 
 The Turks do well to shut at least, sometimes 
 
 The women up because, in sad reality, 
 1 heir chastity in these unhappy climes 
 
 Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 
 Which in the north prevents precocious crimes, 
 
 And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 
 The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
 Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause, 
 Though not for want of matter ; but 't is time, 
 
 According to the ancient epic laws, 
 To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
 
 Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 
 The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 
 
 Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
 
 fou '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 CANTOS VI. VII. VIII. 
 
 THE details of the siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
 owing cantos (t. e. the 7th and eighth) are taken from a 
 Wench work, entitled "Histoire de laNouvelle Russie." 
 Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
 ccurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving 
 he 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 
 10 be regarded with reverence. In the course of these 
 3F 
 
 cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to tha 
 late Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time 
 before his decease. Had that person's oligarchy die* 
 with him, they wjpuijd have been suppressed ; as it is, 1 
 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 en- 
 deavouring to enslave. That he was an amiable man 
 in 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 in- 
 tention, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyran- 
 nized over a country. It is the first time indeed since 
 the Normans, that England has been insulted by a min- 
 ister (at least) who could not speak English, and that 
 Parliament permitted itself to be dictated to in the lan- 
 guage of Mrs. Malaprop. 
 
 Of the manner of his death little need be said, ex- 
 cept that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or 
 Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been buried 
 in a cross-road, with the usual 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 the abbey, and "Uie syllables 
 of dolour yelled forth" by the newspapers and the 
 harangue of the coroner in an eulogy over the bleed- 
 ing body of the deceased (an Antony worthy of such 
 a Caesar) and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a 
 degraded crew of conspirators against all that is sincere 
 or honourable. In his death he was necessarily one of 
 two things by the law 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 les- 
 son " to the surviving Sejani 2 of Europe. It may at leas* 
 serve as some consolation to the nations, that their op- 
 pressors are not happy, and in some instances judge so 
 justly of their 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 sanc- 
 tuary of Westminster. Shall the Patriot of Humanity 
 repose by the 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 dps cceurs, et s'est refugiee 
 sur les levres." 
 
 " Plus les moeurs sont depravees, plus les expressions 
 deviennent mesurees ; on croit regagner en langage ce 
 qu'on a perdu en vertu." 
 
 This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and 
 hypocritical mass which leavens the present English 
 generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The 
 hackneyed and lavished title of blasphemer which 
 
 1 I eay by the law of the land the laws of humanity judze 
 more gently ; but as the legitimates have always the taw in 
 their mouths, let them here make the most of it. 
 
 2 From this number must beexcepted Canning. Canning is* 
 genius, almost a universal one : an orator, a wit, a poet, a 
 statesman ; and no man of talent can long pursue the path o 
 his late predecessor. Lord C. If ever man saved his count* 
 Canning can ; but will he ? 1, for one. hope o.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 with rulioil, ibernt, jacobin, reformer, etc., are the 
 changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in the 
 ears of those who will listen should be welcome to 
 all who recollect on aham it was originally bestowed. 
 Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death publicly 
 as blasphemers, and so have been and may be many 
 who dare to oppose ihc most notorious abuses of the 
 name of God and the mind of man. But persecution 
 is not refutation, no- even triumph : the wretched infi- 
 del, as he is called, is probably happier in his prison 
 than the proudest ol his assailants. With his opinions 
 I have nothing to do they may be right or wrong 
 but he has suffered for them, and that very suffering 
 for conscience sake will make more proselytes to Deism 
 than the example of heterodox 1 prelates to Christianity, 
 suicide statesmen (o oppression, or overpensioned hom- 
 icides to the impious alliance which insults the world 
 with the name of " Holy !" I have no wish to trample 
 on the dishonoured or the dead ; but it would be well 
 if the adherents to the classes from whence those per- 
 sons sprung should abate a little of the cant which is the 
 crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speaking time 
 of selfish spoilers, and but enough for the present. 
 
 1 When Lord Sandwich said " he did not know the differ- 
 ence between orthodoxy and heterodoxy." Warburton, the 
 bishop, replied, " Orthodoxy, my lord, is mv dozy, and hete- 
 rodoxy is another man's doxy." A prelate of the present day 
 has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, which hag not 
 greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect, that which Bentham 
 calls "Church-of-Englandism.' 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 i. 
 
 * THERE is a tide in the affairs of men 
 
 Which, taken at the flood" you know the rest, 
 And most of us have found it, now and then ; 
 
 At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 
 The moment, till too late to come again. 
 
 But no doubt every thing is for the best 
 Of which the surest sign is in the end : 
 When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 
 
 II. 
 There is a tide in the affairs of women 
 
 "Which, taken at the flood, leads" God knows 
 
 where : 
 Those navigators must be able seamen 
 
 Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair; 
 Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 
 
 With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
 Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that 
 But women, with their hearts, on Heaven knows what ! 
 
 HI. 
 4nd yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
 
 Young, beautiful, and daring who would risk 
 % throne, the world, the universe, to be 
 
 Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
 The stars fron. out the sky, than not be free 
 
 As are the billows when the breeze is brisk 
 Though such a she'sadeu (if that there be one), 
 Vrt sho would make full many a Manichean. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
 
 By commonest ambition, that when passion 
 O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 
 
 Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
 If Antony be well remember'd yet, 
 
 'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion 
 But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
 Outbalance all the Caesars' victories. 
 
 V. 
 He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 
 
 I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
 For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport 1 
 
 Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
 Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 
 
 Gave what I had a heart : as the world went, 1 
 Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could nevel 
 Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever, 
 
 VI. 
 'T was the boy's " mite," and, like the " widow's," maj 
 
 Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 
 But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 
 
 All who have loved, or love, will 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. 
 
 VII. 
 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 
 
 I own .t, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
 But I detest all fiction, oven in song, 
 
 And so must tell the 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 enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
 Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 
 
 IX. 
 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. 
 
 X. 
 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 prosecution they besiege us, 
 
 As the tribunals show through n.any a session, 
 When they suspect that anv one goes shares 
 In that to which the law i>i\xes them sole heJr
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now, if this holds god in a Christian land, 
 
 The heathens 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 has its jealousies like Thames. 
 
 XII. 
 Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
 
 The favourite ; but what 's. favour amongst four ? 
 Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
 
 Not only as a sin, but as a tore ; 
 Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, 
 
 Will scarcely find philosophy for more; 
 And all (except Mahometans) forbear 
 To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 His highness, the sublimest of mankind, 
 So -styled according to the usual forms 
 
 Of every monarch, till they are consigned 
 To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms, 
 
 Wlio on the very loftiest kings have dined, 
 His highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 
 
 Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 
 
 (A " Highland welcome " all the wide world over). 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now here we should distinguish ; for howc'er 
 Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
 
 May look like what is neither here nor there : 
 They are put on as easily as a hat, 
 
 Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
 Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 
 
 Which form an ornament, but no more part 
 
 Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 
 
 XV. 
 
 A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
 
 Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
 More in the eyelids than the eyes, 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 over cold annihilates the charm. 
 
 XVI. 
 For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 
 
 If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire ; 
 Foi 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
 
 For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 
 Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 
 
 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." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The " tu" 's too much, but let e. stanu me verse 
 Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyira. 
 
 And not the pB9 of old Hexameters ; 
 But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time 
 
 n the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
 And was thrust in to close the octave's chime 
 
 ! own no prosody can ever rate it 
 
 As a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 f fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 
 
 I know not it succeeded, and success 
 s 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, 
 
 ould stop that worst of vices propagation. 
 
 XX. 
 
 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 w6 weep ; 
 'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
 The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
 To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 
 
 At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 
 A 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 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 growU. 
 Is more than I know the deuce take them botlu 
 
 XXIII. 
 So now all things are d n'd, one feels at ease, 
 
 As after reading Athanasius' curse, 
 Which doth your true believer so much please : 
 
 I doubt if any now could make it worse 
 O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 
 
 'T is so sententious, positive, and terse, 
 And decorates the book of Common Prayei-, 
 As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
 
 At least one of them Oh the heavy night ! 
 When wicked wives who love some bachelor 
 
 Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
 Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
 
 Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite. 
 To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake, 
 Lest their too lawful be* 1 'fellow should wakx.
 
 621 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 XXV. 
 
 These arc beneath the canopy of heaven, 
 
 Also beneath the canopy of beds, 
 Fjur-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 
 
 For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
 Upon, in sheets white as what bards call "driven 
 
 Snow." Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. 
 Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
 Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, 
 With all the damsels in their long array, 
 
 Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes, 
 And, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 
 
 Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
 In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
 
 Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 
 
 Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
 The tyrant's wish " that mankind only had 
 
 One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 
 My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 
 
 And much more tender on the whole than fierce : 
 It being (not now), but only while a lad) 
 
 That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 
 
 To kiss them all at once from North to South. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Oh enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 
 
 And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 
 
 In such proportion ! But my muse withstands 
 The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 
 
 Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 
 So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
 
 Our hero through the labyrinth of love 
 
 In which we left him several lines above. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
 
 At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
 And though he certainly ran many risks, 
 
 Yet he could not at times keep by the way, 
 (Although the consequences of such frisks 
 
 Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
 In moral England, where the thing's a tax), 
 From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 
 
 XXX. 
 &ill he forgot not his disguise : along 
 
 The galleries from 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." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 
 1 know not how, but good as any other ; 
 
 Bo Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: 
 Her office was to keep aloof or smother 
 
 All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 
 
 V ruing women, and correct them when they blunder'd. , 
 
 XXXII. 
 A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
 
 More easy by the absence of all men 
 Except his Majesty, who, with her aid, 
 
 And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and 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. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 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 true* 
 
 Establish'd between them and bondage, they 
 
 Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Their talk of course ran most on the new comer, 
 Her shape, her air, her hair, her every tnmg : 
 
 Some thought her dress did not so mucn become her 
 Or wonder'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 hfjght, 
 
 While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
 Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 
 
 And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 
 Who with 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. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
 
 Although her beauty was enough to vex, 
 After the first investigating view, 
 
 They all found out as few, or fewer, specks. 
 In the fair form of their companion new 
 
 Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 
 When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen. 
 In a new face "the ugliest creature breathing." 
 
 - XXXVIII. 
 And yet they had their little jealousies, 
 
 Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion. 
 Whether there are such things as sympathies 
 
 Without our knowledge or our approbation. 
 Although they could not see through his disguiso, 
 
 All felt a soft kind of concatenation. 
 Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
 You please we will not quarrel ahojt .not .
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 625 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But certain 't is, they all felt for their new 
 
 Companion something newer still, as 'tweie 
 A sentimental friendship through and through, 
 
 Extremely pure, which made them ail 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. 
 
 XL. 
 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. 
 
 XLI. 
 Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm; 
 
 Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
 With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 
 
 And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, 
 But rather skim the earth; while 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. 
 
 XLII. 
 A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
 
 Yet very fit to " murder sleep" in those 
 Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
 
 Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
 Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 
 
 Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
 Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 
 It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 
 
 XLIII. 
 She was not violently lively, but 
 
 Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
 Her eyes were 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Lolah demanded the new damsel's name 
 
 " Juanna." Well, a pretty name enough. 
 Katinka ask'd her also whence she came 
 
 "From Spain. " "But where is Spain?" "Don't ask 
 
 such stuff, 
 Nor show your Georgian ignorance for shame!" 
 
 Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
 To poor Katinka : " Spain 's an island near 
 Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 
 
 XLV. 
 Duau said nothing, but sat down beside 
 
 Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 
 And, looking at her stedfastly, she sigh'd, 
 
 As if she pitied her for being there, 
 \ 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. 
 84 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But here the Mother of the Maids drew near 
 With " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 
 
 I 'm puzzled vd^t 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." 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Here Lolah interposed " Mamma, you know 
 
 You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
 That any body should disturb you ; so 
 
 I '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 
 Th r w you would make the half of; don't say no, 
 
 And I of your young charge will take due care * 
 But here Katinka interfered and said, 
 
 " She also had compassion and a bed." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 " Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 
 
 The matron frown'd: "Why so?" "For fear o 
 
 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, 
 I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " You, Lolah, most continue still to lie 
 
 Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 
 The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
 
 And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 
 Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 
 
 And will not toss and chatter the night through. 
 What say you, child ?" Dudu said nothing, as 
 Her talents were of the more silent class ; 
 
 L. 
 But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 
 
 Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
 Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow 
 
 (Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) 
 She took Juanna by the hand to show 
 
 Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, 
 The others pouting at the matron's preference 
 Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference 
 
 LI. 
 It was a spacious chamber (Oda is 
 
 The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall 
 Were couches, toilets and much more than this 
 
 I might describe, as I have seen it all, 
 But it suffices little was amiss ; 
 
 'T was on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 
 With all things ladies want, save one or two, 
 And even those were nearer than they knew. 
 
 LII. 
 Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature. 
 
 Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 
 With the most regulated charms of feature, 
 
 Which painters cannot catch like faces smniMf 
 Against proportion the wild strokes of nature 
 
 Which they hit off at once in the beginning. 
 Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 
 And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.
 
 626 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But the was a. >>ft landscape of mild earth, 
 Where sL w < liartnony and calm and quiet, 
 
 Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But she %vas 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. 
 
 LV. 
 
 And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
 
 The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 
 
 By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
 Thus most appropriately has been shown 
 
 * Lucus a non Lucendo," not what UXM, 
 
 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 : 
 
 LVI. 
 
 I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," 
 Which was a mixture f 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. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 T is time we should return to plain narration, 
 And thus my narrative proceeds : Dudu 
 
 Wifti every kindness short of ostentation, 
 
 Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
 
 This labyrinth of females, and each station 
 
 Described what's strange, in words extremely few : 
 
 I have but one simile, and that's a blunder, 
 
 For wordless women, which is silent thunder. 
 
 Lvra. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 Aii J then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
 
 Dudu was fond of kissing which I 'm sure 
 That nobody car. ever take amiss, 
 
 Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 
 And between females means nc more than this 
 
 Thnt the} have nothing better near, or newer. 
 Kiss" rnymes to " bliss " in fact as well as verse 
 
 w<sb it never led to something worse. 
 
 LX. 
 
 In perfect innocence she then unmade 
 Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 
 
 A child of nature, carelessly array'd ; 
 If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 
 
 T was like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 
 Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass, 
 
 When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
 
 Admiring this new native of the deep. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 And one by one her articles of dress 
 
 Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd 
 
 rlei aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
 Of modesty declined the assistance profFer'd 
 
 Which pass'd well off as she could do no less : 
 Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd, ' 
 
 Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 
 
 Which surely were invented for our sins, 
 
 LXH. 
 
 Making a woman like a porcupine, 
 
 Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, 
 Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine, 
 
 In early youth, to turn a lady's maid; 
 I did my very boyish best to shine 
 
 In tricking her out for a masquerade: 
 The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
 Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 But these are foolish things to all the wise 
 And I love Wisdom more than she loves me ; 
 
 My tendency is to philosophize 
 On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 
 
 But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 
 What are we ? and whence came we ? what shall bo 
 
 Our ultimate existence ? what 's our present ? 
 
 Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
 
 And distant from each other burn'd the lights. 
 And Slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
 
 Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, 
 They should have walk'd there in their spriteliest trim, 
 
 By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 
 And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 
 Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 
 
 LXV. 
 Many and beautiful lay those around, 
 
 Like flowers of different 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. 
 
 LXVI. 
 One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm. 
 
 And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 
 Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 
 
 And, smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 
 The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, 
 
 As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, 
 Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of n.*U 
 All bashfully to struggle into light.
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 627 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 
 'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. 
 
 A third's all-pallid aspect offer'd more 
 The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betray'd 
 
 Fhrough the heaved breast the dream of some far shore 
 Beloved and deplored : while slowly stray'd 
 
 (As night dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 
 
 The black bough) tear-drops thro' her eyes' dark fringes. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 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; 
 My similes are gather' J in a heap, 
 
 So p\vk and choose perhaps you '11 be content 
 
 Witlv a carved lady on a monument. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 And lo ! a fifth appears ; and what is she ? 
 
 A lady of " a certain age," which 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 both men and women on the shelf, 
 To meditate upon their sins and self. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 But all this time how slept or dream'd Dudii, 
 With strict inquiry 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 scream'd out: 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And that so loudly, that upstarted all 
 
 The Oda, in a general commotion : 
 Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 
 
 Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
 One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 
 
 All trembling, wondering, without the least notion, 
 More than I have myself, of what could make 
 The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 
 
 LXXII. 
 But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
 
 With floating draperies and with flying hair, 
 With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
 
 And bosoms, arms, and ancles glancing bare, 
 And bright as any meteor ever bred 
 
 By the North Pole, they sought her cause of care, 
 For she secm'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 
 Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But what is strange and a strong proof how great 
 A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna by 
 
 As fast as erer husband by his mate 
 In holy mafrinxmy snores away. 
 
 Not all the clamour broke her happy state 
 Of "lumber, ere they shook her, so they say, 
 
 At least, and then she too unclosed her eyes, 
 
 And yawnV a good deal with oisrrect surprise. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 And now commenced a strict investigation, 
 
 Which, as all spoke at once, and more than onof> 
 
 Conjecturing, ^pondering, 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 amiss. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 At length she said, that, in a slumber sound, 
 She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood 
 
 A "wood obscure-" like that where Dante found 1 
 Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 
 
 Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'J 
 Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; 
 
 And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 
 
 And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 And in the midst a golden apple grew, 
 A most prodigious pippin but it hung 
 
 Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 
 Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
 
 Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 
 
 Bring, down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
 
 To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
 
 But always at a most provoking height: 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
 It fell down of its own accord, before 
 
 Her feet ; that her 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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'c 
 
 Prophetically, or that which one deems 
 " A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
 By which such things are settled now-a-days. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 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 heai, 
 And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
 And said that she was sorry she had cried. 
 
 LXXX. 
 44 1 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 
 
 But visions of an apple and a bee, 
 To take us from our natural rest, and pull 
 
 The whole Oda from their beds at half-past thro*. 
 Would make us think the moon is at its full. 
 
 You surely are unwell, child ! we must see. 
 To-morrow, what his highness'? physician 
 W ill say to this h/steric of a vision.
 
 628 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 * 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 yoj, Dudii, a good night's rest have known; 
 But now 1 must transfer her to the charge 
 Of Loluh though her couch is not so large." 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Ix)lah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 
 
 But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
 Resulting from the scolding or fhe 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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 She promised never more to have a dream, 
 At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 
 
 She wonder'd at herself how she could scream 
 'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 
 
 A fond hallucination, and a theme 
 
 For laughter but she felt her spirits low, 
 
 And begg'd ihey would excuse her ; she 'd get over 
 
 This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And here Juanna kindly interposed, 
 And said the 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-a-propos." 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu 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 
 Are true as truth has ever been of late. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 And so good night to them, or, if you will, 
 
 Good morrow for the cock had crown, and light 
 Began to clothe each Asiatic hi'l, 
 
 And the mosque crescent struggled into 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 KafF looks down upon the Kurds. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 With tne 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 : 
 'I hf nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
 
 W hvh Fable places in her breast of wail, 
 Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 
 Whoso headlong passions form their proper woes. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And that 's the moral of this composition, 
 If people would but see its real drift ; 
 But that they will not do without suspicion, 
 Because all gentle readers have the gift 
 Of closing 'gainst the 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. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, 
 Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 
 
 Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
 To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, 
 
 /So beautiful that art could little mend her, 
 
 Though pale with conflicts between love and pride:-* 
 
 So agitated was she with her error, 
 
 She did not even look into the mirror. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Also arose about the self-same time, 
 
 Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
 Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 
 
 And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
 A thing of much less import in that clime 
 
 At least to those of incomes which afford 
 The filling up their whole connubial cargo 
 Than where two wives are under an embargo. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 He did not think much on the matter, nor 
 
 Indeed on any other : as a man, 
 He liked to have a handsome paramour 
 
 At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
 And therefore of Circassians had good store, 
 
 As an amusement after the Divan; 
 Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
 Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 
 
 XCH. 
 
 And now he rose : and after due ablutions, 
 
 Exacted by the customs of the East, 
 And prayers, and other pious evolutions, 
 
 He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
 And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 
 
 Whose victories had recently increased, 
 In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
 As greatest of all* sovereigns and w s. 
 
 XC1II. 
 
 Bat oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! 
 
 Her son's son, let not this last phrise offend 
 Thine ear, if it should reach, and now rhymes wandei 
 
 Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
 A dreadful Impulse to each loud meander 
 
 Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, whi'-.h blei , 
 Their roar even with the Baltic's, r > you be 
 Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. 
 
 XCIV. 
 To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 
 
 Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
 That hater of mankind, would he a shame, 
 
 A libel, or whate'er you please to rhvme on . 
 But people's ancestors are history's game ; 
 
 And if one lady's slip could Ipave a crime on 
 All generations, I should like to know 
 What pedigree the best would have to how?
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 629 
 
 XCV. 
 
 Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
 
 Their ow,n true interest, which kings rarely know 
 
 Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, 
 
 There was a way to end their strife, although 
 
 Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 
 Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
 
 She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, 
 
 And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
 His daily council upon ways and means, 
 
 How to encounter with this martial scold, 
 This raodern Amazon and Queen of queans ; 
 
 And the perplexity could not be told 
 
 Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
 
 Sometime a little heavy on the backs 
 
 Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 
 Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
 
 For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 
 Arid rich with all contrivances which grace 
 
 Those gay recesses : many a precious stone ' 
 Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
 
 Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 
 
 Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Mother-of-pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
 Vied with each other on this costly spot; 
 
 And singing-birds without were heard to warble ; 
 And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 
 
 Varied each ray; but all descriptions garble 
 The true effect, and so we had better not 
 
 Be too minute ; an outline is the best, 
 
 \. lively reader's fancy does the rest. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 \nd here she summon'd Baba, and required 
 Don Juan at his hands, and information 
 
 Df what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, 
 And whether he had occupied their station; 
 
 If matters had been managed as desired, 
 And his disguise with due consideration 
 
 Kept up ; and, above all, the where and how 
 
 He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know. 
 
 C. 
 
 Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 
 To this long catechism of questions ask'd 
 
 More easily than answer'd, that he had tried 
 His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
 
 But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 
 JVhicli hesitation more betray'd than mask'd; 
 
 He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
 
 To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 
 
 . CI. 
 
 Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
 Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 
 
 She liked quick answers in all conversations; 
 And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 
 
 [n his replius, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
 And as his speech grew still more broken-knee'd, 
 
 Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 
 
 \nd her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 
 
 CII. 
 
 When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
 To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
 
 Her anger, and Gjseech'd she 'd hear him through- 
 He could not help the thing which he related 
 
 Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 
 
 Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated 
 
 But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
 
 The holy camel's humpj besides the Koran. 
 
 cm. 
 
 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 stopp'd 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. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure, 
 Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 
 
 'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
 Because a foolish or imprudent act 
 
 Would not alone have made him insecure, 
 But ended in his being found out and sacked 
 
 And thrown into the sea. Thus Baba spoke 
 
 Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 
 
 cv. 
 
 This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 
 
 And talk'd away and might have talk'd till now, 
 
 For any further answer that he found, 
 
 So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow; 
 
 Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain wnirl'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. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
 
 Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd- 
 
 It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 
 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 
 
 What she could ne'er express then how should 1 7 
 
 CVII. 
 
 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 pufl 
 
 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 knee*. 
 
 cvm. 
 
 Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow , 
 
 Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
 Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, 
 
 A low, soft ottoman), and black despair 
 
 Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billoi* 
 
 Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles cnecfc 
 
 Its farther course, but must rccure 'is wrecc.
 
 030 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CA.\Tu Vi 
 
 Ifar hod bong down, and her long hair in stooping 
 CoaceaTd 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! bat their tints 
 
 May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 
 
 CX. 
 Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
 
 And when to hold his tongue, now held it tin 
 Has passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
 
 Cnfceyai.* taciturn or peaking wiL 
 At length she rose op, and began to walk 
 
 Slowly along the room, but sient stiB, 
 And her INOW clear d, but not her doubled eye 
 The wind was down, bat stiH the sea ran high. 
 
 CXL 
 She stopp'd, nd raised her head to speak hot paused. 
 
 And then mored on again with rapid pace; 
 Then skcken'd ir, which is the march most caused 
 
 By deep emotion: yon may sometimes trace 
 
 Aj j? __ f . f i; i I 
 
 eenng m eacn footstep, as ojscfoseo. 
 
 By Sauost m his Oatifine, who, chased 
 By al the demons of afl pasajum, sbow'd 
 Their work even by the way in which he trade. 
 
 cxn. 
 
 Goibeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: Stave! 
 
 Bring the two slaves!" she said, in a low tone, 
 Bat one which Baba did not like to brave, 
 
 And yet be shndderM, and seem'd rather prone 
 To |Huve iffuif i^nt, and beggu leave to uate 
 
 (Though be wefl knew the meaning) to be shown 
 What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 
 For tear of any error Ike the late. 
 
 CXDL 
 "The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
 
 The imperial bride and added, "Let the boat 
 Be ready by the secret portal's side: 
 
 Ton know the rest," The words stock in her throat, 
 Despite her injured love and uciy pride ; 
 
 And of this Baba willingly took note, 
 And beggM, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
 She would revoke the order he had heard. 
 
 CXIV. 
 -To hear is to obey," he said; "hot suH, 
 
 Sultana, dunk opon the consequence: 
 It is not that I shall not aO fulfil 
 
 Your orders, even in then* set u cat sense; 
 But such preapr-tfion may end ffl, 
 
 Even at your own imperative expense ; 
 I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
 In ease of any ptetnaline disclosure; 
 
 CXF. 
 Rut your own feehngs. Even suuuld afl the n 
 
 B hidden by the raffing waves, which hide 
 Already many a unce love-beaten breast 
 
 Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide- 
 Yon love this boyish, new seraglio guest. 
 
 And if dus violent remedy be tried 
 tCxeuse my f> leuum, when I here assure you, 
 Thai kiSng bun L> uut tne war to core you." 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 What dost thou know of love or feeing ? wretch ! 
 
 Begone!" she cried, with kindling eves, "and do 
 My bidding!" Baba vanish'd ; for to stretch 
 
 His own remonstrance farther, te well knew. 
 Might end in acting as his own u Jack Ketch ;" 
 
 And, though be wish'd extremely to get through 
 This awkward business without harm to others, 
 He still preferrM his own neck to another's. 
 
 CXVH. 
 Away he went then upon bis commission, 
 
 Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 
 Against al women, of wbate'er condition, 
 
 Especially sultanas and their ways; 
 Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 
 
 Their never knowing their own mind two days. 
 The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 
 Which made him daily Mess his own neutrality. 
 
 cxvra. 
 
 And then he ealFd his brethren to his aid, 
 And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
 
 That they must instantly be well array'd, 
 And, above all, be comb'd even to a hair, 
 
 And brought before the empress, who had made 
 nounes after ** with kindest care i 
 
 At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan sffly; 
 
 But go they must at once, and will I oU L 
 
 CXIX. 
 And here I leave them at their preparation 
 
 For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
 Gtnbeyaz sbow'd them both commiseration, 
 
 Or got rid of the parties altogether 
 lake other angry ladies of her nation, 
 
 Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
 Mav settle ; bat far be 't from me to anticipate 
 In waat way feminine caprice may dissipate. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 I leave them for the present, with good wishes, 
 Though doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 
 
 Another part of history; for the dishes 
 Of this our banquet we most 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 VH. 
 
 OH love! Oh glory! what are ye? who fly 
 
 Around us ever, rarely to alight: 
 There's not a meteor in the polar sky 
 
 Of such transcendent and more fleetnig fli^b*. 
 Chifl, and chain'd to cold earth, we Jft on hi|n 
 
 Our eyes in search of either lovely ligM. : 
 A th~>*nd and a thousand colours they 
 
 then leave us on our freezing war
 
 CA.\'TO PH. 
 
 BOX JUAN. 
 
 631 
 
 Aari such as tb*y are, such my present tale is, 
 A non-deseript and ever-varying rhyme, 
 
 A versified Aurora Boreafis, 
 Which flashes o'er a waste and ieyc&ne. 
 
 When we know what aH are, we most bewaH vs, 
 Bat ne'ertbeless, I hope it it no crime 
 
 To l-agh at afl things: fir I wish to know 
 
 IF!*; after off, are off things-bat a MW>? 
 
 ra. 
 
 They accuse 
 
 The present poem, of I know not what* 
 A tendency to underrate and scoff* 
 
 At human power and virtue, and aB that; 
 And this they *ay in language rather rough. 
 
 Good God! I wonder what they would be at? 
 I say no more than has been said in Dante's 
 Verse, and by Solomon, and byCerrantes; 
 
 IV. 
 
 By Swift, by Maflhtavei, by Rot hffeoc ana*, 
 "By Feaelon, by Lather, and by Plato; 
 
 By TiOotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
 Who knew thn life was not worth a potato. 
 
 T is not their fault, nor none, if this be so 
 For my part, I pretend not to be Gate, 
 
 N - eren Diogenes. We Eve and die, 
 
 But which is best, yon know no more than L 
 
 V. 
 
 Socrates said, oar only knowledge was, 
 14 To know that nothing coold be known ; 
 
 Sciencr *rri'X]n, wr.:cn .*rv-r 5 '.o i-" 1 . s^s 
 Each man of mVnii > fulMe, past, or 
 
 Newton (that prorerb of the mind), alas ! 
 Declared, with aR his grand Jaumaiea 
 
 a pleasant 
 
 That be himself (eh only "Eke a youth 
 Picking op shells by the great ocean tram." 
 
 VL 
 
 Ecdesiastes said, that aD ts vanity 
 
 Most modern preaebers say the same, or show k 
 By their examples of true Christianity; 
 
 In short, aB know, or very soon may know k : 
 And in this scene of aH-coofcasM inanity, 
 
 By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
 Most I restrain me, through the few of strife, 
 From holding op the nothingness of fife? 
 
 VH. 
 Dogs, or men !*\fbr I flatter you in saying 
 
 Tnat ye are dogs your betters far) ye may 
 Read, or read not, what I am now cmaisag 
 
 To show ye what ye are in every way. 
 As Bide as the moon stops for the baying 
 
 Of wolves, wffl the bright Muse withdraw one ray 
 From ont her sides; then bowl your idle wrath! 
 WhrV she stffl silvers o'er your gloomy path. 
 
 VUL 
 
 Fierce loves and faithless wars" I am not sure 
 If this be the right readin* "I is no matter ; 
 
 Fhe fact's about the same; I am secure; 
 I sing them both, and am about to batter 
 
 A town which did a famous sieae endure, 
 And was bdeagwerM both by land and wafer 
 
 By Suvaroff, or aspire Smrarrow, 
 
 t\oo *! blond as an alderman loves 
 
 IX. 
 
 The fortress is caE'd Ismail, and placed 
 Upon the Danube's left branch and left 
 
 Wkh bmldmmaj. the oriental taste, 
 But stifl a fortress of the fonmost ran* 
 
 Or was, at least, unless \'n since defaced, 
 Which win your conquerors is a 
 
 It steads some eighty vents from the high 
 of toil 
 
 X. 
 Within the extent of this foroficauoo 
 
 Upon the left, which, from i 
 
 Commands the cky, and upon its ate 
 
 A Greek bad raised around this elevation 
 A quantity of pancades trprigat, 
 
 So placed as to ipyaaV. the fire of those 
 
 Who held the place, and to moat the toe's. 
 
 XL 
 
 Of the high talents of ibis new' Va 
 
 oat t&c town <ubcii nriow was oecj> as occaBu 
 The rampart higher than you'd wish to bang: 
 
 Bat then there was a great want of precaution, 
 (Prithee, excuse Ibis eagJnuuiag slang), 
 
 Jicc wuik wUjTuumuf wot covu a way was ucrea. 
 
 To bint at least "Here is no thoroughfare." 
 
 xn. 
 
 at a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
 
 And walls as thick as most skuas bora as yet; 
 Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
 
 Case-mated one, and H other a "barbette," 
 Of Danube's bank took fcrmmtable charge; 
 
 WUetwo-and-<we M ycam K a,du}yset. 
 Rose o'er the town's right side, ia bristfiag tier. 
 Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 
 
 XDL 
 But from the river the town's open quite, 
 
 Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
 A Rnasuui vessel e er would he&we. m a^bt ; 
 
 And such their creed wax, til they were invaded. 
 When k grew rather late to set things right. 
 
 But as the Danube could not weB he waded. 
 They lookM upon the Muscovite ftotssa, 
 Aad onlr shouted, *ABa!" and * Bv Mssah f 
 
 XIV. 
 The Russians now were ready to attack; 
 
 But oh, ye goddesses of war cad glory ! 
 How shafl I speB the name of each Cossack 
 
 Who were imnxvtal, could one teB tbeir story? 
 Alas! what to their memory can lack? 
 
 AchiBes self was not more grim and gory 
 Than thousands of this new and poish'd nation, 
 Wnose aames want nothing but proaanoataovk 
 
 XV. 
 StiB I*B record a few, if bht to mcrease 
 
 Our euphony there was Strdm>eaoff,and SttosaaoB. 
 Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseaiew of modern Greece, 
 
 And TscbkssbakofT, and Rogumoff, and Ckokcnoff, 
 And uOfeUA of i net re cocnooaBits a,pwcc r 
 
 uftd more night IK fouou o**t^ I coola pwct cooofwi 
 Into gazettes; bat Fame (caj-nckwi slramipet!) 
 ft ir nai. bas got ^n car as wd as tiiaxul.
 
 632 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO VIL 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And cannot tune those discords of narration, 
 Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme. 
 
 Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
 As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 
 
 Soft words too, fitted for the peroration 
 Of Londonderry, drawling against time, 
 
 Ending in"ischskin," "ousckin," "iffskchy," "ouski," 
 
 Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Eoklophti, 
 Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, 
 
 All proper men of weapons, as e'er scofPd 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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 Thompson, and nineteen named Smith. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ; 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 Ae, since so renown'd " in country quarters 
 
 At Halifax;" but now he served the Tartars. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills ; 
 
 But when I 've added that the elder Jack Smith 
 Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 
 
 And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
 1 've said all / know of a name that fills 
 
 Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmacsmith," 
 A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
 He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 
 
 XXI. 
 I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 
 
 Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
 May make up for a bullet in his body ? 
 
 I hope this little question is no sin, 
 Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 
 
 I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
 The mouth of some one in his plays so dealing, 
 Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 
 
 XXII. 
 Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay : 
 
 But I'm too great a patriot to record 
 Their gallic names upon a glorious day ; 
 
 I 'd rather ten ten .ies than say a word 
 Of truth; such truths are treason: they betray 
 
 Their oo.mtry. and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
 tVno name the French and English, save to show 
 How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 
 
 xxm. 
 
 The Russians, having built two batteries on 
 An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 
 
 The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
 The public buildings, and the private too, 
 
 No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
 The city's shape suggested this, 't is true ; 
 
 Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 
 
 Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The second object was to profit by 
 
 The moment of the general consternation, 
 
 To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh, 
 Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 
 
 But a third motive was as probably 
 To frighten them into capitulation ; 
 
 A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 
 
 Unless they are game as 'bull-dogs and fox-terriers j 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A habit rather blameable, which is 
 That of despising those we combat with, 
 
 Common in many cases, was in this 
 The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith ; 
 
 One of the valorous " Smiths " whom we shall miss 
 Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 
 
 But 't is a name so spread o'er " Sir" and " Madam,'' 
 
 That one would think the FIRST who bore it "ADAM. fc 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
 
 Because they were constructed in a hurry. 
 
 Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet 
 And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murraj 
 
 When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
 As they who print them think is necessary, 
 
 May likewise put off for a time what story 
 
 Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 A sad miscalculation about distance 
 
 Made all their naval matters incorrect; 
 Three fire-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 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast ai 
 
 XXIX. 
 At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 
 
 The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
 'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd. 
 
 Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
 Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 
 
 Which was return'd with interest, I may say, 
 And by a fire of musketry and grape, 
 And shells and shot of every size and shape.
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 For six h'-urs 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. 
 
 L>ne bark blew up ; a second, near the works 
 
 Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Moslem too had lost both ships and men; 
 
 But when they saw the enemy retire, 
 Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 
 
 And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
 And tried Id make a landing on the main. 
 
 But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
 Count Damas drove them back into the water 
 Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " If" (says the historian here) " I could report 
 All that the Russians did upon this day, 
 
 [ think that several volumes would fall short, 
 And I should still have many things to say ;" 
 
 And so he says no more but pays his court 
 To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 
 
 The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 
 
 Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 This being the case, may show us what fame is: 
 For out of three "preuz chevaliers" how 
 
 Many of common readers give a guess 
 
 That such existed? (and they may live now 
 
 For aught we know). Renown's all hit or miss; 
 
 There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 
 r is true the Memoirs of the Prince <le Ligne 
 
 Have half withdrawn from Aim oblivion's skreen. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But here are men who fought in galiant actions 
 
 As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
 But buried in the heap of such transactions 
 
 Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
 Thus even good fame may suffer 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 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 hoarv, 
 
 Which made a long debate : but I must halt ; 
 For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 
 
 doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 There was a man, if that he was a tnan, 
 
 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 ilness, when, all worn and wan, 
 
 He died beneath a tree, as much unbless'd on 
 The soil of the green province he hail wasted, 
 /Vs e'er was locust on the land it blasted ; 
 3 G US 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 This was Potemkin a great thing in days 
 When homicide and harlotry made great, 
 
 If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
 His glory migffKhalf equal his estate. 
 
 This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
 A kind of phantasy proportionate 
 
 In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 
 
 Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 While things were in abeyance, 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 time the batteries proceeded, 
 
 And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 
 
 Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But on the thirteenth, when already part 
 Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 
 
 A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
 Into all panters for newspaper praise, 
 
 As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
 By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase, 
 
 Announcing the appointment of that lover of 
 
 Battles to the command, Field-Marshal SuvarofT. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
 Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 
 
 Been one to which a good heart could be partial, 
 Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 
 
 But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
 With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, 
 
 Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 
 
 " You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " Let there be light !" said God, " and there was light !* 
 " Let there be blood !" 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. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Our friends the Turks, who with loud "Alias" n w 
 
 Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
 Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 
 
 In tninking that their enemy is beat 
 (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 
 
 I never think about it in a heat) ; 
 But here I say the Turks were much mistaken. 
 Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save theii bacon. 
 
 XLIII. 
 For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 
 
 In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd CossacJtr 
 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 tw-u . 
 
 But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 
 Till, in approaching, were at length dnscried 
 In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his gulU
 
 634 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO Vll. 
 
 ALIV. 
 
 "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 tirsl hallucination ; 
 
 So that the streets of co'.oar'd lamps are full, 
 That sage (said John) surrenders at discretion 
 
 ids purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 
 
 'li gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 'T is 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 stares him in the face, he won't examine, 
 
 Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp ! 
 
 To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
 O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 
 
 Presaging a most luminous attack j 
 Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 
 
 Which leaas beholders on a boggy walk, 
 He flitted to and fro, a dancing light, 
 Which all who saw it fbllow'd, wrong or right. 
 
 XLVII. 
 But, certcs, matters took a different face ; 
 
 There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
 The Heel and camp saluted with great grace, 
 
 And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
 Within a cannon-shot length of the place 
 
 They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
 In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
 And all kinds of benevolent machines. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 
 
 Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 
 
 As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 
 
 Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection : 
 
 Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 
 
 Or a bellweather form the flock's connexion 
 
 By 'inkling sounds when they go forth to victual: 
 
 Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought 
 
 That they were going to a marriage-feast, 
 (This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 
 
 Since there is discord after both at least), 
 Thcro was not now a luggage-boy but sought 
 
 Danger and spoil with ardour much increased; 
 And why ? because a little, odd, old man, 
 Stripl to his shirt, was come to lead the van. v 
 
 L. 
 But so it was ; and every preparation 
 
 Was made with all alacrity ; the first 
 Pitarhnient of three columns took its station, 
 
 Ana waited but the signal's voice to burst 
 I'pon the foe: tho second's ordination 
 
 WaJ also in three columns, with a thirst 
 Koi glorv gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 
 I1 ilurd, in columns two, attack'd by water. 
 
 LI 
 
 New batteries were erected ; and was held 
 A general council, in which unanimity, 
 
 That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, * 
 As sometimes happens in a great extremity; 
 
 And, every difficulty being expell'd, 
 
 Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 
 
 While Suvaroff, determined to obtain it, 
 
 Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 1 
 
 LII. 
 
 I is ar.^actual fact, that he, eommander- 
 In-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 
 
 The awkward squad, and could afford o squander 
 His time, a corporal's duties 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
 Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 
 
 And made them charge with bayonets these machine* 
 By way of lesson against actual Turks. 
 
 And, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
 He judged them proper to assail the works ; 
 
 At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty : 
 
 He made no answer; but he took the city. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 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, 
 
 And others of themselves and latter ends. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 
 
 Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering: 
 For the man was, we safely may assert, 
 
 A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
 Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half dirt, 
 
 Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering ; 
 Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
 A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 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, 
 iound that he had fought beneath their banner. 
 
 LVII. 
 Whereon, immediately at his request, 
 
 They brought him and his comrades to head-quarter* i 
 Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 
 
 That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
 And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest 
 
 Lurk'd Christianity; who sometimes barters 
 Her inward grace for outward show, and makl 
 It difficult to shun some strange msUkes.
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 feuwarrow, who was standing in his sh ,-t, 
 
 Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 
 Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
 
 And lecturing on the nobb 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 ; 
 
 LIX. 
 Suwarrow, when he saw this company 
 
 Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
 Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : 
 
 " Whence come ye ?" " From Constantinople last, 
 Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
 
 " What are ye ?" " Wha.tyou see us." Briefly past 
 This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
 To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 
 
 LX. 
 
 " Your names?" "Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade's 
 Juan ; 
 
 The other two are women, and the third 
 Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 
 
 The party a slight glance, then said : " I have heard 
 Your name before, the second is a new one ; 
 
 To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
 But let that pass ; I think I 've heard your name 
 [n the Nikolaiew regiment?' 1 "The same." 
 
 LXI. 
 "You served at Widin?" "Yes." "You led the attack?" 
 
 " I did."" What next ?" " I really hardly know." 
 " You were the first i' the breach ?" " I was not slack, 
 
 At least, to 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. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 * Where will you serve ?" " Where'er you please." 
 " I know 
 
 You like to be the hope of the forlorn, 
 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." 
 
 LXIII. 
 " He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
 
 Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
 Continued: "Your old regiment's allow'd, 
 
 By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
 Or it may be to-night, the assault : I 've vow'd 
 
 To several saints, that shortly plough or harrc 
 Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
 Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 
 LXIV. 
 
 So now, my lads, for glory!" Here he turn'd, 
 
 Ard drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 
 Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
 
 For cash and compost, as if from a cushion 
 A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd 
 
 All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on 
 To slay thn 1'asrans who resisted, battering 
 The P'mies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 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 allow'd to die 
 
 Among the foremost; but if you'd express 
 
 Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
 
 And self would know what duty to attend." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why you 
 Will join your former regiment, which should b 
 
 Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to 
 (Here he call'd up a Polish orderk-N 
 
 His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
 The stranger stripling may remain with me; 
 
 He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 
 
 To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 
 The ladies, who by no means had been bred 
 
 To be disposed of in a way so new, 
 Although their haram education led 
 
 Doubtless to that ot' 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 yovmf 
 
 LXVIII. 
 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 unebbing sea . 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
 And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 
 
 The women with their hair about their ears, 
 And natural agonies, with a slight shade 
 
 Of feeling : for, however habit sears 
 
 Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trad* 
 
 Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 
 
 Will toucn even heroes and such was Suwaimw. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He said and in the kindest Calmuck tone 
 " Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 
 
 By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
 All the attention possible, and seen 
 
 In safety to the wagons, where alone 
 
 In fact they can be safe. You should have bm*t 
 are this kind of baggage never thrives : 
 
 Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.' 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 " May it please your excellency," thus replied 
 Our British friend, " these are the wives of othei 
 
 And not our own. I am too qualified 
 By service with my military brothers. 
 
 To break the rules by bringing one's own brine 
 Into a carnp ; I know that nought so bother* 
 
 The hearts of tl >e heroi" on a charge, 
 
 As leaving a small family at large.
 
 636 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO VI, 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
 
 With their attendant aided our escape, 
 And afterwards accompanied us through 
 
 A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
 To lae 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, 
 Jlequest that they may both be used genteelly." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
 
 Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
 Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
 
 Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
 To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
 
 In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 
 Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
 More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
 
 As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them, 
 Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
 
 To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 
 Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
 
 (That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem), 
 With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 
 How power could condescend to do without. 
 
 LXXV. 
 John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
 
 Though little versed in feelings oriental, 
 Suggested some slight comfort in his w-y. 
 
 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, thuy found some consolation 
 In this for females like exaggeration. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses, 
 
 They parted for the present these to await, 
 According to the artillery's hits or misses, 
 
 What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate 
 (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
 
 A mortgage on Humanity's estate) 
 While their beloved friends began to arm, 
 To burn a town which never did them harm. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross 
 
 Being much too gross to see 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 ; 
 Wb/> f was 't to him to hear two women sob ? 
 
 LXXV1II. 
 
 Nothing. The work of glory still went on, 
 
 In preparations for a cannonade 
 As terrible as that of Ilicn, 
 
 If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
 Rut now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 
 
 We only can but talk of escalade, 
 Homos, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, 
 
 bullets, 
 Hard words which stirk in the soft Muses' gullets. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Honier ! 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 : 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
 
 To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, 
 With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
 
 Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 
 And yet, like all men else, I mus* al'.ow, 
 
 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 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 If not in poetry, at least in fact : 
 
 And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
 
 Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 
 There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 
 
 But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 
 
 Great deeds are doing how shall I relate 'erp ? 
 
 Souls of immortal generals ! Phrebus watches 
 
 To colour up his rays from your despatches. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! 
 
 Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded 
 Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty, 
 
 When my poor Greece was once, as now, surroiwded 
 Oh, Ccesar'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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 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 compell'd to rear, 
 Who, when we come to sum up thr. totality 
 
 Of deeds to human happiness m-/stdear, 
 Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 
 Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 Medals, ranks, ribbons, lace, embroidery, scarlet. 
 
 Are things vnmortal to immortal man, 
 As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
 
 An uniform to boys is like a fan 
 To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet, 
 
 But deems himself the first in glory's van. 
 But glory 's glory ; and if you would find 
 What that is ask the pig who sees the wind. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 
 
 Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
 Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
 
 Say that he scuds before it lik<> a brig, 
 A schooner, or but it is time to ease 
 
 This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue 
 The next shall ring a peal to shake all peopie. 
 Like a bob-major from a viilage-steenle.
 
 CANTO vm. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 63- 
 
 LXXXVL 
 
 Hark ! througli 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 through the vapours dim and dank, 
 
 Which curl in curious wreaths How soon the smoke 
 
 Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 OH blood and thunder ! and oh blood and wounds ! 
 
 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, 
 Bcllona, what you will they mean but wars. 
 
 II. 
 
 All was prepared the fire, the sword, the men 
 To wield them in their terrible array. 
 
 The army, like a lion from his den, 
 
 March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 History can only take things in the gross ; 
 
 But could we know them in detail, perchance 
 In balancing the profit and the loss, 
 
 War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
 To waste so much gold for a little dross, 
 
 As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
 The drying up a single tear has more 
 Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 
 
 IV. 
 And why ? because it brings self-approbation ; 
 
 Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
 Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation 
 
 Which (it may be) has not much left to spare 
 A higher title, or a loftier station, 
 
 Though they may make corruption gape or stare 
 ITet, in the end, except in freedom's battles, 
 Are nothing but a child of murder's rattles. 
 3e2 
 
 V. 
 
 And such they are and such they will be found. 
 
 Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
 'Vhose every baw^g-field is holy ground, 
 
 Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undcua 
 low sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
 While the mere victors may appal or stun 
 The servile and the vain, such names will be 
 A watchword till the future shall be free. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
 Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
 iVhich arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
 
 And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 
 A mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 
 
 Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 
 The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashe* 
 Spare, or smite rarely Man's make millions ashes ! 
 
 VII. 
 The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
 
 Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
 When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 
 
 Answering the Christian thunders with like voices : 
 Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced, 
 Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noires j 
 While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
 The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 
 
 VIII. 
 And one enormous shout of "Allah!" rose 
 
 In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
 Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
 Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
 Resounded "Allah!" and the clouds, which close 
 
 With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 
 Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark! through. 
 All sounds it pierceth, "Allah! Allah! Hu!" 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 The columns 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 Arseniew, that great son of slaughtei 
 As brave as ever faced both boom and ball. 
 " Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's 
 
 daughter:" 2 
 
 If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
 Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 
 
 X. 
 
 The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 
 Count Chapeau-Bras too had a ball between 
 His cap and head, which proves the head to De 
 
 Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
 Because it then received no injury 
 
 More than the cap ; in fact the ball could mean 
 No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
 " Ashes to ashes " why not lead to lead ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 
 Insisting on removal of the prirve, 
 Amidst some groaning thousands dying ncai, 
 
 All common fellows, who might writhe and vvmce, 
 And shriek for water into a deaf ear, 
 
 The General Markow, who could thus evince 
 His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
 To teach him greater, had his own lg broke*.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 XI. 
 
 Threr hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
 And thirty thousand muskets flung 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
 Until their very number makes men hard 
 
 By the infinities of agony, 
 
 Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard 
 
 The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
 Turn'd back within its socket, these reward 
 
 Four rank and file by thousands, while the rest 
 
 May win, perhaps, a ribbon at the breast ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XV. 
 The troops already disembark'd push'd on 
 
 To take a battery on the right ; the others, 
 Who landed lower down, their landing done, 
 
 Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 
 Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one, 
 
 Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers, 
 O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 
 Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And this was admirable ; for so hot 
 
 The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 
 Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
 
 And shells or hells, it could not more 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 But here I leave the general concern, 
 
 To track our hero on his pa'h of fame : 
 He must his laurels separately earn ; 
 
 For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 
 Though ail 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 : 
 
 XVIII. 
 * rid therefore we must give the greater number 
 
 To the gazette which doubtless fairly dealt 
 Rv the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
 
 In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 
 jTieir ciay 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 
 VN rts o.inted Grove, although his name was Grose. 1 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Juan and Johnson join'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 thev /night be going , 
 
 But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, 
 Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing 
 
 But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 
 
 To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
 
 Of dead and dying thousands, sometime* 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. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, ;nd 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 stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day; 
 
 Yet for all this he did not run away. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Indeed he could not. But what if he had? 
 
 There have been and are heroes who begun 
 With something not much better, or as bad : 
 
 Frederic 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 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, I^oman, Greek, or Runic, 
 Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same cliire 
 
 With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
 Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
 As any other notion, and not national); * 
 
 XXIV. 
 But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
 
 A thing of impulse and a child of song : 
 Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 
 
 Cr the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), 
 And afterwards, if he must needs destroy, 
 
 In such good company as always throng 
 To battles, sieges, and tha* kind of pleasure, 
 No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 
 
 XXV. 
 But always without malice. If ne warr'd 
 
 Or loved, it was with what we call " the best 
 Intentions," which form all mankind's irump-card 
 
 To be produced when brought up to the test. 
 The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer ward 
 
 Off each attack when people a"5 in qiiesJ 
 Of their designs, by saying they ir-ta.nl we.ll, 
 'Tis pity "that such meanings should jrave oc-L.*'
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 G3J 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 1 almost lately ha\e begun to doubt 
 
 Whether hell's pavement if it be so payed 
 
 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 smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell 
 
 Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
 Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 
 
 Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides, 
 Just at the close of the first bridal year, 
 
 By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
 Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 
 
 When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 
 
 He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I don't know how the thing occurr'd it might 
 Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
 
 ^.nd that the rest had faced unto the right 
 About ; a circumstance which has confounded 
 
 Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 
 
 Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
 1 courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 
 
 And rally back his Romans to the field. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
 No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 
 
 He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
 Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 
 
 For a much longer time ; then, like an ass 
 (Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 
 
 This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 
 
 Perhaps may find it better than a new one:) 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
 
 And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 
 
 But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
 Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 
 
 Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
 He stumbled on, to try if he could find 
 
 A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 
 
 To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Perceiving then no more the commandant 
 
 Of his own corps, nor even th<! corps, which had 
 Quite disappear'd the gods know how ! (I can't 
 
 Account for every thing which may look bad 
 In history ; but we at least may grant 
 
 It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 
 In search of glory, should look on before, 
 Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps : ) 
 
 XXXII. 
 Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
 
 And left at large, like a young heir, to make 
 His way to where he knew not single-handed; 
 
 As travellers follow over bog and brake 
 An "ignis fatuus," or as sailors stranded 
 
 Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 
 Po Juan, following honour and his nose, 
 Rush'n wh"- tiii] tmciW *\- announced most foes. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He knew not where he was, nor greatly carevl, 
 
 For he was diz'.v, busy, and his veins 
 Fill'd as with ^.tning 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 its hoarsest strains, 
 He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
 By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon ! 6 
 
 XXXIV. 
 And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
 
 Fell in with what was late the second column. 
 Under the orders of the general 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 
 
 Who had " retreated," as the phrase is, when 
 Men run away much rather than go through 
 
 Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 
 But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 
 
 Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 
 And never ran away, except when running 
 Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
 
 Except Don Juan a mere novice, whose 
 More virgin valour never dreamt of flying, 
 
 From ignorance of danger, which indues 
 Its votaries, like innocence relying 
 
 On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,- 
 Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
 Those who catch cold in " shadows of death's valley." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
 
 Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 
 Rampart, wall, casement, house for there was noi 
 
 In this 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. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they camo 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
 
 And though his- name than Ajax or Achilles 
 Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soot 
 
 We shall not see his likeness : he could kill bin 
 Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
 
 Her steady breath (which some months the SUM 
 
 still is;) 
 
 Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 
 And could be verv busy without bustle ;
 
 >40 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAXTO VI 1L 
 
 XL. 
 
 And thcrcfoie, when he ran away, he did so 
 
 Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
 He would fin I 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. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But Johnson only ran off 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. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Egad ! they found the second time what they 
 The first time thought quite terrible enough 
 
 To fly from, malgre all which people say 
 Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 
 
 Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, 
 
 That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) 
 
 They found on their return the self- same welcome, 
 
 Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 
 
 XLIII. 
 They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 
 
 Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 
 Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
 
 As any other boon for which men stickle. 
 The Turkish -batteries thrash'd them 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 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 scamper'd, 
 
 Reach' d the interior talus of th-j rampart. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 first one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, 
 
 Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
 Ail 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 
 Hwir martial faces on the parapet, 
 Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 
 
 XLVI. 
 But those who scaled found out that their advance 
 
 Was favojr'd by an accident or blunder: 
 Jlie Greek or Turkish Cohorn-'s ignorance 
 
 Had paiisadoed in a way you 'd wonder 
 |V aee in f^rts of Netherlands or France 
 
 (Though these to our Gioraltar must knock under) 
 Right in the middle of the parapet 
 )u<.f fiamea, these pulisudes were primly set: 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 So that on either side some nine or ten 
 Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 
 
 To march ; a great convenience to our men 
 At least to all those who were left alive, 
 
 Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
 And that which further aided them to strive 
 
 Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 
 
 Which scarcely rose much higher than grass bla<* <*. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Among the first, I will not say the Jirsl, 
 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 ; 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And that if Blucher, 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 those who fought till now 
 
 As tigers combat with an empty craw, 
 
 The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 
 
 His orders, also to receive his pensions, 
 
 Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 
 
 L. 
 
 But never mind ; " God save the king !" and kings ' 
 For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer. 
 
 I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 
 The people by and by will be the stronger: 
 
 The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrir.gs 
 So much into the raw as quite to wrow; her 
 
 Beyond the rules of posting, and .he mob 
 
 At last fall sick of imitating Job. 
 
 LI. 
 
 At first it grumbles, then it swears, and ttien, 
 
 Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant , 
 At lasr. it. takes to weapons, such as men 
 
 Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. 
 Then " comes the tug of war ;" 't wiil come again, 
 
 I rather doubt ; and I would fain say u fie on 't,' 
 If I had not perceived that revolution 
 Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 
 
 LII. 
 But to continue : I say not the first, 
 
 But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 
 Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
 
 Amidst such scenes though this was quite a new one 
 To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
 
 Of glory, which so pierces through and through one 
 Pervaded him although a generous creature, 
 As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 
 
 LIII. 
 And here he was who, upon woman's breast, 
 
 Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 
 The man in all the rest might be confess'd; 
 
 To him it was Elysium to be there ; 
 And he could even withstand that awkwa'd lest 
 
 Which Rousseau points out to the duoiou? fa'i, 
 "Observe your lover when he leaves your arms; 
 But Juan never left them while they 'd charn-*.
 
 CANTO VUI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 64 1 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Unless compell'd by fate, or wave or wind, 
 Or near relations, who are much the same. 
 
 But here he was ! where each tie that can bind 
 Humanity must yield to steel and flame: 
 
 And /;, whose very body was all mind, 
 Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 
 
 The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 
 
 Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 
 
 LV. 
 
 So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 
 As is the hunter's at the five -bar gate, 
 
 Or double post and rail, where the existence 
 Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 
 
 The lightest being the safest: at a distance 
 He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
 
 Blood, until heated and even there his own 
 
 At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Die General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 
 
 Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
 As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 
 
 Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
 TJ Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 
 
 His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
 Not reckoning him to be a "base Bezonian" 
 (As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 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 which sceni'd to thank, 
 
 He recognised an officer of rank. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
 No common language ; and besides, in time 
 
 Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
 Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
 
 It 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 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, 
 
 \s soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 
 
 Of human nature's agonizing voice! 
 
 LX. 
 
 The town was enter'd. Oh eternity! 
 14 God made the country, and man made the town," 
 
 So Cowper says and I begin to be 
 Ol his opinion, when I see cast down 
 
 ROJO, 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. 
 86 
 
 LXI. 
 
 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 Gener^WJoon, 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. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Crime came not near him she is not the child 
 Of solitude ; health shrank noL from him for 
 
 Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, 
 
 Where if men v?ek her not, and death be mure 
 
 Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
 By habit to what their own hearts abhor 
 
 In cities caged. The present case in point I 
 
 Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 
 
 LXHI. 
 
 And what's still stranger, left behind a name 
 For which men vainly decimate the throng, 
 
 Not only famous, but of that good fame 
 Without which glorv 's but a tavern song 
 
 Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 
 
 Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wiong; 
 
 An active hermit, even in age the child 
 
 Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 'T is true he shrank from men, even of his nation. 
 When they built up unto his darling trees, 
 
 He moved some hundred miles off", for a station 
 Where there were fewer houses and more ease- 
 
 The inconvenience of civilization 
 
 Is, that you neither can be pleased nor p'.ease ; - 
 
 But, where he met the individual man, 
 
 He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 He was not all alone : around him grew 
 A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 
 
 Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
 Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 
 
 On her unwnnkled 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. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And tall and strong and swifl of foot were they 
 
 Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 
 Because their thoughts had never been the prny 
 
 Of care or gain : the green woods were their portion* , 
 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. 
 
 LXVII. 
 Motion was in their days, rest in their slurnbeis, 
 
 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 whu-h stings, the splendour which encumber* 
 
 With the free foresters divi'le no spoil 
 Serene, not sullen, wete the solitudes 
 Of this unsighin^ people f the woo<i
 
 c>42 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO Vlll. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Sft much for nature: --by way of variety, 
 Now back to thj great joys, civilization ! 
 
 And the sweet consequence of large society, 
 War, pestilence, tho despot's desolation, 
 
 The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 
 
 The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 
 
 The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, 
 
 With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The town was enter'd: first one column made 
 Its sanguinary way good then another ; 
 
 The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
 
 Clash'd 'gainst the 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 Turta their city still dispute. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Koutousow, he who 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: 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 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: 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 And, had it not bean 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 reacli'd, as day-break was expanding, 
 That which a portal to their eyes did seem, 
 
 The great and gay Kou'ousow might have lain 
 
 Where three parts of his column yet remain. 
 
 LXXIH. 
 
 And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 
 
 After the taking of the " cavalier," 
 Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes" 
 
 Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
 Opcn'd the gate call'd "Kilia" to the groups 
 
 Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near, 
 Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud, 
 Now th? w'd into a marsh of human blood. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 l"he Ko/aks, or if so you please, Cossacks 
 
 (I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 
 fcio that 1 do not grossly err in facts, 
 
 Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) 
 flaving been used to serve on horses' backs, 
 
 And no great dilettanti in topography 
 Of tb'tnjssps, but fighting where it pleases 
 Th>ii ch:eta to oi'ier, were an cut to pieces. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
 Upon them, ne'erlheless had reach'd the rampart, 
 
 And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
 The city, without being further hamper'd ; 
 
 But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd 
 The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd. 
 
 Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corne's, 
 
 From whence they sallied on those Christian scornera. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 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 perish'd without shivering or shaking, 
 
 Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
 O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
 March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki: 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
 But could not eat them, being in his turn 
 
 Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
 Without resistance, see their city burn. 
 
 The walls were won, but 't was an even bet 
 
 Which of the armies would have cause to mourn* 
 
 'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 
 
 For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Another column also sufTer'd much : 
 And here we may remark with the historian, 
 
 You should but give few cartridges to such 
 Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on 
 
 When matters must be carried by the touch 
 
 Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hui ry on. 
 
 They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, 
 
 Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 A junction of the General Meknop's men 
 
 (Without the General, who had fallen soms time 
 
 Before, being badly seconded just then) 
 Was made at length, with those who darod, to climb 
 
 The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 
 
 And, though the Turk's resistance was sublime, 
 
 They took the bastion, which the Sera skier 
 
 Defended at a price extremely dear. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Juan and Johnson and some volunteers, 
 
 Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, 
 A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
 
 Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. 
 He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
 
 A savage sort of military martyr. 
 An English naval officer, who wish'd 
 To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 For all the answer to his proposition 
 
 Was from a pistol-shot that laid hid dead; 
 On which the rest, without more intei mission, 
 
 Began to lay about with steel and cad, 
 The pious metals most in requisition 
 
 On such occasions : not a single hoad 
 Was spared, three thousand Moslems perisn il her*) 
 And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.
 
 vin. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 643 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Fhe 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. 
 
 LXXX1II. 
 
 A Russian officer, in martial tread 
 
 Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
 Seized fast, as if 't were 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 howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal 
 The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
 As do the subtle snakes described of old. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
 Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 
 
 The very tendon which is most acute 
 
 (That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 
 
 Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through '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. 
 
 LXXX7. 
 
 However this may be, 't is pretty sure 
 The Russian officer for life was lamed, 
 
 For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
 And lift him 'midst the invalid and maim'd: 
 
 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 off, and sca:ce even then let go. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But then the fact 's a fact and 't is 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 the mart 
 
 For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
 4nd that outrageous appetite for lies 
 Which Satan angles with for souls like flies. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 The city's taken, but not render'd ! No! 
 
 There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword: 
 The blood may gusli 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. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
 
 And human lives are iarish'd every where, 
 As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves, 
 
 When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 
 -Vnd groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
 
 Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 
 But still it fall" wit 1 - ast and awful splinters, 
 As oaks '.j.utvn down w it:. & tneir thousand winters. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 It is an awful topic but 'tis not 
 
 My cue for any time to be terrific : 
 For chequer' frls it seems our human lot 
 
 With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
 Of melancholy merriment, to quote 
 
 Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
 Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
 I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 
 
 XC. 
 
 And one good action in the midst of crimes 
 Is "quite refreshing" in the affected phrase 
 
 Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 
 
 With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, 
 
 And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
 A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
 
 Of conquest and its consequences, which 
 
 Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
 
 Thousands of slaughter'd mer, a yet warm group 
 
 Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
 To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
 
 And shudder; while, as beautiful as May, 
 A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
 
 And hide her little palpitating breast 
 
 Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Two villai.Dus 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? 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCIV. 
 One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulat 
 
 And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
 If there miaht be chirurgeons 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. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 And she was chill as they, and on her face 
 A slender streak of blood announced how near 
 
 Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
 For the same blow which laid her mother her* 
 
 Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson tract 
 As the last link with all she had heid dear; 
 
 But else unhurt, she open'd h-jr large eyes. 
 
 And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
 
 t.44 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO VI I L 
 
 XGVI. 
 
 Jiret At this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
 
 upon each oilier, with dilated glance, 
 In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
 
 With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
 Jnto his protege ; while hers, transfix'd 
 
 With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
 4. pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
 Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; 
 
 XCVII. 
 Dp came John Johnson (I will not say "./aci," 
 
 For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace 
 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 '11 bet Moscow to a dollar, 
 That you and I will win Saint George's collar.* 
 
 XCVI1I. 
 **The Seraskicr 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 : 't is 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. 
 
 XCIX. 
 *Tht up with me!" But Juan answer'd, "Look 
 
 Upon this child I saved her must not leave 
 Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
 
 Of safety, where she less may shriek and grieve, 
 And I am with you." Whereon Johnson took 
 
 A glance around and shrugg'd and twitch'd his 
 
 sleeve 
 
 And black silk neckcloth and replied, " You 're right ; 
 Poor thing! what's to be done? I'm puzzled quite." 
 
 C. 
 Said Juan " Whatsoever is to be 
 
 Done, I '11 not quit her till she seems secure 
 Of present life a good deal more than we." 
 
 Quoth Johnson " Neither will I quite insure ; 
 But at the least you may die glomously." 
 
 Juan replied " At least I will endure 
 Wliate'cr is to be borne but not resign 
 This child, who 's parentless, and therefore mine." 
 
 CI. 
 Johnson said "Juan, we've no lime to lose; 
 
 The child 's a pretty child a very pretty 
 I never sasv such eyes but hark ! now choose 
 
 Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity: 
 Hark ! how the roar increases ! no excuse 
 
 Will ser\u when there is plunder in a city; 
 [ Khnulil be loth to march without you, but, 
 By God ! we '11 be too late for the first cut." 
 
 CII. 
 But Juan was immoveable ; until 
 
 Joniison, who really loved him in his way, 
 PiekM out amongst his followers with some skill 
 
 JMich as he thought the least given up to prey: 
 And swearing if the infant came to ill 
 
 That they should all be shot on the next day, 
 Bu' if she were dtuvsr'u safe ard sound, 
 Tli<! sh.iuld at least have fifty roubles round, 
 
 CHI. 
 
 And all allowances besides of plunder 
 
 In fair proportion with their comrades ; then 
 
 Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
 Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of m<n. 
 
 And yet the rest rush'd eagerly no wonder, 
 For they were heated by the hope of gain, 
 
 A thing which happens everywhere each day-- 
 
 No hero trusteth wholly to half-Bay. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 And such is victory, and SHch is man ! 
 
 At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; God 
 May have another name for half we scan 
 
 As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
 But to our subject : a brave Tartar Khan, 
 
 Or "*u&an," as the author (to whose nod 
 In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
 This chieftain somehow would not yield at all: 
 
 cv. 
 
 But, flank'd by Jive 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, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 
 
 Neither, but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 
 
 Who fought with his five children in the van. 
 
 CVI. 
 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 or 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. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 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 Bende- 
 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 trifling provocations. 
 
 CVIII. 
 And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
 
 Expended all their eastern phraseology 
 In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
 
 So much less fight as might form an apology 
 For them in saving such a desperate foe 
 
 He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
 When thov dispute with sceptics ; and wilh curses 
 Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 
 
 CIX. 
 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 wrotn 
 
 At such a pertinacious infidel, 
 And pour'd upon him and his sons li! c e rain, 
 Which they resisted like a sandy plain
 
 VANTO Vlll. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 643 
 
 (X. 
 
 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 nourished, 
 Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 
 
 Because defbrm'd, yet Jied all game and bottom, 
 
 To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 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 girls in green, 
 Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 
 
 On earth, in Paradise ; and, when once seen, 
 Those Houris, like all other pretty creatures, 
 Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And what they pleased to do with the young Khan 
 In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 
 
 But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
 To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 
 
 And that 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
 A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 
 
 For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 
 
 You '11 find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 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 immediate fruits. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 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 fight, 
 As though there were one heaven and none besides, 
 
 Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 
 
 And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 
 
 That when the very lance was in his heart, 
 lie shouted, "Allah!" and saw Paradise 
 
 With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 
 And bright eternity without disguise 
 
 On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, 
 vYith prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 
 (n one voluptuous blaze, and then he died : 
 
 CXVI. 
 But, with a heavenly rapture on his face, 
 
 The good ota Rhan 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 tarth, which he became like a fei'.'J tree, 
 Caused for a moment from the fight, an'! cast 
 A. glance on that <slain son, his first and last. 
 3H 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 The soldiers, who beheld him dnip his point, 
 Stopp'd as if once more wiling to ri>nce<ie 
 
 Quarter, in casFhe bade then not "aroint!" 
 As he before had done. He did not heed 
 
 Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
 And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 
 
 As he look'd down upon his children gone, 
 
 And felt though done with life he was alone. 
 
 CXVIH. 
 
 But 'twas a transient tremor: with a spring 
 Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 
 
 As carelessly as hurls the moth her wii.g 
 Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 
 
 Closer, that all the deadlier they might wrinj, 
 Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young , 
 
 And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 
 
 In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 'T is strange enough the rough, tough soldiers, who 
 Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
 
 Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
 And lay before them with his children near, 
 
 Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 
 Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 
 
 Flow'd from their blood-shot eyes, all red with strife 
 
 They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
 Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post: 
 
 Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, 
 And baffled the assaults of all their host ; 
 
 At length he condescended to inquire 
 If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 
 
 And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 
 
 To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, 
 Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 
 
 Tobacco on a little carpet ; Troy 
 
 Saw nothing like the scene around ; yet, looking 
 
 With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
 His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 
 
 His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 
 
 As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 The town was taken whether he might yield 
 
 Himself or bastion, little matter'd now ; 
 His stubborn valour was no future shield. 
 
 Ismail 's no more ! The crescent's silver btnr 
 Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
 
 But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 
 Of burning streets, like moonlight oa the water, 
 Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 All that the mind would shrink from of excesses , 
 
 All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
 All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses , 
 
 AH that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
 All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 
 
 All by which hell is peopled, rr as sad 
 As hell mere mortals who their power abusey 
 Was here (as heretofore and since} 'et .oose.
 
 646 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO vn. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 If here and then* some transient trait of pity, 
 Was shown, ond some more noble heart broke through 
 
 Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
 Child, or an aged helpless man or two 
 
 What 's this in one annihilated city, 
 
 Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow ? 
 
 Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris! 
 
 Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Think how the joys of reading a gazette 
 
 Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 
 Or, if these do not move you, don't forget 
 
 Such doom may be your own in after times. 
 Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, 
 
 Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 
 Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 
 Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 But still there is unto a patriot nation, 
 
 Which loves so well its country and its king, 
 A subject of sublimest exultation 
 
 Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 
 Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 
 
 Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
 Gaunt Famine never shall approach (he throne 
 Tho' Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. 
 
 C XX VII. 
 
 But let me put an end unto my theme : 
 
 There was an end of Ismail hapless town ! 
 Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 
 
 And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
 The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
 
 Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
 Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
 Some hundreds breathed the rest were silent all ! 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 In one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise 
 
 The Russian army upon this occasion, 
 A virtue much in fashion uow-a-days, 
 
 And therefore worthy of commemoration : 
 The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase 
 
 Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 
 In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 
 Had made them chaste ; they ravish'd very little. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
 
 Might here and there occur some violation 
 fa the other line ; but not to such excess 
 
 As when the French, that dissipated nation, 
 Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
 
 Except cold weather and commiseration ; 
 But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 
 Were almost as much virgins as before. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark, 
 Which show'a a want of lanterns, or of taste 
 
 Indeed tne tfinoke was such they scarce could mark 
 Their friends from foes, besides such things from 
 haste 
 
 Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
 Ol light to save the venerably chaste : 
 
 But "iv >ld damsels, each of seventy years, 
 
 Wr all ilpflowerM by different grenadiers. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 But on the whole their continence was great ; 
 
 So that some .disappointment there ensued 
 To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
 
 Of "single blessedness," and thought it good 
 (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 
 
 To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
 To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 
 Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 
 
 C XXXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXXXHI. 
 
 Suwarrow now was conqueror a match 
 For Timor 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!" (Power 
 
 Eternal! such names mingled!) "Ismail's ours!"* 
 
 C XXXIV. 
 
 Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
 Since " Men^, Mene, Tekel," and " Upharsin," 
 
 Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
 Heaven help me ! I 'in 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. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 He wrote this polar melody, and see it, 
 
 Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 
 Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it 
 
 For I wil. teach, if possible., the stones 
 To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
 
 Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones ; 
 But ye our children's children ! think how we 
 Show'd what things were before the world was fre ' 
 
 CXXX VI. 
 That hour is not for us, but 't is 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, 
 Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 
 
 And those that sate upon them, let it be 
 As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones, 
 
 And wonder what old world such things could see 
 Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 
 
 The pleasant riddles of futurity 
 Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
 As the real purpose of a pyramid.
 
 CANTO 1A. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 Reader. I have kept my word, at least so far 
 As the first canto promised. You have now 
 
 Had sketches of love, tempest, trav%], 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 forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 
 
 But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 
 
 What further hath befallen or may befall 
 The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 
 
 I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
 But now I choose to break 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. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 This special honour was conferr'd, because 
 He had behaved with courage and humanity ; 
 
 Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
 From their ferocities produced by vanity. 
 
 His little 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 Su Vladimir. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
 For she was homeless, houseless, helpless : all 
 
 Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
 Hid perish'd in the field or by the wall: 
 
 Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
 Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call 
 
 To prayer was heard no more ! and Juan wept, 
 
 . nd made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 
 
 CANTO IX 
 
 i. 
 
 CH, 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 Ic-ugh the same) 
 
 You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise ; 
 Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 
 Humaiiity would rise, and thunder " Nay !" ' 
 
 II. 
 [ don't think that you used K n rd quite well 
 
 In Marinet's affair in fact 't was shabby, 
 And, like some other things, won't do to tell 
 
 Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
 <Tpori the rest 'tis not worth white to dwell, 
 
 Sucl. talus being for the tea hours of some tabby; 
 Hut though your years as man tend fast to zero, 
 n fact your grace is still but a young liero. 
 
 III. 
 
 Though Britain owes (and pays you too; so mucn 
 Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 
 
 You have repaid legitimacy's crutch 
 A prop not q ,.te 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). 
 
 IV. 
 
 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? 
 
 V. 
 
 I am no flatterer you 've supp'd full of flattery : 
 
 They say you like it too 't is no great wonder 
 He whose whole life has been assault and battery 
 
 At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
 And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
 t May like being praised for every lucky blunder: 
 Call'd "Saviour of the Nations" not yet saved, 
 And "Europe's Liberator" still enslaved. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 
 
 Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
 And send the sentinel before your gate, 2 
 
 A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
 He fought, but has not fed so well of late, 
 
 Some hunger too they say the people feels: 
 There is no doubt that you deserve yo-ir ration- 
 But pray give back a little to the nation. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I don't mean to reflect a man so great as 
 You, my Lord Duke! is far above reflection. 
 
 The high Roman fashion too of Cmcinnatus 
 With modern history has but small connexion: 
 
 Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 
 
 You need iv>t take them under your direction: 
 
 And half a million for your Sabine farm 
 
 Is rather dear ! I 'm sure I mean no harm. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses, 
 
 Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
 Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 
 
 George Washington had thanks and nought besidt^ 
 Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 
 
 To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 
 And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 
 Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis. 
 
 IX. 
 Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
 
 Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
 You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity 
 
 Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore , 
 And now what j your fame ? Shallthu muse tune it y T 
 
 Now that the rabble's first vain ihouts are o'rv ' 
 Go, hear in your famish'd country's cries ! 
 Behold the world ! and curse your victories '
 
 6-J3 
 
 BYRON'S WORK?. 
 
 CAXTO 1JL. 
 
 But which, tb am* to tench the ! 
 Who fatten on the* country's gore a 
 
 JnWfe reeked, and khnoi ah 
 Ton <&* gratf things; but, not being 
 
 Ki*e .-;:": --..-.:-.; '.- --;.;.*.: i.-.: 
 
 XL 
 Death hnghs-G* ponder o'er dw skeleton 
 
 With which Men image oat die unknown dung 
 That hides die past world, Eke to a set sun 
 
 Which stffl else. where may rouse a brighter spring: 
 Death laughs at al you weep for ;-look upon 
 
 This hourly dread of al whose tfcrefa'<* tUmg 
 Tuns fife to terror, even though in its sheath! 
 Mark! how its unless mouth grins without breath! 
 
 xn. 
 
 Hark! how k laughs and scorns at al you are! 
 
 And yet ** what you are: from ear to ear 
 ft Imijfti not diere is now no fleshy bar 
 
 So eaTd; die antic kng hath ceased to hear, 
 But stm he mriri, and whedter near or far, 
 
 He strips from man dt mantle (far more dear 
 Than even die tailor's) his incarnate skin, 
 White, black, or copper die dead bones wffl grin. 
 
 xm. 
 
 And dms Death laughs, d b sad mmbamt, 
 But sol it it so; and with such example 
 
 Why should not Life be equally content, 
 Wife hb superior, in a smue to trample 
 
 Upon die nothings which are dairy spent 
 Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
 
 Than dbe eternal deluge, which devours 
 
 Suns as rays worlds like atoms years hke ours? 
 
 XIV. 
 "To be, or not to be! that b die question,'' 
 
 Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 
 I am neither Alexander nor HepiuesUon, 
 
 Nor ever had for obttrod fame much passion; 
 But would much rather have a sound digestion. 
 
 Than Bonaparte's cancer: could I dash on 
 Fjrough fifty victories to shame or fame, 
 Without .a stomach what were a good name? 
 
 XV. 
 'Oh, dura flb, messorum!" "Oh, 
 
 Ye rigid guts of reapers I" I translate 
 for die great benefit of those who know 
 
 What indigestion is that inward fate 
 iVHeh makes al Styx through one small liver flow. 
 
 A peasant's sweat b worth hb lord's estate: 
 Let Out one to. for bread dot rack for rent, 
 U who sleeps best may be die most content. 
 
 XVL 
 To oe, or DX to be!" Ere I decide, 
 
 I should be giad *> know dm which u being, 
 T' true we speculate both far and wide, 
 And deem, because we wx, we are alLttting : 
 KOI my part, 111 enlist on neither side, 
 
 Until I see both sides for once agreeing, 
 r'w me, I sometimes dunk that fife b death, 
 i^. life A mere affair of breath. 
 
 As an 
 
 So atde 
 
 XVII. 
 
 was die roeito of Montaigne, 
 so of die first acaJecrJcians : 
 1 b fr-'r'T-r which max, uuy attain, 
 one of dxsr anost favwritp pcsiooas, 
 na> such dung as certainty, thit'* 
 
 _ 
 now* what we're about 
 
 ix if lanta it5t.f be 
 
 xvm. 
 
 It b a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
 
 Lite Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; 
 But what if carrying sail capsize die boat?. 
 
 Your wise men don't know much of navigation , 
 And iiinmnini, long in die abyss of thought 
 
 b apt to tire: a calm and shallow station 
 Wei mgh die store, where one stoops down and gather* 
 Some pretty sheB, b best for moderate bathers. 
 
 X!X. 
 M But heaven, as Cassio says, " b above all 
 
 No more of this dien, let us pray!" We have 
 Soms to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
 
 Which Imakli il all mankind into die grave, 
 Besides fish, beasts, and buds. "The sparrow's faB 
 
 Is special providence," though bow it gave 
 Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd 
 Upon die tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 
 
 XX. 
 Oh, ye immortal gods! what b dwogony? 
 
 Oh, thou too mortal man! what b philanthropy? 
 Oh, world, which was and b! what b cosmogony 7 
 
 Some people have accused me of misanthropy; 
 And yet I know no more than the mahogany 
 
 That forms dus desk, of what they mean :Lyka 
 
 ; for, without transformation, 
 Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 
 
 XXI. 
 But I, die mildest, meekest of mankind, 
 
 Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 
 Done any thing exceedingly unkind, 
 
 And (though I could not now and then forbear 
 Following die bent of body or of mind) 
 
 Have always had a tendency to spare, 
 Why do they call me misanthrope? Because 
 Tfcy hate me, not I them: And here we'll pause., 
 
 XXH. 
 T time we should proceed with oar good poem, 
 
 For I maintain dial it is really good, 
 Not only in the body, but die proem, 
 
 However little both are understood 
 Just now, but by and by the truth win show 'em 
 
 Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
 And till she doth, I fain must be content 
 To share her beauty and her banishment. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Our hero (and, 1 trust, kind reader! yours) 
 
 Was left upon his way to the chief city 
 Of die immortal Peter's polish' d boon, 
 
 Who stall have shown themselves more brave na 
 
 [ know its mighty empire now allures 
 
 Much flattery even Voltaire's, and that's aprtr. 
 Por me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
 JVW a barbarian, but much worse than that.
 
 /A. 
 
 IVAN. 
 
 64'. 
 
 XXIV. 
 And I writ war, at feast m words (and should 
 
 My chance so happen deeds) with al who war 
 With thought; and of thought's foes by 6r most rude, 
 
 Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 
 1 know not who may conquer: if I could 
 
 Have such a prr.icirncr, it should be no bar 
 To this my plain, sworn, downright deuiBatinn 
 Of every despotism in every nation. 
 
 XXV. 
 ft is not that I adulate the people: 
 
 Without me there are demagogues enough, 
 And infidels to pnO down every steeple, 
 
 And set up in their stead 
 Whether they may sow neuuViua to reap hd. 
 
 As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 
 I do not know ; I wish men to be free 
 As much from mobs as kings from you as me. 
 
 XXVL 
 The comeuutnce is, being of no party, 
 
 I shall offend al parlies; mm maw! 
 My words, al least, are more sincere and hearty 
 
 Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 
 He who has nought to gain can have sum! art: 
 
 Who neither wishes to be bound nor hmd 
 May still erpatiatf fredy, as wiO I, 
 Nor give my voice to slavery^ jackal cry. 
 
 XXV1L 
 Tint's an appropriate insili , &Wf >dbsl; 
 
 I've heard them m the Epheaan rams howl 
 By night, as do that mercenary pack al, 
 
 I\iwei s base purveyors, who for pickings 
 And scent the prey their masters would attack 
 
 However the poor jackals are less foul 
 (As being the brave noils' keen providers) 
 HUB 
 
 JLX.VIIL 
 Raise but an arm! *t wffl brash their web away, 
 
 And without (hut, then- poison and their daws 
 Are imdets. Mind, good people! what I say 
 
 (Or rather peoples) f without 
 The web of these tarantulas each day 
 
 Increases, til you shal make 
 None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
 As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 
 
 XZDL 
 
 Don Joan, who had shone in die fate jiiughtu, 
 Was left upon his way with the despatch, 
 
 Where blood was tafc'd of as we would of water; 
 And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
 
 O'er silenced ones, merdv, served to flatter 
 
 Between these nations a* a mam of cocks, 
 Therein she iked her own to stand fike rocks. 
 
 XXX. 
 And there in a bfcrta here roJPd oa 
 
 (A cursed sort of carnage without spimgs, 
 Which oa rough roads leaves searcdy a whole bone), 
 
 Pounermg oc c-ocv, cr*rvi_y. ^.r.i s.'i'?* 
 And orders, and on aB that he had done 
 
 .\nd wishmg that post-horses had the wmgs 
 Of Pegasus, or at the feast post-chaises 
 Had feathers, when a traveler oa deep ways is. 
 
 3 H i bT 
 
 XXX.!. 
 
 At every jok- 
 
 He tura'd his ejcs upon h hide charge, 
 As if he wmVd Jlnt she should fare less si 
 
 Than he, m fl!& sad highwars left at large 
 To ruts and fints, and lovely nalrnVs skn% 
 
 Who is no pavioar, nor admits a barge 
 On kar canab, where God lakes sea and land, 
 Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 
 
 At feast he pays no rent, and has heat right 
 To be the first of what we ased to cal 
 
 Since lately there have been no rents at al, 
 And "gentlemen" are ia a piteous night. 
 
 And "farmers" can't rake Ceres from her fal 
 She fel with Bonaparte: What strange 
 Arise, when we see cnyeims fal with oats! 
 
 XT Tin 
 But Juan tura'd his eve* oa the sweet dnU 
 
 Oh! ye who bmU op 
 
 With gore, ike Nadir Shah, that costive Sopfc f. 
 Who, after tearing Hindnatan a wid, 
 
 Ami scarce to the Mogul a cup of < 
 To soothe his woes withal, < 
 Became he could no more digest his dmner: 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Oh ye! or we! or she! or he! reflect, 
 That ne be saved, especialy if young 
 
 Or pretty, is a thing to retolect 
 Far sweeter than the greenest laurels i|lnaj, 
 
 From the manure of liiiuiii c3ay, though decked 
 With affl the praises ever said or sung: 
 
 Though bymn'd by every harp, . 
 
 Tour heart joins chorus, 1 
 
 Oh, yegr 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 \V. Mice tmj 
 
 ,: is% mhe! 
 
 bribe* 
 
 Whether you're paid by j 
 To prove the |II*JJL debt is not 
 
 Or, roughly treadmg on the u courtier's kjbes" 
 With dowaish hed, your papular ckcdbtian 
 Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvanoa: 
 
 XXXVL 
 Oh, ye great authors ! * A-propus de hottec 1 * 
 
 I have nrgonea what I meant to cay, 
 As sometimes have been greater sages' lots. 
 
 Twas nwrhmg ralmblrd to afiay 
 A3 wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: 
 
 Certes n would have been but thrown away, 
 And oat's owe comfort for myloat advice, 
 Akhough no donat it was beyond al price. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 But let it go- it wa one day be found 
 
 Win other refits of -a former world.'* 
 When due werld shal he / mm, undeigiouml. 
 
 Thrown topsy-turvy, twicted, erispM, and curt"*. 
 Baked, fried, cr burnt, tun'd male out, or uru.n'u, 
 
 Like al the worVTs before, which have bra hurt* 
 First out of and then hack again to chaos,
 
 h50 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO IX, 
 
 xxxvm. 
 
 So Cuvier says ; and then shall come again 
 
 Unto the new creation, rising out 
 From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 
 
 Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt: 
 Like ti 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. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! 
 
 How the new worldlings of the then new east 
 Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
 
 (For they themselves will be but of the least : 
 Een worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
 
 And every new creation hath decreased 
 In size, from overworking the material 
 Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial). 
 
 XL. 
 
 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, 
 
 Jjook like the monsters of a new museum ! 
 
 XLI. 
 But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
 
 " The time is out of joint," and so am I j 
 i quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
 
 And deviate into matters rather dry. 
 I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
 
 Much too poetical : men should know why 
 They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 
 I never ki.ow the word which will come next. 
 
 XLII. 
 So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
 
 Now pondering : it is time we should narrate: 
 I left Don Juan with his horses baiting 
 
 Now we '? get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
 I shall not \>e particular in slating 
 
 His journey, we 've so many tours of late : 
 Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
 That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 
 
 A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
 Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 
 
 Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, 
 And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 
 
 Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, 
 White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
 O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk: 
 
 XLIV. 
 Svppose 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 
 
 Beaii'.y springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 
 Seeing how srt can make her work more grand, 
 
 (When she don't pin men's liribs in like a jailor) 
 heiioid him nlaced as if upon a pillar ! He 
 t*m Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ? 
 
 XLV. 
 
 His bandage si.np'd down into a cravat; 
 
 His wings subdued to epaulets ; his qu'ver 
 Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 
 
 His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever ; 
 His bow converted into a cock'd hat; 
 
 But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 
 Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
 If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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 Patagonian jealous. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
 Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 
 
 There was a something in his turn of limb, 
 
 And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 
 
 That though he look'd 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 : 4 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 No wonder then that YermolofT, or Momonoff, 
 
 Or Scherbatoff, or any other qff", 
 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 cnougk 
 
 Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
 Of him who, in the language of his station, 
 Then held that "high official situation." 
 
 XLIX. 
 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 obeys, 
 Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning, 
 Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 
 
 L. 
 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- 
 Thai monstrous hieroglyphic that long spout 
 
 Of blood and water, leaden Castlcreagh! 
 And here I must an anecdote relate, 
 But luckily of no great length or weight. 
 
 LI. 
 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, 
 Call'd "Cavalier Servente?" a Pygmalion 
 
 Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 'tis) 
 Beneath his art. T\e dame, press'd If disclose them, 
 Said " I^ady, I beseech yol to tuppjsr, them."
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 LII. 
 
 And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
 And mildest, matron-like interpretation 
 
 Of the imperial favourite's condition. 
 'T was 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 ratner broad, made slocks rise and their holders. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
 And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 
 
 The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy, 
 
 With beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 
 
 Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 
 And founded Doctor's Commons : I have conn'd 
 
 The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd, 
 
 Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, 
 Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much, 
 
 Admirins those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
 Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
 
 Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
 Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 
 
 A lover as had cost her many a tear, 
 
 And yet but made a middling grenadier. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Oh, thou " teterrima causa " of all " belli !" 
 Thou gate of life and death ! thou nondescript ! 
 
 Whence is our exit and our entrance, well I 
 May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 
 
 In thy perennial fountain ! how man fell, I 
 
 Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stripp'd 
 
 Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 
 
 Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 
 
 LVL 
 
 Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
 
 Maintain thou art the best; for, after all, 
 From thee we come, to thee we go ; and why, 
 
 To get at thee, not batter down a wall, 
 Or waste a world 1 Since no one can deny 
 
 Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 
 With, or without thee, all things at a stand 
 Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land ! 
 
 LVII. 
 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. 
 
 LVIII. 
 [Tien recollecting the whole empress, nor 
 
 Forgetting quite the woman (which composed 
 \t least three parts of this great whole), she tore 
 
 The letter open with an air which posed 
 The court, that watchM each look her visage wore, 
 
 fjntil a royal smile at length disclosed 
 ("air weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 
 Htr lace was noble, her eyes fine, month gracious. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 
 Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 
 
 Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
 As an EasP^-^ian 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 en quenchless sands, 
 
 Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ! 
 
 LX. 
 
 Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 
 
 She smiled at mad Suwarrcnv's rhymes, who threv 
 Into a Russian couplet, rather dull, 
 
 The whole gazette ot thousands whom he slew. 
 Her third was feminine enough to annul 
 
 The shudder which runs naturally through 
 Our veins, when things called sovereigns think it beC 
 To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
 
 And lighter! first her eye and then her mouth: 
 
 The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, 
 
 Like flowers well wator'd after a long drouth I- 
 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 was on the watch. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
 Wl.en wroth ; while pleased, she was as fine a figur* 
 
 As those who like things losy, ripe, i.nd 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 With her the latter, though at times convenient, 
 Was not so necessary : for they tell 
 
 That she was handsome, and, tho' fierce, look'd lenient. 
 And always used her favourites too well. 
 
 If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 
 Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 
 
 A man," as Giles says ; 6 for, tho' she would widow all 
 
 \ations, she liked man as an individual. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 What a strange thing is man ! and what a strange* 
 
 Is woman 1 What a whirlwind is her head, 
 And what a whirlpool full of depth ana danger 
 
 Is a!', the rest about her! whethe' wed, 
 Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
 
 Mind like the wind ; whatever she has said 
 Or done, is light to what she 'II say or do ; 
 The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 
 
 LXV. 
 Oh, Catherine! (for of all interjections 
 
 To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 
 In love and war) how odd are the connexions 
 
 Of human thoughts, which jostle in thi-ir flight 
 Just now yiurs were cut out in different section* 
 
 Pirst, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quito , 
 Next, of new knights the fresh and glorious natch 
 And lliinOy, he who bro'tght you the dea-jatrb '
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 13 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Shaks-pe ir* 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. 
 
 'T is very true the hill seeni'd rather high 
 For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill 
 
 Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's bless- 
 ing. 
 
 With youth and health all kisses are " heaven-kissing." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up 
 
 And so they fell in love ; she with his fac^, 
 His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
 
 With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
 A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 
 
 Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 
 Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 
 In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 
 
 LXV1II. 
 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," 
 
 ('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, tho' a rash one, 
 For one especial person out of many, 
 Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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 w-; ca" 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. 
 
 LXX. 
 And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), 
 
 Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 
 Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
 
 Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 
 Made up upon an amatory pattern 
 
 A royal husband in all save the ring 
 Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 
 Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey 
 
 LXXI. 
 And when you add to this, her womanhood 
 
 In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray 
 (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
 
 Or better, as the best examples say : 
 Napoleon's, Mary's (Queen of Scotland) should 
 
 Lend to that colour a transcendent ray ; 
 And Pallas also sanctions the same hue 
 Too wise to look through optics black or blue) 
 
 LXXII. 
 Her sweei smile, and her then majestic figure, 
 
 Her p'.umpness, her imperial condescension, 
 Her preference of a boy to men much bigger 
 
 (Fellow? whom Messalina's self would pension), 
 ller prime of lifc, just now in juicy vigour, 
 
 With other extras which we need not mention, 
 AU these, or any one of these, explain 
 Knmiifh to make a stripling very vain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 And that 's enough, for love is vanity 
 
 Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
 Except where 't is a mere insanity, 
 
 A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
 Itself with beauty's frail inanity, 
 
 On which the passion's self seems to depend : 
 And hence some heathenish philosophers 
 Make love the mainspring of the universe. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
 Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 
 
 Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
 That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 
 
 'Gainst reason reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
 With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 
 
 The sound than sense) besides all these pretences 
 
 To love, there are those things which words name senses; 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 
 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 aoubt. 
 
 How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
 That fever which precedes the languid rout 
 
 Of our sensations ! What a curious way 
 
 The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
 To end or to begin with ; the next grand 
 
 Is that which may be 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, 
 
 Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
 
 Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise, 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Well, we won't analyze our story must 
 
 Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 
 Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; 
 
 I cannot stjop to alter words once written, 
 And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 
 
 That he who names one, both perchance may hit on ' 
 But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 
 Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
 
 And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 
 The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
 
 As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 
 On one another, and each lovely fisper 
 
 Smiled as she talk'd the mattei o'er ; but tear* 
 Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
 Of all the standing army who stood bv. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 All the ambassadors of all the powers 
 
 Inquired, who was this very new young man, 
 Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
 
 Which is full soon (though life is but a span). 
 Already they beheld the silver showers 
 
 Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can, 
 Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 
 Of several ribbons and some thousand peasants
 
 CANTO X.. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 653 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Catherine was generous, all such ladies are: 
 Love, that great opener of the heart and all 
 
 The ways thai 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 't is better 
 
 That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 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 iier old age might shorten, 
 Because she put a favourite to death, 
 
 Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation, 
 
 And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
 In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
 
 Ambassadors began as 't were 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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Juan, 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 unernbarrass'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. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 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 ke"?p in mind); 
 
 As also did Miss Protosoff then there, 
 Named, from her mystic office, "1'Eprouveuse," 
 A term inexplicable to the Muse. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 With her then, as in humble duty bound, 
 
 Juan retired, and so will I, until 
 My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 
 
 We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill," 
 So lofly that I feel my brain turn round, 
 
 And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
 Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
 Co take a quiet ride in some green lane. 
 
 X. 
 
 WHEN Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
 In that slight startle from his contemplation 
 
 'T is said (for I '11 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, call'd "gravitation;" 
 
 And thus is the sole mortal who could grapple, 
 
 Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. 
 
 II. 
 
 Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
 If this be true; for we must deem the moA\ 
 
 In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose, 
 
 Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpik- 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 And wherefore this exordium 1 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 eve, 
 
 I wish to do as much by poesy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 
 
 The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
 But at the least I 've 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 mv slight, trim, 
 But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
 Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 
 
 V. 
 We left our hero Juan in the bloom 
 
 Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; 
 And far be it from my Muses to presume 
 
 (For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
 To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
 
 It is enough that fortune found him flush 
 Of youth and vigour, beauty, and those thing* 
 Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 
 
 VI. 
 But soon they grow again, and leave their nest. 
 
 " Oh !" saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove 
 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 longer rcv?s 
 Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, but would mucn -itn 
 Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather '
 
 .BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 CAXTO ^ 
 
 VII. 
 
 But sighs bubside, and tears (even widows') shrink 
 Lvke Arno, in the summer, to a shallow, 
 
 So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 
 
 Which t L re,\tens inundations deep and yellow ! 
 
 Such ditTcrt>icr; doth a few months make. You 'd think 
 Grief a ii--h field which never would lie fallow; 
 
 No more it Joth, its ploughs but change their boys, 
 
 Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 
 
 vin. 
 
 But coughs wi'l come when sighs depart and now 
 And then bi fore 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 \en o'clock : and, while a glow, 
 Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
 
 O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, 
 
 Thousands blaze, love, hope, die how happy they! 
 
 IX. 
 
 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 month of June, 
 
 Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
 Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray, 
 To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 
 
 X. 
 
 Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
 Middle-aged ladies even more than young: 
 
 The former know what 's what ; while new-fledged chicks 
 Know little more of love than what is sung 
 
 In rhymes, or drtam'd (for fancy will play tricks), 
 In visions of those skies from whence love sprung. 
 
 Some reckon women by their suns or years 
 
 I rather think the moon should date the dears. 
 
 XL 
 
 And why? because she's changeable and chaste. 
 
 I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
 Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 
 
 May choose 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. 
 
 XII. 
 Old enemies who have become new friends 
 
 Should so continue 't is a point of honour ; 
 And I know nothing which could make amends 
 
 For a return to hatred : I would shun her 
 Like garlic, howsoever she extends 
 
 Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 
 Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes 
 Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 
 
 XIII. 
 This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 
 
 Even shuffling Southey that incarnate lie 
 tVouiu scarcely join again the "reformadoes," 1 
 
 Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty : 
 And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
 
 Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
 
 Ithould not veer round with every brcatVi, nor seize, 
 1 1 pun, '.he moment when you cease to please. 
 
 XIV. 
 The lawyer and the critic but behold 
 
 The baser sides cf literature and life, 
 And nought remains unseen, but much untold, 
 
 By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
 While 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. 
 
 XV. 
 A legai broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
 
 ,\nd that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty ; 
 The endless soot 2 bestows a tint far deeper 
 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 
 Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper 
 
 At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty 
 In all their habits : not so you, I own ; 
 As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 
 
 XVI. 
 And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
 
 Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 
 (As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
 
 To make such puppets of us things below), 
 Are over : Here 's a health to " Auld Lang Syne ! 
 
 I do not know you, and may never know 
 Your face, but you have acted on the whole 
 Most nobly, and I own it from my souL 
 
 XVII. 
 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 lake my wine 
 
 With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 
 But somehow, it may seem a school-boy's whine, 
 
 And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 
 But I am half a Scot by birth, and hred 
 
 A whole one, and my heart flies to my head : 
 
 XVIII. 
 As " Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland one and all, 
 
 Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
 
 streams, 
 The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall, 1 
 
 Ail 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 't is a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 XIX. 
 And though, as you remember, in a fit 
 
 Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
 I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
 
 Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 
 Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit 
 
 They cannot quench 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." 
 
 XX. 
 Don Juan, who was real or ideal, 
 
 F.or both are much the same, since what men think 
 Exists when 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 't is very puzzling on the brink 
 Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, 
 And know no more of what is here than he^e
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 JUAN. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Dan Juan grew a very polish'd Russian 
 H iw \ve won't mention, why we need not say : 
 
 Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
 Of any slight temptation in their way ; 
 
 But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
 Smoolh'd for a monarch's seat of honour : gay 
 
 Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 
 
 Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 
 
 And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
 Young people at liis 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 This we pass over. We will also pass 
 The usual progress of intrigues between 
 
 Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 
 
 A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 
 
 But one v.-ho is not so youthful as she was 
 In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
 
 Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 
 
 And wrinkles (the d - d democrats) won't flatter. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 
 
 Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, 
 In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry 
 
 Which (though I hate to say a thing that '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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 And this same stale we won't describe : we would 
 
 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 w ith circumspection 
 Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier 
 Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear; 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 won't describe that is, if I can help 
 
 Description *%and I won't reflect that is. 
 f I can stave . ..' thought, which as a wneip 
 
 Clings to its teal sticks to me through the abys 
 )f this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
 
 Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 
 drains its first draught of lips : but, as I said, 
 
 won't philosophize, and will be read. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 fuan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
 A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 
 
 Vluch to his youth, and much to his reported 
 Valour ; much also to the blood he show'd, 
 ike a race-horse ; much to each dress he sporte* 
 Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 
 
 As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 
 
 fie owed to an old woman and his post. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 tie wrote to Spain : and all his near relations, 
 Perceiving he was in a handsome way 
 
 3f 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-piece. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 anchor,- 
 
 Replied, " that f.he was glad to see 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. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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 oJil 
 
 In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 
 Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad : 
 
 Inform'd him that he had a little brother 
 Born in a second wedlock ; and above 
 All, praise'd the empress's maternal love. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 " She could not too much give her approbation 
 
 Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 
 Whose age, and, what was better still, whose natic . 
 
 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.'' 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Oh for a forty-parson power 4 to chaunt 
 
 Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 
 Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
 
 Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ' 
 Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
 
 Who, though her spectacles at last grew .r.m. 
 Drew quiet consolation thro"gh V.s hint, 
 When she no more could read the oious prim.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO X 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
 Erneis, Radulphus eight- an d-forty manors 
 
 {If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
 Were their reward for following Billy's banners ; 
 
 And, though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair 
 To strip the Saxons of their hydes,* like tanners, 
 
 Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 
 
 You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
 He felt like other plants call'd sensitive, 
 
 Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, 
 Save such as Southey can afford to give. 
 
 Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
 In which the Neva's ice would cease to Kve 
 
 Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 
 
 In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Perhaps, but, sans perhaps, we need to seek 
 For causes young or old : the canker-worm 
 
 Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
 As well as further drain the wither d form : 
 
 Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
 His bills in, and, however we may storm, 
 
 They must be paid : though six days smoothly run, 
 
 The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 [ don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
 
 The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 
 (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
 
 Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
 Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
 
 Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
 At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 
 The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 
 
 XL. 
 Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours : 
 
 Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin ; 
 Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, 
 
 Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
 Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, 
 
 Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 
 Others again were ready to maintain, 
 tt 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 
 
 XLI. 
 But here is one prescription out of many : 
 
 M Sodae-sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Manna? optim. 
 A j. lervent. F. 3. iss. 3. ij. tinct. Sennse 
 
 Haustus ' (and here the surgeon came and cupp'dhim) 
 "R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanhas" 
 
 (With more beside, if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 
 ' Bo'us poussse sulplluret. sumendus, 
 til hvistus icr in die capiendus." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
 Secundum artem : 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. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 
 
 Quit ; and, though dea'h had threaten'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 flicker'd with a faint reflection 
 Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
 The faculty who said that he must travel. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
 Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
 
 Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
 Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
 
 But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, 
 
 And drooping like an eagle's wijh clipp'd pinion, 
 
 She then resolved to send him on a mission, 
 
 But in a style becoming his condition. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 There was just then a kind of a discussion, 
 
 A sort of treaty or negotiation 
 Between the British cabinet and Russian, 
 
 Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
 With which great states such things are apt to push onj 
 
 Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
 Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis. 
 Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
 
 Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd 
 This secret charge on Juan, to display 
 
 At once her royal splendour, and rewaru 
 His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 
 
 Received instructions how to play his card, 
 Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, 
 Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 
 
 XLVII. 
 But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 
 
 Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
 Which puzzles us to know what fortune neans. 
 
 But to continue : though her years were war cig 
 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. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 
 
 And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 
 Of candidates requesting to be placen, 
 
 Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumlxv 
 Not that she meant to fix again in haste. 
 
 Nor did she find the quantity encumber. 
 But, a/ways choosing with deliberation, 
 Kept the place open for their emula'ion.
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 65, 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, 
 For one or two days, reader, we request 
 
 You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
 Which wafted him from Petersburgh ; the best 
 
 Barouche, which 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, 6 and now bore hit. 
 
 L. 
 
 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. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The animals aforesaid occupied 
 
 Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
 In other vehicles ; but at his side 
 
 Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
 He made 'gainst 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. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
 And with that gentle, serious character, 
 
 As rare in living beings as a fossile 
 
 Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, "grand Cuvier !" 
 
 Ill fitted 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 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 affection, could not move 
 His bosom for he never had a sister : 
 Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 
 
 LIV. 
 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 ('< will happen as our planet guides) 
 
 His youth was not the chastest that might be, 
 There was the purest platonism at bottom 
 Jf all his feelings only he forgot 'em. 
 
 LV. 
 Just new there was no peril of temptation ; 
 
 He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
 As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 
 
 His pride too felt that she was not enslaved, 
 Owinj to him; as also her salvation, 
 
 Through his means and the church's, might be paved. 
 But oie thing 's odd, which here must be inserted 
 Fhe litJe Turk refused to be converted. 
 31 83 
 
 LVI. 
 
 'T was strange enough she should retain the impression 
 
 Through such a scene of change, and dread, an* 
 
 slaughter ; 
 But, though thre.i 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 j 
 Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it- 
 She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 
 
 LVII. 
 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 were, 
 
 He naturally loved what he protected ; 
 And thus they fbrm'd a rather curious pair : 
 
 A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
 In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender ; 
 And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender, 
 
 LVIII. 
 They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw 
 
 Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
 Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 
 
 Which gave her dukes' the graceless name of "Biron." 
 'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 
 
 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 Let not this seem an anti-climax: "Oh! 
 
 My guard ! my old guard ! " exclai m'd that god of clay- 
 Think of the thunderer's falling down below 
 
 Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
 Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 
 
 But, should we wish to warm us on our way 
 Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
 Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 
 
 LX. 
 From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
 
 And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, 
 Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
 
 Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
 Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
 
 About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
 To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
 Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 
 
 LXI. 
 And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
 
 Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine: 
 Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
 
 All phantasies, not even excepting mine : 
 A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 
 
 Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
 Between the present and past worlds, and novel 
 Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 
 
 LXII. 
 But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
 
 Which Drachenfels frowns o'er, like a spectrn 
 Of the good feudal times for ever gone, 
 
 On which I have not time just now to lecture. 
 From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne. 
 
 A city which presents to the inspector 
 Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone. 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever knowa*
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO J 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 From theno j to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
 That wate" land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 
 
 Where Juniper expresses its best juice 
 The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 
 
 Senates and sages have condemn'd its use- 
 But to deny the mob a cordial which is 
 
 Too of en all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 
 
 Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail, 
 Went bounding for the island of the free, 
 
 Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale ; 
 High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, 
 
 And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale: 
 But Juan, season'd, as he well might be 
 
 By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 
 
 Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 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-kespers, who sterp.'y dealt 
 
 Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 
 
 And made the very billows pay them toll. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 I have no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
 Which holds what mieht 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. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 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 
 F dse triend, who held out freedom to mankind, 
 And now would chain them to the very nrnd ; 
 
 LXVII1. 
 Would she be proudj o* boast herself the free, 
 
 Wht. 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 the key 
 
 Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far 
 From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
 Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Dm Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties 
 Thy cliffs, (If.ar Dover ! harbour, and hotel ; 
 
 Thy custom-house with all its delicate duties ; 
 Thy waitets running mucks at every bell ; 
 
 Tiiy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
 T<. those who upon land or water dwell ; 
 
 And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, 
 
 Thy oif long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
 
 And rich in roubles, 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 duomo, 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 money. 
 
 LXXI. 
 On with the horses! Off to Canterbury! 
 
 Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
 
 puddle ; 
 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" 01 
 
 "Ferflucter" 
 Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 
 
 LXXII. 
 Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
 
 Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 
 As going at full speed no matter where its 
 
 Direction be, so 't is 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. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral; 
 
 Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, 
 Were pointed out as usual by the bedrai, 
 
 In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
 There 's glory again for yon, gentle reader ! all 
 
 Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
 Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias, 
 Which form that bitter draught, the h i man species. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
 
 He breathed a thousand Crcssys, as he snw 
 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 now at least must talk of law, 
 Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 
 And ask'd why such a structure had been raised : 
 
 LXXV. 
 And being told it was " God's house," she said 
 
 He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
 He suffer'd infidels in his homestead, 
 
 The cruel Nazarehes, who had laid low 
 His holy temples in the lands which bred 
 
 The true believers ; and her infant brow 
 Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 
 A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 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 construe Jon 
 Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 
 Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ues,.
 
 INTO X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 A i when I think upon a pot of beer 
 
 Jut I won't weep ! and so, drive on, postilions ! 
 
 AJ* the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
 Juan admired these highways of free millions; 
 
 A country .11 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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, witn 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 we roll, 
 "Surgit aniari aliquid" the toll! 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken 
 To vour 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! 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 1'lie sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
 
 A half-unquench'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.' 
 
 LXXXII. 
 A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 
 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 
 
 In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 
 On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
 On a fool's head and there is London iown! 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
 
 Appear'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) ; 
 The 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. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 He paused and so will I as doth n sr>-.w 
 Before they give their broadside. By ami Uy, 
 
 My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
 
 Off old acquaintance, and at least I'll try 
 
 To Veil you truths you will not take as true, 
 Because they are so, a male Mrs. Fry, 
 
 With a soft besom will I sweep your ha Is, 
 
 And brush a web or two from off the walls. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Fry^ why go to Newgate? Why 
 
 Preach to poor rogues? And wheiefore not begto 
 
 With C It-n, 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. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Teach them the decencies of good threescore: 
 Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses ' 
 
 Tell them that youth cnce gone returns no more; 
 That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses : 
 
 Tell them Sir W-ll m C-rt-s 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; 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, 
 On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 
 
 To set up vain pretences of being great, 
 'Tis not so to be good; and be it stated, 
 
 The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; 
 And tell them but you won't, and I have prated 
 
 Just now enough; but by and by I'll prattle 
 
 Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 
 
 CANTO XI. 
 
 i. 
 
 WHEW Bishop Berkeley said " there was no mutter * 
 
 Ami proved it 'twas no matter what he said: 
 They say his system 'tis in vain to batter, 
 
 Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 
 And yet who can believe it? I would shatter, 
 
 Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead, 
 Or adamant, to find the wot!d a spirit, 
 And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 
 
 II. 
 What a sublime discovery 'twas, to make the 
 
 Universe universal egotism ! 
 That all 's ideal all ourselves ? I '11 stake tlm 
 
 World (be it what you will) that tliat 's no scNsm 
 Oh, doubt! if thou be'st doubt, for which some MKB 
 thee, 
 
 But which I doubt extremely thou sole prism 
 Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spin, i 
 Heaven's brandy though our brain ran hrrHly b*ai it
 
 660 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO XL 
 
 III. 
 
 k'or, ever and anon comes indigestion 
 
 (Not the most "dainty Ariel"), and perplexes 
 
 Our soarings with another sort of question : 
 And that which, afler all, my spirit vexes 
 
 Is, that I find no spot where man ran rest eye on, 
 Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 
 
 Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
 
 The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder 
 
 IV. 
 
 If it be chance ; or if it be according 
 
 To the old text, still better! lest it should 
 
 Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
 As several people think such hazards rude: 
 
 They 're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
 Space to dispute what no one ever could 
 
 Decide, and every body one day will 
 
 Know very clearly or at least lie still. 
 
 V. 
 
 And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
 Discussion, which is neither here nor there: 
 
 If I agree that what is, is then this I call 
 Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 
 
 The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical : 
 I don't know what the reason is the air 
 
 Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 
 
 Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The first attack at once proved the divinity 
 (But that I never doubted, nor th 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 the three were four, 
 
 On purpose to believe so much the more. 
 
 VII. 
 
 To our theme: The man who has stood on the Acropolis, 
 And look'd down over Attica; or he 
 
 Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 
 Or seen 1 umbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
 
 In small-eyed China's crockery- ware metropolis, 
 Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
 
 May not thin* much of London's first appearance 
 
 But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence? 
 
 VIII. 
 Don Juan had got om. on Shooter'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 t'ue creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
 Heard and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 
 Of cities, that boils over with their scum : 
 
 IX. 
 I say. Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
 
 Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 
 A nd, 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, inquisition* ; resurrection 
 A'dj<h H. cacn new meeting or election. 
 
 X. 
 
 " Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
 But what they please; and if that things be dear, 
 
 'Tis only that they love to throw away 
 
 Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. 
 
 Here laws are all inviolate; none lay 
 Traps for the traveller, every highway's clear: 
 
 Here " he was interrupted by a knife, 
 
 With " Damn your eyes ! your money or v?ur life." 
 
 XI. 
 
 These free-born sounds proceeded from four pads, 
 In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 
 
 Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
 Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 
 
 In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
 Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
 
 May find himself, within that isle of riches, 
 
 Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Juan, who did not understand a word 
 
 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 't is 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 : 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 
 And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
 
 Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 
 And fired it into one assailant's pudding 
 
 Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 
 And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in. 
 
 Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
 
 "Oh Jack ! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman !" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 
 And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
 
 Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, 
 And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
 
 Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
 As if his veins would pour out his existence 
 
 Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
 
 And wish'd he'd been less hasty with his flint. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
 
 To welcome foreigners in this way : now 
 [ recollect some innkeepers who don't 
 
 Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 
 [n 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 But, ere they could perform this pious duty, 
 
 The dying man cried, " Hold ! I 've got my gruel! 
 Oh! for a glass of max! We've miss'd our booty; 
 
 Let me die where I am!" And, as the fuel 
 Of life shrunk in his heart, ant 1 ihick and sooty 
 
 The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew 1 
 His breath, he from his swelling l.hroat untied 
 A kerchief, crying "Give S%1 that!" and dice
 
 CANTO XL 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 601 
 
 xvn. 
 
 The cravat, stam'd with bloody drops, fell down 
 Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 
 
 Exactly why it was before him thrown, 
 Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 
 
 Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
 A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 
 
 Full flash, a'l fancy, until fairly diddled 
 
 His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Don Juan, having done the best he could 
 In all the circumstances of the case, 
 
 As soon as "crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 
 His travels to the capital apace ; 
 
 Esteeming it a little hard he should 
 
 In twelve hours' time, a very little space, 
 
 Have been obliged to slay a free-born native 
 
 In self-defence: this made him meditative. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He from the world had cut off a great man, 
 Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 
 
 Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
 Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle ? 
 
 Who queer a flat ? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
 On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle? 
 
 Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), 
 
 So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? 1 
 
 XX. 
 
 But Tom 's no more and so no more of Tom. 
 
 Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, 't is 
 Not long before the most of them go home. 
 
 Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
 1 hat Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 
 
 In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
 Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
 Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 
 
 XXI. 
 
 .Through groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 
 
 (Like lucus from no light); through prospects named 
 Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 
 
 Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 
 Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
 
 With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 
 Through "rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise," 
 Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; 
 
 XXII. 
 Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whir 
 
 Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 
 Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
 
 There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 
 There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
 
 In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 
 Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass 
 (For in those days we had not got to gas): 
 
 xxm. 
 
 Through this, and much and more, is the approacl 
 
 Of travellers to mighty Babylon: 
 Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach. 
 
 With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
 
 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 the bridge. 
 3 i 2 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 hat 's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis 
 Who vindicates a moment too his stream 
 Chough hardly heard through multifarious "dam'mw.* 
 Tike lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam 
 he . ^adth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fam 
 A spectral resident whose pallid beam 
 n shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile 
 Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Druids' groves are gone so much the better . 
 
 Stone-Henge is not but what the devil is it ? 
 Jut 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 <paiz i<\ 
 To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 
 Jut then the Abbey's worth the whole collection 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The line of lights too up to Charing-Cross, 
 Pali-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation, 
 ike gold as in comparison to dross, 
 Match'd with the continent's illumination, 
 
 Vhose cities night by no means deigns to gloss : 
 The French were not yet a lamp-lighting natioi., 
 
 And when they grew so on their new-found lantern, 
 
 "nstead of wicks, they made a wickfcd man turn. 
 
 XXVII. 
 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 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
 Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
 
 Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
 And found him not amidst the various progenies 
 
 Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
 'T was not for want of lamps to aid his dodging hi* 
 
 Yet undiscover'd treasure. What / can, 
 I 've done to find the same throughout life's journej, 
 But see the world is only one attorney. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mall, 
 
 Through crowds and carriages but waxing thinnei 
 As thunder'd knockers broke the long-scal'd spell 
 
 Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
 Admitted a small party as night fell, 
 
 Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinnei, 
 Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
 St. James's Palace and St. James's "Hells." 1 
 
 XXX. 
 They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front QOW 
 
 A tide of well-clad 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 immortal, they are found 
 Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage : 
 But Juan now is stepping from his carnage.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO Xi 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 
 
 Especially for foreigners and mostly 
 For those whom tavour or whom fortune swells, 
 
 And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
 There many an envoy either dwell or dwells 
 
 (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 
 l T ntil to some conspicuous square they pass, 
 And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Juan, whose was a delicate commission, 
 Private, though publicly important, bore 
 
 No title to point out with due precision 
 
 The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 
 
 *T was merely known that on a secret mission 
 A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 
 
 Young, handsome, and accompllsh'd, who was said 
 
 (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
 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. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
 The contrary ; but then *t is 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 they start, 
 
 What matters if the road be head or heart? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 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 the 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. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
 
 And by we '11 talk of that ; and if we don't, 
 Twill be because our notion is not high 
 
 Of politicians and thew double front, 
 Who lives by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : 
 
 Now what I love in women is, they won't 
 Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 
 So weft, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And, alter all, what is a lie ? 'T is but 
 The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 
 
 Ristonans, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
 A fact without some leaven of a lie, 
 
 The verj shadow of true truth would shut 
 Ijp annals, revelations, fioesj, 
 
 And pruphecy except it should be dated 
 
 Somt years befoie the incidents related. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
 
 Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? 
 She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 
 
 Blushes for those who will not: but to sigh 
 Is idle ; let us, like most others, bow, 
 
 Kiss hands, feet any part of Majesty 
 After the good example of " Green Erin," 
 V\ hose shamrock now seems rather worse for 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 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 Icve or brandy's fervent fermentation), 
 
 Bestow'd upon him as the public leam'd ; 
 
 And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Besides the ministe-s and underlings, 
 
 Who must be courteous to the accredited 
 Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
 
 Until their royal riddle 's fully read, 
 The very clerks those somewhat dirty springs 
 
 Of office, or the house of office, fed 
 By foul corruption into streams even they 
 Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 
 
 XLI. 
 And insolence no doubt is what they are 
 
 Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, 
 In the dear offices of peace or war ; 
 
 And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neigh- 
 
 bour, 
 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-bom riches, 
 Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b - a. 
 
 XLII. 
 But Juan was received with much " empressement :" 
 
 These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
 From our next neighbour's land, where, like a chessman 
 
 There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 
 Not 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. 
 
 XLIII. 
 And yet the British " dam'me " 's rather Attic : 
 
 Your 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 politesse, and have a sound affronting n 't : 
 But " dam'me '"s quite ethereal, though 
 Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 
 
 XLIV. 
 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 whaJ 
 You leave behind, the next of much you <\> 
 
 To meet. However, 't is no time to o> at 
 On general topics : poems must confine 
 Themselves to unity, like this of mine.
 
 1ANTO XL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 6G3 
 
 XLV. 
 
 in the great world, which, being interpreted, 
 Meaneth the west or worst end of the city, 
 
 And about twice two thousand people bred 
 By no means to be very wise or witty, 
 
 But to sit up while others lie in bed, 
 And look down on the universe with pity 
 
 Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 
 
 Was well received by persons, of condition. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
 Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
 
 The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 
 And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
 
 T is also of some moment to the latter : 
 A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
 
 Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
 
 The horrid sin and, what's still worse, the trouble. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 But Juan was a bachelor of arts, 
 
 And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
 An 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. 
 
 XLvra. 
 
 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 preferr'd Ineir usual claims,' 
 Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
 
 Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
 
 Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 
 
 XLIX. 
 The milliners who furnish "drapery misses"* 
 
 Throughout the season, upon speculation 
 Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
 
 Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 
 Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
 
 Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 
 Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 
 That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it, 
 
 L. 
 
 1 he Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
 
 And with the pages of the last review 
 Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 
 
 Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: 
 They talk'd bad French of Spanish, and upon it* 
 
 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? 
 
 LI. 
 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, 
 Hail kei>' hii" fron> the brink of Hippocrene, 
 \Vnicti now he found was blue instead of green. 
 
 LII. 
 However, he replied at hazard, with 
 
 A modest confidence and cairn assurance, 
 Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 
 
 ptd pass'd for arguments of good endurance 
 
 -!jdigy, Miss Araminta Smith, 
 [Who at sixteen, translated "Hercules turen* 
 Into as furious English), with her best look, 
 Set down his sayings in her commonplace book. 
 
 LIII. 
 Juan knew several languages as well 
 
 He might and brought them up with skill, in tiro* 
 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-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish, 
 Both longd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 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 itt. 
 
 LV. 
 In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
 
 lake to the champion in the fisty ring, 
 Is cali'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
 
 Although 't is 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. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint-Jean seems Can ; 
 
 " La Beile Alliance" of dunces down at zero, 
 Now that the lion's faU'n, may rise again- 
 
 But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
 
 Or to some lonely isle of jailors go, 
 
 With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe, 
 
 LVII. 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbrf 
 
 Before and after; but now, grown more holr, 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 
 With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 
 
 LVfll.
 
 664 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO X, 
 
 LIX. 
 
 IThen there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 
 
 He '11 find it rather difficult some day 
 To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; 
 And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
 
 And that decp-mouth'd Boeotian, " Savage Landor," 
 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 LX. 
 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 ! his was an untoward fate : 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,' 
 Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 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 thirty 
 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
 
 Their flanks ; but it is hardly worth my while 
 With such sma'il 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 modest curtsy, 
 And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXV. 
 His morns he pass'd in business which, dissected, 
 
 Was like all busings, a laborious nothing, 
 Ifcat .eaas to lassitude, the most infected 
 
 And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 
 And on our sofas makes us UP dejected, 
 
 And talk in tender horrors o r our loathing 
 All kiwis of toil, lave for our rountry's good 
 Vlucn grows no better, ihuugh '.is time it should 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
 Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour 
 
 In riding round those vegetable puncheons, 
 
 Call'd u Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flows 
 
 Enough 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. 
 
 Lxvn. 
 
 Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! 
 
 Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roa 
 Through street and square fast-flashing chariots, hurl' 
 
 Like harness'd meteors ! then along the floor 
 Chalk'd mimics painting ; then festoons are twlrl'd , 
 
 Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
 Which opens to the thousand happy few 
 An earthly paradise of "or molu." 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
 With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz 
 
 The only dance which teaches girls to think 
 Makes one in love even with its very faults. 
 
 Saloon, room, all o'erflow beyond their brink, 
 And long the latest of arrivals halts, 
 
 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb 
 
 And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 
 
 LX1X. 
 
 Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
 Of the good company, can win a corner, 
 
 A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way, 
 Where he may fix himself, like small "Jack Homer, 
 
 And let the Babel round run as ij may, 
 And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 
 
 Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 
 
 Yawning a little as the night grows later. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 But this won't do, save by and by; and he 
 Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 
 
 Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
 Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to whert 
 
 He deems it is his proper place to be; 
 Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 
 
 Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill 
 
 Where, science marshals forth her own quadrille. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXII. 
 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 voptn. i 
 Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
 Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.
 
 CANTO XL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But these precautionary hints can touch 
 
 Only the common run, who must pursue, 
 And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 
 
 Or little overturns ; and not the few 
 Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
 
 Whom a good mien, especially if new, 
 O fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 
 Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 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. 
 
 LXXV. 
 They are young, but know not youth it is anticipated; 
 
 Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous ; 
 Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 
 
 Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a Jew; 
 Both senates see their nightly votes participated 
 
 Between the tyrant's and the tribune's crew ; 
 And, having voiea, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
 The family vault receives another lord. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 Where is the world," cries Young, " at eighty? Where 
 
 The world in which a man was born ?" Alas ! 
 Where is the world of eight years past ? 'Twos there 
 
 I look for it 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 
 Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on ere 
 
 A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
 Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
 And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
 
 Where little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell : 
 Where Grattan, Curran, 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 five per cents? 
 And where oh, where the devil are the rents? 
 
 LXXVIIJ. 
 
 Where 's Brummel ? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole 
 Wellesley? Diddled. 
 
 Where 's Whitbread ? 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. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 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 perlbrm'd of late). 
 
 Where are the Dublin shouts and London hisses ? 
 VVhere are the Grenvilles ? Turn'd, as usual. Where 
 Alv friends the Whigs ? Exactly where they were. 
 89 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 
 
 Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
 So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is-- 
 
 TMp Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
 Broke 4 ., in carriages, and all the phantasies 
 
 Of fashion say what streams now fill those channel* 
 Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, 
 Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Some who once set their cap at cautious dukes, 
 Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
 
 Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks ; 
 
 Some maids have been made wives some merely 
 mothers ; 
 
 Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 
 In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
 
 There 's little strange in this, but something strange i 
 
 The unusual quickness of these common changes. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
 
 I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 
 
 The humblest individual under heaven, 
 Than might suffice a moderate century through. 
 
 I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 
 Change grows too changeable, without being new : 
 
 Nought's permanent among the human race, 
 
 Except the Whigs nnt getting into place. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 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,' 1 
 
 And sail for a new theme : I have seen and shook 
 To see it the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 
 But don't pretend to settle which was best. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 I have seen the landholders without a rap 
 
 I have seen Johanna Southcote I have seen 
 The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap 
 
 I have seen that sad affair of the late queen 
 I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's-cap 
 
 I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean 
 I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses 
 Kick off their burthens meaning the high classes. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
 
 Interminable not eternal speakers 
 I have seen the funds at war with house and land 
 
 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 liquai 
 Exchanged for ' thin potations " by John BuU 
 I 've seen John half detect himself a fool 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 But " carpe diem," Juan, u carpe, carpe !" 
 
 To-morrow sees another race is gay 
 Ai.d transient, and devour'd by the same harp; . 
 
 " Life 's a poor player " then " p.ay out the put 
 Ye villains!" and, above all, kfct.|j a sharp eye 
 
 Much less on what you do than what you sav 
 Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
 Not what you sum. but always what YOU w-
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO XII 
 
 LXXXV1I. 
 
 But how sSiall I relate in other cantos 
 
 Of what befell our hero, in the land 
 Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 
 
 A morai country ? But I hold my hand 
 K"or I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 
 
 But 't is as well at once to understand, 
 You are not a. moral people, and you know it, 
 Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
 My topic, with of course the due restriction 
 
 Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
 And recollect the work is only fiction, 
 
 And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 
 Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 
 
 Wul hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 
 
 This when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Whether he married with the third or fourth 
 Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting countess, 
 
 Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
 (I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 
 
 lie took to regularly peopling earth, 
 
 Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is 
 
 Or whether he was taken in for damages, 
 
 For being too excursive in his homages 
 
 XC. 
 
 Is yet within the unread events of time. 
 
 Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will 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 not change my free thoughts for a lh">re 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 i. 
 
 OF all the barbarous middle ages, that 
 
 Which is most barbarous is the middle age 
 Of man ; it is I really scarce know what ; 
 
 But when we hover between fool and sage, 
 And don't know justly what we would be at 
 
 \ period something like a printed page, 
 Black-letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
 Jijws grizzled, ana we are not what we were ; 
 
 II 
 1 oo old for youth too young, at thirty-five, 
 
 To herd with buys, or hoard with good threescore 
 I wonaer people should be left alive ; 
 
 But, since they are, that epoeii is a bore : 
 Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive ; 
 
 AnH .is for other love, the illusion 's o'er ; 
 And money, that most pure imagination, 
 'ileains only tnr >ugn the dawn of its creation. 
 
 HI. 
 
 3h gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 
 
 Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
 Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain-cable 
 
 Which holds fast other pleasures great and small 
 Ye who but see the saving man at table, 
 
 And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
 And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
 Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker 
 Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
 
 But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 
 And adding still a little through each cross 
 
 (Which will come over things), beats love or liquor, 
 The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross 
 
 Oh gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper, 
 
 Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 gib- 
 ber all)? 
 Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
 
 Or pleasure ? Who make politics run glibber all 1 
 The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring? 
 Jew Rothschild, and his fellow, Christian Baring. 
 
 VI. 
 Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 
 
 Are 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 ; 
 
 Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 
 On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 
 Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 
 
 VII. 
 Why call the miser miserable ? as 
 
 I said before: the frugal life is his, 
 Which in a saint or cynic ever was 
 
 The theme of prais: a hermit would not miss 
 Canonization for the self-same cause, 
 
 And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? 
 Because, you '11 say, nought calls for such a trial ; 
 Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. 
 
 VIII. 
 fie is your only poet ; passion, pure , 
 
 And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, 
 Pos.tefs'd, tlie ore, of which mere hopes allure 
 
 Nations athwa. t the deep : the golden raya 
 Flash up in ing->ts frcm the mine obscure ; 
 
 On him the diamord pours its brilliant bla , 
 While the mild emerald'? beam shades down th < n 
 Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 
 
 IX. 
 The lands on either side are his : the ship 
 
 From Ceylon, Inde, cr far Cathay, unloads 
 For him the fragrant produco of each trip ; 
 
 Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the road* 
 And the vine blushes likt Aurora's lip; 
 
 His very cellars might be kings' abodes j 
 While he, despising every sensual call, 
 Commands the intellectual lord o' *l l .
 
 CANTO Xll. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 667 
 
 X. 
 
 Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
 To build a colloge, or to found a race, 
 
 A 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. 
 
 XL 
 
 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 !ook at each transaction, 
 
 Wars, revels, loves do these bring men more ease 
 Than the mere plodding thro' each " vulgar fraction?" 
 
 Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 
 
 Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours who's wiser? 
 
 XII. 
 
 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 stamp : 
 
 Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 * Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," " for love 
 Is heaven, and heaven is love :" so 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 
 
 High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides ; 
 And, as for "heaven" being "love," why not say honey 
 Is wax ? Heaven is not love, 't is matrimony. 
 
 XV. 
 Is not all love prohibited whatever, 
 
 Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 
 After a sort ; but somehow people never 
 
 With the same thought the two words have help'dout: 
 Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, 
 
 And marriage also may exist without, 
 But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
 And ought to go by quite another name. 
 
 XVI. 
 Now if the "court" and "camp" and "grove" be not 
 
 Recruited all with constant married men, 
 IVho nevei coveted their neighbour's lot, 
 
 I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen ; 
 Strange too in my " btion camerado" Scott, 
 
 So celebrated fbr his morals, when 
 MV J'-HVey h" 1 - 1 him up as an example 
 lo me; ot \vliirh these morals are a sample. 
 
 XVII. 
 Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
 
 And that 's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 
 The only time when much success '.a needed : 
 
 Aftd my success produced what I in ooth 
 Care most about; it need not now be pleaucd 
 
 Whate'er it was, 't was mine ; I 've paid, in truu\ 
 Of late, the penalty of such success, 
 But have not leam'd to wish it any less. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 That suit in Chancery, which some persons pleud 
 In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
 
 In the faith of their procreative creed, 
 Baptize posterity, 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Why , I 'm posterity and so are you ; 
 
 And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred. 
 Were every memory written down all true, 
 
 The tenth or twentieth name would bo but blunder'd : 
 Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 
 
 And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd ; 
 And Milford, in the nineteenth century, 
 Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 1 
 
 XX. 
 
 Good people all, of every degree, 
 Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 
 
 In this twelfth canto 't is 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, 
 
 And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he write*. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I 'm serious so are all men upon paper : 
 
 And why should 1 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 
 Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 
 
 XXII. 
 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 thi 
 If that politeness set it not apart ; 
 
 But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss) - 
 I say, methinks that " philo-genitivcness " 
 Might meet from men a little more forgiveness 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 
 
 Thou art in London in that pleasant place 
 Where every kind of mischief's daily brewing. 
 
 Which can await warm youth in its wild ra<^ 
 'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 
 
 Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
 Of early life ; but this is a new land. 
 Which foreigners can never understand.
 
 vG8 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 C.ANTO XII. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 What with a snail diversity of climate, 
 
 Of hot or cok., mercurial or sedate, 
 I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 
 
 Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
 But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 
 
 Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate : 
 All countries have their "lions," but in thee 
 There is but one superb menagerie. 
 
 XXV. 
 But I am sick of politics. Begin, 
 
 "Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
 Amongst the paths of being " taken in," 
 
 Above the ice had like a skaiter glided: 
 When tired of play, he flirted without sin 
 
 With some cf those fair creatures who have prided 
 Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
 And hate all vice except its reputation. 
 
 XXVI. 
 But these are few, and in the end they make 
 
 Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
 That even the purest people may mistake 
 
 Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows ; 
 And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
 
 To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 
 Quicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) 
 With the kind world's amen " Who would have 
 thought it?" 
 
 XXVII. 
 fhe 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 fashionable mystery. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 The women much divided as is usual 
 
 1 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 no<v there was a general sensation 
 Amongst you, about Leila's education. . 
 
 XXIX. 
 [11 one point only were you setlled and 
 
 You had reason ; 't was that a young chil* 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 
 <tf peeresses whose follies had run dry. 
 
 XXX. 
 S<. i.rst 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 affront on this occasion 
 
 To talk of a subscription or petition ; 
 B-.t sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 
 Whose taie bp'onjis lo " Hallam's Middle Ages," 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
 A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough 
 
 Begg'd to bring up 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 ha ye money). 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 How all the needy honourable misters, 
 
 Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 
 
 The watchful mothers and the careful sisters, 
 (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 
 
 At making matches, where " 't is gold that glisters,' 
 Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy, 
 
 Buzz round "the Fortune" with their busy battery, 
 
 To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 
 
 Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
 Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 
 
 I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
 "Tantaene!" 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. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Some are soon bagg'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 " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 
 Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
 
 To his billets ? IVhy waltz with him ? Why, I pray 
 
 Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 "Why? Why? Besides, Fred, really was attached 
 
 'T was not her fortune he has enough without : 
 The time will come she '11 wish that she had snatch'i 
 
 So good an opportunity, no doubt : 
 But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 
 
 As I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: 
 And after all poor Frederick may do better 
 Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?" 
 
 XXXVI. 
 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 substanlial wives: 
 And when at least 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. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 
 
 Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
 (But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 
 
 To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure * 
 
 (If 'tis 'not vain examples to recall) 
 To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
 See nought more strange in this than t' other lotter/,
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 6b9 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 I, for my part (one " modern instance " more) 
 
 " True, 't is a pity pity 't is, 't is true " 
 Was chosen from out an amatory score, 
 
 Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 
 But though I also had reform'd before 
 
 Those became one who soon were to be two, 
 I '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice 
 That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Oh, pardon me digression or at least 
 Peruse ! 'T is 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. 
 
 XL. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 
 
 For, like a diiy-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. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
 
 (I wish that others would find out the same) : 
 And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
 
 For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 
 So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 
 
 To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 
 Consulting the " Society for Vice 
 Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Olden she was but had been very young : 
 
 Virtuous she was and had been, I believe 
 Although the world has such an evil tongue 
 
 That but my chaster ear will not receive 
 An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 
 
 In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve 
 As that abominable tittle-tattle, 
 Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once 
 
 A slight observer in a modest way),- 
 And so may every one except a dunce, 
 
 That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
 Besides thair knowledge of the world, and sense 
 
 Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
 \re wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 
 fl hich the mere passionless can never know. 
 3K 
 
 XLV. 
 
 While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
 By railing at the unknown and envied passion 
 
 Seekjpg far less to save you than to hurt you. 
 Or > ;at 's still worse, to put you out of fashion, . 
 
 The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
 Entreating you to pause before you dash on; 
 
 Expounding and illustrating the riddle 
 
 Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
 As better knowing why they should be so, 
 
 I think you '11 find from many a family picture, 
 That daughters of such mothers as may know 
 
 The world by experience rather than by lecture, 
 Turn out much better for the Smithfield show 
 
 Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 
 
 Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about 
 As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 
 
 But now no more the ghost of scandal stalk'd about ; 
 She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 
 
 And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about ; 
 Then she was given 'to charity and pity, 
 
 And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
 
 For being a most exemplary wife. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
 She was the mild reprover of the young, 
 
 Whenever which means every day they 'd shown 
 An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
 
 The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 
 
 Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song : 
 
 In brief, the little orphan of the east 
 
 Had raised an interest in her which increased. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Juan too was a sort of favourite with her, 
 
 Because she thought him a good heart at bol'oni, 
 A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 
 
 VVhich was a wonder, if you think who got him, 
 And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither : 
 
 Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 
 At least entirely for he had seen too many 
 Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 
 
 L. 
 And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; 
 
 For when they happen at a riper age, 
 People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 
 
 And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
 Adversity is the first path to truth : 
 
 He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage. 
 Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
 Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weight* 
 
 LI. 
 How far It profits is another matter, 
 
 Our hero gladly saw his 'ittle charge 
 Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daugntcr 
 
 Being long married, and thus set at large. 
 Had left all the accomplishments she taught liei 
 
 To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's bare* 
 To the next comer ; or as it will tell 
 More muse-like- -l:Ve Cytherea's ehX..
 
 ero 
 
 B IRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CJ..VTO MI 
 
 UL 
 
 i- tat there 
 
 Icalauch .hag* 
 
 A loaf af hahuce of 
 Which fcraa a px&gree from Miss to Miss, 
 
 Aoconbag as their mavk or backs are beat. 
 
 mthoui the abyss 
 
 But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 
 
 Theology, EM arts, or 6ner stays, 
 May be Ike baits fcr fcialUairB or lords 
 
 With malir descent, IB these oar days 
 Tbe bat war to tbe aew transfers its boards; 
 
 New tutih chua* BK*' eyes with Ibe sai 
 Of "ekfBB,* * *ra, ia fresh hatchet 
 Al FT' creatures, and yet bo* OB match 
 
 UV. 
 
 Bat BOW I w3 begin B j ptem. Ti 
 Perhaps a Btde strange, if ant unite new, 
 
 That from the ant of canto* op to the 
 
 IS* aot begaa wbat we bare to go through. 
 
 These ant twelve boob ai^ aterely flourishes. 
 
 rnagjust a stnag or two 
 Upon aiy lyre, or making the pegs sore ; 
 Aad whea so, you aha! have the overture. 
 
 LV. 
 MyMuuM do aot care a piaeh of rosm 
 
 About what's caVd success, or aot 
 Such thoughts areomte betow the strain they Vechosea; 
 
 Tis a great moral lesson" they are reading. 
 I thaught, at setting off, about two dona 
 
 Cantos would do; but, at ApoOo's pleading, 
 If that ary Pegasus should aot be fouoderM, 
 I thmk toeaater gently through a hundred. 
 
 LYL 
 
 Oou Juaa saw that macrocosm oa stars, 
 Yclept the great world; for it is the feast, 
 
 JlhhiVi the highest: but as swords have hiits 
 By which thear power of mischief is increased, 
 
 When man ia battle or in quarrel bks, 
 Thai the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 
 
 Maat stm obey tbe bigb-wbkh is their handle, 
 
 Iheir moon, their SUB. their gas, their bribing caadfe. 
 
 LVD. 
 
 fie bad many friends who had many wires, and 
 Wei kok'd upon by both, to that extent 
 
 Of tiiBilih'Bi which you any accept or pass ; 
 it does nor good nor barm, being merely me 
 
 To fc^tbewheebgoiagofthehigJierclasa, 
 And draw them nightly whea a ticket's seat 
 
 lad what with 
 
 FWuVe 
 
 A jouag unmarried man, with a good name 
 Aad fortune, has aa awkward part to play; 
 
 For good society is but a game, 
 The royal game of goose," as I may say, 
 
 Where every body naa some separate aim, 
 Aa ead to answer, or a pba to by 
 
 1 ue saftgie ladies wishmg to be double, 
 
 Th 
 
 LIX. 
 
 1 don't meaB this as general, but particnlar 
 Kiaaylrs any be found of such pursuits: 
 Though sereral abo keep their perpendicular 
 
 Like pophn,wkh good principles for roots; 
 Yet many hare a method more ntintbr 
 
 'Fishers for men," Eke sirens wish soft tote*. 
 For talk six tines with the same single lady, 
 Aad yoa any get tbe wedding-dresses ready. 
 
 UL 
 
 Perhaps yoal hare a letter from tbe mother, 
 To say her daughter's fee&ngs are trepann'c; 
 
 Perhaps yonl have a visit from the brcther, 
 Afl strot, and stars, and whiskers, to demand 
 
 What "your mientkns are?" One way or other 
 h mmi the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 
 
 Aad bumxa pity for her case and yours, 
 
 Yoal add to matnmooj's fist of cures. 
 
 LXI. 
 I've known a dosea weddings made even AMB, 
 
 lad some of them high aames: Ibaveabob n 
 Yoaag men who though they hated to discuss 
 
 Pretensions which they never dream'd to hare shot -- 
 Yet aekher fiightea'd by a female fuss. 
 
 Nor by nstachios moved, were let alone, 
 Aad fived, as did the broken-hearted (air, 
 la happier pfight than if they fcrnTd a pair. 
 
 LUL 
 
 There's abo nightly, to the miritft4 1 
 A peril not indeed Eke love or marriage, 
 
 Bat not the feat for this to be depreciated : 
 It m I meant and mean not to disparage 
 
 The show of virtue even in tbe vitiated 
 
 It adds an outward grace unto their carriage 
 
 But to denounce tbe amphibious sort of harlot, 
 
 Coufear de rose," who's neither white nor scarlet 
 
 Lxra. 
 
 Such B your old coquette, who can't say "No," 
 
 And won't say Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing 
 On a ee shore, tiD it begins to blow 
 
 Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing; 
 Tins works a world of sentimental woe, 
 
 And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 
 But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 
 Not quite adnfeery, but adulteration. 
 
 LXIV. 
 u Ye gods, I grow a talker !" Let us prate. 
 
 Tbe next of perils, though I place k aternect, 
 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 tbe truth thou learnest) 
 But old England when a young bride errs, 
 Poor thing! Eve's was a trifling case to hers; 
 
 LXV. 
 For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
 
 Country, where a young couple of the same ago 
 Can't form a friendship but tbe world o'erawcs m. 
 
 Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d d damrgea 
 A verdict grievous (be to those who cause it: 
 
 Forms a sad cfimax to romantic homages; 
 Besides those soothing speeches of the pleader*. 
 Aad evidences which regale all readers I 
 I
 
 CAITTO xii. 
 
 DON JUAX. 
 
 LXVL 
 
 Bat they wk> blander thai are raw beginners ; 
 
 A folks genial sprinkling of hrpocricr 
 Ha* cared the lame of thousand splendid comers, 
 
 Tbe loveliest oligarchs of oar gynaeracy; 
 loo may fee each at al the bails aad dinner*, 
 
 Among the proudest of oar aristocracy, 
 
 And afl by having tact as wefl as taste. 
 
 Jaan, who did not stand in the predkaaxatf 
 Of a mere novice, had one safeguard More; 
 
 For be was sick no, t was not the word tidt I 
 Bat he had seza so much good love before, 
 
 That be was not in heart so very weak ; I Mean 
 But thns much, and no sneer against the shore 
 
 Of white enfls, white necks, Hoe eyes, bluer stocking*, 
 
 Tithes, toes, dons, and doors wilh doable 
 
 LXVHL 
 
 Bat 
 
 Where fires, not lawsuits. Most be risk'd for paaa 
 And passion's self Moct have a spice of fiaotic, 
 
 Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 
 Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
 
 Howe'er be Might esteem tfatc moral nation; 
 Besides (alas! be taste fcrgive and pity!) 
 At first he did not think the wonen pretty. 
 
 LXUL 
 I sayatjfrst for he foond oat at bat, 
 
 Bat by degrees, that they were fairer tut 
 Ibaa the more gbwMg dames whose lot k east 
 
 Beneath the itatocnce of the eastern star 
 4fbrther proof we should not jndge a baste; 
 
 Yet inexperience eooU not be his bar 
 To taste: the troth , if Men would confess, 
 Fbal novelties piaue kss tfein 
 
 Or say they are Eke virtuous merataios, wince 
 
 ings are fair faces, end* mews fish** ; 
 there's not a quantity of tbwe 
 have a due respect for their own 
 UkeBoanans rushing from hot baths to 
 
 Are they, at bottom virtuous even when < 
 rhey warm into a scrape, bat keep of coarse, 
 As a reserve, a pkmgt into remorse. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Bat that has nought to do with their oatsides. 
 
 I said that Jaan dm 1 not think them pretty 
 At the first blush; for a fan- Briton hides 
 
 Half her atbaclkma-probably from pity 
 And rather cakaly iato the heart gbdes, 
 
 Than storms it as a fbewonU take a cay; 
 Bnt oace there (a" yon doubt this, prithee by) 
 She keeps it for you nke a true any. 
 
 MEET. 
 
 She eaaaot step as does an Arab barb, 
 Or Aadahtaan girl from mass letaraiug, 
 
 Nor wear as gracemwy as'Gaak her garb, 
 Nor in her eye Aaaaaa's gianee 
 
 Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
 le those bravuns (which I stsf am li iiaiay 
 
 To nke. though I have been seven yean in Italy, 
 
 And have, or had, aa ear that served me i 
 
 LXX. 
 Though traretPd,! have never had the lack to 
 
 Trace up those shnfiang negroes, Site or Niger, 
 To that aapraftirihlr place, Toamnetoo, 
 
 Where geography finds no one to obige her 
 Wilh such a chart as may be safely stack to 
 
 For Europe ploughs mAfrie like "bos piger:" 
 Bat if I fcai btt at Tombuetoo, there 
 No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 
 
 LXXL 
 It a. I wal not swear that bbck is while; 
 
 Boll suspect ia fact that wbae is black, 
 Aad the whole Matter rests upon my eye-sight. 
 
 Ask a band man, the best judge. Ton 1 attack 
 Perhaps das newppMnon bat I'm right; 
 
 Or if I'm wrong, II not be ta'ea aback: 
 Be bath no mora nor night, but al is dark 
 Widun; aad what see'* HUM? A 
 
 Bat I'M rebpsMg into Metaphysics, 
 That labyrinth, whose dne is of the same 
 
 And to die beauties of a foreign dune, 
 _ ^snared with those of oar pore pearl* of price, 
 IbosePoEar i i.al son. aad some ice. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 LXXVL 
 She eaaaot do these dungs, nor one or taw 
 
 Others, in that offhand and dasUag stria 
 Which takes so Much to give die devi bis dn; 
 
 Nor is she auxe no ready wmh her smie, 
 Nor ettles) al unags ia one interview, 
 
 (A dung approved as saving tiaw aad loi); 
 Bra dwagh dw sol any give you time aad troaUe. 
 Wei cakirated, it wal reader doable. 
 
 LXXV1L 
 
 Aad if ia fact she take* to a graade pasana/' 
 
 b is a very serious thie^ indeed; 
 Nine times in lea *t is bat caprice or fashion. 
 
 Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
 The pride of a mere chid with a new sash on, 
 
 Or wish to make a rival's bosom Weed; 
 But the tenth instance wit be a linaidn, 
 For there's no saying what oiey wal or may d*. 
 
 LJLXVI1L 
 The reason's sbvioat: if there's aa edat, 
 
 They lone dw- caste at once, as do the ] 
 And when the de&eacies of die law 
 
 Have nFd their papers widi Aar 
 Society, datf ehn 
 
 (The hypocrite !)wa 
 To ait amidst the rams of ltdr gnat: 
 For Fame's a Carthage not so 
 1-TTTg. 
 m'm wit 
 
 A u laa tint on the GwJpePs -Sai no awre. 
 Aad be tbyaas forgivea: 
 
 -r- 
 
 ^r fa 
 
 For her retura to virtue aa 
 The hwywaoaVmid beat 
 
 aaw.a|
 
 672 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO XI11 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 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 '11 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. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 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 " blase " 't is 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. 
 
 Lxxxn. 
 
 He also had been busy seeing sights 
 
 The parliament and all the other houses ; 
 Had sate beneath the galleries at nights, 
 
 To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses] 
 The world to gaze upon those northern lights * 
 
 Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses : 
 He had also stood at times behind the throne- 
 But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 He saw, however, at the closing session, 
 
 That 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. 
 
 'T is not mere splendour makes the show august 
 
 To eye or heart it is the people's trust. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 There too he saw (whate'er 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. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 And Juan was received, as hath been said, 
 
 Into the best society: and there 
 t'ccurr'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. 
 
 LXXX VI. 
 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, 
 \nd hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
 V* Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. b 
 
 LXXKVII. 
 
 3ere the twelfth canto of our introduction 
 Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 
 
 You'll find it of a different construction 
 
 From what some people say 't will 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 !.. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 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 of gore, 
 Besides the most sublime of Heaven knows what els 
 
 An usurer could scarce expect much more 
 But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 
 Will turn upon "political economy." 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 That is your present them* 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 I, if but for singularity, 
 Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
 
 Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers, 
 
 And tell me what you think of your great thinkers 
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 I NOW mean to be serious ; it is time, 
 
 Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too seriouf 
 A jest at vice by virtue 's call'd a crime, 
 
 And critically held as deleterious : 
 Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, 
 
 Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 
 And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 
 As an old temple dwindled to a column. 
 
 II. 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville 
 
 'T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
 In pedigrees by those who wander still 
 
 Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
 Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 
 
 And beauteous, even where beauties most abound 
 In Britain which of course true patriots find 
 The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 
 
 III. 
 I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 
 
 I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best . 
 An eye 's an eye, and whether black ->r h ue 
 
 Is no great matter, so 't is in request : 
 'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue 
 
 The kindest may be taken us a test. 
 ( The fair sex should be always fair ; and no mail 
 I Till thirty, should perceive there ' a piain womcr
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 673 
 
 IV. 
 
 And after that serene and somewhat dull 
 Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 
 
 More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, 
 We may presume to criticise or praise ; 
 
 Because indifference begins to lull 
 Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways ; 
 
 Also because the figure and the face 
 
 Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. 
 
 V. 
 
 I know that some would fain postpone this era, 
 
 Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
 Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera. 
 
 For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line ; 
 But then they have their claret and madeira 
 
 To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
 And county meetings and the Parliament, 
 And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And is there not religion and reform, 
 
 Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the " nation?" 
 The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
 
 The landed and the moneyed speculation ? 
 The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 
 
 Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
 Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
 Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
 Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater " ' 
 
 The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
 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 Mephistopheles ; 
 
 VIII. 
 But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 
 
 Though 't was 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 shouM 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. 
 
 IX. 
 Of all tales, 't is 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 : 't is his virtue makes him mad ! 
 
 But his adventures form a sorry sight ; 
 \ sorrier still is the great mcral taught 
 By that real epic unto all who have thought, 
 
 X. 
 rtedressing injury, revenging wrong, 
 
 To aid the da.nsel 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, 
 
 B ? for mere fancy's sport a thing creative ? 
 A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought? 
 And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote? 
 3K 2 90 
 
 XI. 
 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 
 
 A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
 Of his own country ; seldom since that day 
 
 Hn Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm. 
 The \ ,r!d gave ground before her bright array ; 
 
 And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
 That all their glory as a composition 
 Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 
 
 XII. 
 I'm "at my old Lunes" digression, and forget 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
 The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 
 
 Although she was not evil nor meant in ; 
 But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 
 
 (Fate is a good excuse for our own will), 
 And caught them ; what do they not catch, methinki 7 
 But I 'm not CEdipus, and life 's a sphinx. 
 
 XIII. 
 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 gay 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 net been a second. 
 
 XIV. 
 Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 
 
 And wedded unto one she had loved well 
 A man known in the councils of 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 either, and both seem'd secure- 
 She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 
 
 XV. 
 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
 
 Reserve 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 flow, 
 And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 
 Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 
 
 XVII. 
 His friendships, therefore, and no less aveisions, 
 
 Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more 
 His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
 
 And Medes, would ne'er revoke what wcm before. 
 His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertian* 
 
 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
 
 674 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 C--LVTO XIII 
 
 xvm. 
 
 Til n*\ m mortals to -* success; 
 
 fPQK ffJf JptW NTO) ottBpfTOOlTJS OUT f QC9CFW >U 
 
 And takr my word, yon won't have any less : 
 Be w uy, watch the time, and always serve k; 
 
 Give gentry way, where there's too great a press; 
 And for your rmmiinu., only learn to nerve h, 
 
 For, Ek* a racer or a boxer training, 
 
 T wffl make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 
 
 XDL 
 Lord Henry abo Eked to be superior, 
 
 As Mart men do, the little or the great; 
 fbe vary fewest find oat an inferior. 
 
 At feast they think so, to exert their state 
 Upon : for there are very few dungs wearier 
 
 Than sohiary pride's oppressive weight, 
 Which mortals generously would divide, 
 By bidding others carry while they ride. 
 
 XX. 
 
 fa bwth,m Mnk.ni fortune Gkewi 
 
 O'er Joan be could no distinction dan ; 
 years he had the advantage of time's sequel; 
 as he thought, m. country mnch Die same 
 Britons have a tongue and free qoffl, 
 
 At wMckjal modem nations vainly 
 And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 
 So that few members kept the House op later. 
 
 XXI. 
 These were advantages: and then be thought 
 
 h was bis fouHe, but by no mrwis smister 
 That few or none more than himself had caught 
 
 Court UByttldMA, having been hnnsdi & minister : 
 He hied to teach that which he had been taught, 
 
 And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir ; 
 And reconcled aD quahues which grace man, 
 Always a patriot, and 
 
 He ned the geatie Spaniard for his gravity ; 
 He almost boooor'd him for his dot-Oily, 
 
 Or 
 He knew the world, and would not see depravity 
 
 In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
 IT dot the weeds o'er-five not the first crop, 
 For then they are very difficnk to stop. 
 
 xxm. 
 
 And then be talk'd with him about Madrid, 
 
 Where people always did as they were bid. 
 
 Or did what they should no* with foreign graces. 
 Ot coursers aiso spake they: Henry rid 
 
 WeB,ike most Englishmen, and loved the races: 
 And Juan, Eke a troe-born Andahnaan, 
 Could oack a bone, as despots ride a Russian. 
 
 XXIV. 
 And ran* acquaintance grew, at noble routs. 
 
 And diplomatic dinners, or at other 
 fat Juan stood wefl both with Ins and Outs, 
 
 As m Fi'-ima*onry a higher brother. 
 (Toon bis f Jent Henry had no doubts, 
 
 HJS mmnrr soow'd him spmag from a high mother; 
 Ano al- men Bke to show their bospitafity 
 To Mm whom breeding marches with his quality. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 At Blank- Blank Square ; for we will break no sq 
 By naming streets : since men are so censorkus. 
 
 And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 
 Reaping aBnsioas private and inglorious. 
 
 Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 
 Which were, or are, or are to be notorious. 
 
 That therefore do I previously declare, 
 
 Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square, 
 
 XXVI. 
 Abo there bin* another pious reason 
 
 For making squares and streets anonymous ; 
 Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
 
 Which doth not shake some very splendid house 
 With none slight heart-quake of domestic treason- 
 
 A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 
 Such I might stumble over unawares, 
 Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Tis true, I might have chosen PiccadiBy, 
 A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 
 
 But I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
 For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 
 
 Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
 Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 
 
 A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 
 
 Such are but I have lost the London chart. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 At Henry's mansion then in Blank- Blank Square, 
 Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
 
 As many other noble scions were; 
 And some who had hut talent for their crest ; 
 
 Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 
 Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 
 
 Recommendation, and to be weH dress'* 
 
 WiQ very often supersede the rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And since "there's safety in a multitude 
 
 Of counsellors," as Solomon has said, 
 Or some one for him, in some sage grave moon . 
 
 Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
 fa senates *t 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 ; 
 
 XXX. 
 But as * there 's safety grafted in the number 
 
 Of counsellors " for "men, thus for the sei 
 A Urge acquaintance lets not virtue slumber ; 
 
 Or, should k shake, the choice will more perpKX 
 Variety itself will more encumber. 
 
 'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks; 
 And thus with women : bowsoe'er it shock some's 
 Sd4ove, there ' safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 
 
 XXXI. 
 But Adeline had not the least occasion 
 
 For such a shield, which leaves but little m/x 
 To virtue proper, or good education. 
 
 Her chief resource was in her own hi eh roirit, 
 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 j
 
 CANTO XIIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 67o 
 
 XXUL 
 
 To aS she was po&te without parade; 
 
 To some she sbaw'd attention of that kind 
 Which flatters, but is foliar eoareyM 
 
 In saeh a sort as caaoot leare behind 
 A trace unworthy either wife or maid; 
 
 A gentle genial court/err of mind, 
 To those who were, or pass'd for, merilarinas, 
 Just to console sad GV*y for being gbrioat : 
 
 xxxnL 
 
 Which is in aH respects, sate now and then, 
 A dnfl and desolate appendage. Gaze 
 
 Upon the shades of those disbnginsh'd men 
 Who were or are the uuupet hui of praise, 
 
 The praise of persecation. Gaze again 
 
 On the most (arourM ; and, iiliT the blaze 
 
 Of sunset halo, o'er the burd-brow'd, 
 
 What can ye recognise? A glded doad. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 fbere ?bo was of coarse in Adefine 
 
 That cahn patrician pofisfc in the address, 
 Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial fine 
 
 Of any thing which Nature woaid express: 
 
 At least his wmwmrr suffers not to guess 
 That any thing he views can jrreatly please. 
 Perhaps we have borrowM this front the Chines* 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Perhaps front Horace: his "JVi* fawsn" 
 Was what he caffd the "Art of Happmess;" 
 
 An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
 And have not jet attanTd to modi success. 
 
 However, 'tis expedient to be wary: 
 
 Indifference certes don't produce dartres*; 
 
 And rash yothnsiasnt in good society 
 
 Were nothing but a moral inebrietr. 
 
 XXXVL 
 Bat Adebse was not indifferent: far, 
 
 (.VD for a commonplace!) beneath the snow, 
 As a volcano holds the lava -ore 
 
 Ska! I go on? So! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 Bat after al they are a North- West passag 
 
 Unto the giowmg India of the soul; 
 Audits the good ships sent upon that message 
 
 Hs not exactly aseeriam'd the Pole, 
 Though Parry's efforts bok a locky presage], 
 Thos gentlemen assy ran opon a ****., 
 For if the Pole's not open, bat al frost, 
 A chance stiH), His a voyage or vessel lost. 
 
 XL. 
 
 I hate 10 hn 
 
 So let the often owed volcano go. 
 Poor thing! how fieoaentlj, by me 
 It hath been stnVd op, til its sssoke 
 
 XXXV IL 
 II have another figure in a trice 
 
 What say yon a botde of 
 Frozen mto a very vmoos see, 
 
 Which leaves few drops of that 
 Tet in the very centre, oast al price, 
 
 Aboot a bmid gbssmi 
 And das isstran, 
 Coald e'e 
 
 XXX VUL 
 T the whale spirit hraaght to a 
 
 tjmm 
 
 With oniet ennsmg o'er the 
 Whie those who're not lirgsntrrf.shonld have sen> 
 
 Enough to Hake for port, ere Tone shal iinnmrs 
 With bis gray signal-fag; and the past tense. 
 
 The dreary "/*auu" of al things hoaaan. 
 Most be decEned, whibt lae's thin thread 's span o* 
 Between the fcipssg heir and gnawing goat. 
 
 XLL 
 
 ion the whole is worth the Mifrtiim 
 (If bat far'coaaart) that al things are kind: 
 And that sasse devmsh doctrine oMbe Persian, 
 
 Of the two prmoples, hot leaves behind 
 As many doubts as any other doctrine 
 Has ever parried Faith withal, or joked her m. 
 
 JJOL 
 
 The Engish winter ending in Jory 
 
 Tk the nonb&nrs paradise: wheels fy; 
 
 On roads east, sooth, north, west, there is a n 
 Bat far post-horses who finds sympathy? 
 
 Man's pity's far miff, or far his son, 
 Always memking Aat said son at colege 
 Has not contracted modb 
 
 s ended in Jory 
 Dole later. I donH en- 
 
 Sigh, as the j 
 
 XLV. 
 They and their bifa.j 
 
 To the Greek kalends <f ***** naoaon. 
 Abn! to them of ready cash bereft, 
 
 What hope remains? Of Ass* the ml ossneani 
 Or genenas drat, conceded as a gift, 
 
 At a bee date tiB they can get a fresh ana. 
 Hawk'd ahoot at a daomot, *mal 
 Abo the asmceof an ounhanji
 
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 CAN1O XI 11 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Bui , reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
 
 While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
 ,Have b lilt and laid out ground at such a rate, 
 * Din Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
 That poets were so from their earliest date, 
 
 By Homer's "Catalogue of Ships" is clear; 
 But a mere modern must be moderate 
 I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
 The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 
 
 The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
 The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 
 
 In russet jacket: lynx-like is his aim, 
 
 Full grows his bag, and wonder/u/ his feats. 
 
 Ah, nut-brown partridges ! ah, brilliant pheasants ! 
 
 And ah, ye poachers ! 'T is no sport for peasants. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
 Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 
 
 The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines 
 The red grape in the sunny lands of song, 
 
 Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
 The claret light, and the madeira strong. 
 
 If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 
 
 The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
 
 Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 
 
 As if 't would 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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, 6 
 
 Aiid wear the Melton jacket for a space: 
 If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
 Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 The nohle guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
 
 Consisted of we give the sex the pas 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbey ; 
 
 The Ladies, Scilly, Busey ; Miss Eclat, 
 Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
 
 And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw: 
 Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep, 
 \Vho look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. 
 
 LXXX. 
 Witn other countesses of Blank but rank; 
 
 At once the "lie" and the u elite " of crowds ; 
 Wh pass 'ike water filter'd in a tank, 
 
 All put god and pious from their native clouds; 
 Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank: 
 
 No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
 The "passee" ant 1 the past; for gJod society 
 (3 nn i-s- famed for tolerance than piety: 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
 Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 
 
 Appearances appear to form the joint 
 On which it hinges in a higher station ; 
 
 And so that no explosion cry "aroint 
 
 Thee, witch !" or each Medea has her Jason ) 
 
 Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci), 
 
 " Omne tulit punctum, quoe miacuit utile dvlci." 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 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 way back to the world by dint of plottery, 
 
 And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 
 
 Escaping with a 'few slight scarless sneers. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I've 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've named a few, not foremost in degree, 
 
 But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
 By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
 There also were some Irish absentees. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 
 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 nei 
 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. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 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 ?et 
 Less on a convent than a coronet. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 There were four Honourable Misters, whoa* * 
 
 Honour was more before their names tnar Ai ; 
 There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
 
 Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft b*r* 
 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 repartee 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
 
 Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ; 
 Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 
 
 Sir Henry Silver-cup the great race-winne.; 
 There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian ; 
 
 Who did not hate so much the sin as sii ne , 
 And Lord Augustus Fitz-P'antagenet, 
 Good at all things, but better at r bet.
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 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 the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hards- 
 man, 
 
 In his grave office so completely skill'd, 
 That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
 He had his judge's -joke for consolation. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 Good company 's a chess-board there are kings, 
 
 Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world 's 
 
 a game ; 
 Save that the puppets pull at their own strings ; 
 
 Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 
 My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 
 
 Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 
 Alighting rarely: were she but a hornet, 
 Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 
 
 xc. 
 
 I had forgotten but must not forget 
 
 An orator, the latest of the session, 
 Who had deliver'd well a very set 
 
 Smooth speech, his first and maidenly 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." 
 
 XCI. 
 Proud of his " Hear hims !" proud too of his vote, 
 
 And lost viijginity of oratory, 
 Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), 
 
 He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
 With 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. 
 
 XCII. 
 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, 
 While Strongbow's best things might have come from 
 Cato. 
 
 XCIIT. 
 Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord ; 
 
 But Longbow wild as an jEolian 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. 
 
 XCIV. 
 It all these seem a heterogeneous mass, 
 
 To be assembled at a country-seat, 
 Vet think a soecimen of every class 
 
 Is bolter than a humdrum tete-a-te'te. 
 Che 'lays of comedy are gone, alas ! 
 
 When Conorreve's fool could vie with MoliJre's bite. 
 Society is smoothed to that excess, 
 That nnnnerE hardlv d-.ffV.r more than dress. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Our ridicules are kept in the back grounu, 
 
 Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
 Professions too are no more to be found 
 
 Pr * 'sssional ; and there is nought to cull 
 Of folly's fruit ; for though your fools abound, 
 
 They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
 Society is now one polish'd horde, 
 Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Sores and Bored. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
 The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth , 
 
 And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
 You may be Boaz, and I modest Ruth. 
 
 Further I 'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 
 Forbids. A great impression in my youth 
 
 Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 
 
 " That scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'" 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 But when we can, we glean in this vile age 
 Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 
 
 I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
 Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 
 
 Who, in his commonplace book, had a page 
 
 Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh list !" 
 
 " Alas, poor ghost !" What unexpected woes 
 
 Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
 By many windings to their clever clinch ; 
 
 And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
 Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an ineft, 
 
 But take an ell and make a great sensation, 
 If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 
 
 When some smart talker puts them to the test, 
 
 But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 
 
 The party we have touch'd on were the guest* 
 Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 
 
 To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
 I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 
 
 Albeit all human history attests 
 That happiness for man the hungry sinner 
 Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 
 
 C. 
 
 Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and honey.' 
 
 Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
 To this we 've added since the love of money, 
 
 The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
 Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 
 
 We tire of mistresses and parasites : 
 But oh, ambrosial cash ! ah ! who would lose Jie 7 
 When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ' 
 
 CI. 
 
 The gentlemen got D betimes to shoot, 
 
 Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sporv 
 
 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 re'on 
 
 The fact for words, and let the French transia'e 
 
 That awful yawn which sleep carnot abate
 
 680 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CAN SO XIV. 
 
 CII. 
 
 The elderly walk'd through the library, 
 
 And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 
 
 Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 
 And made upon the hothouse several strictures, 
 
 Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 
 Or on tne morning papers read their lectures, 
 
 Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
 
 Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 
 
 cm. 
 
 But none were " gfine :" 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 
 
 Where, when, and how he chose for that repast. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 The ladies some rouged, some a little pale 
 Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 
 
 Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale ; 
 Sung, . or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 
 
 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. 
 
 CV. 
 
 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 such a letter. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Then there wete billiards ; cards too, but no dice ; 
 
 Save in the Ch'bs no man of honour plays ; 
 Boats when 't was water, skaiting when 't was ice, 
 
 And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days : 
 And angling too, that 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.* 
 
 CVII. 
 Witn evening came the banquet and the wine ; 
 
 The conversazione; the duet, 
 Altuned 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. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
 FIT then the gentlemen were rather tired) 
 
 Display d some sylph-like figures in its maze : 
 Then there was small-talk re.Xdy when 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, 
 
 ind then retreated soberly at ten. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 The politicians, in a nook apart, 
 
 Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
 The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, 
 
 To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
 Small is the rest of those who would be smart 
 
 A moment's good thing may have cost thorn years 
 Before they find an hour to introduce it, 
 And then, even tfien, some bore may make them lose it, 
 
 ex. 
 
 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 've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, 
 
 But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 They separated at. an early hour ; 
 
 That is, ere midnight 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. 
 
 i. 
 
 IF from great Nature's, or our own abyss 
 Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, 
 
 Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss. 
 But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy. 
 
 One system eats 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 
 And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
 
 Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 
 After due search, your failh to any question? 
 
 Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
 
 You bind yourself, and call some mode the best ono. 
 
 Nothing more true than not to trust your senses , 
 
 And yet what are your other evidences 1 
 
 III. 
 
 For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny, 
 Admit, reject, contemii ; and what know you, 
 
 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 shail be either old or new. 
 
 Death, so call'd, is a thing which manes men weep. 
 
 And yet a third of life is pass'd in siecp.
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 63 
 
 IV. 
 
 A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
 
 Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet 
 How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! 
 
 The very suicide that pays his debt 
 At once without instalments (an old way 
 
 Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
 Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, 
 Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 
 
 V. 
 T is 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 
 
 The worst to know it: when the mountains rear 
 Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 
 
 You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
 The gulf of rock yawns, you can't gaze a minute 
 Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 
 
 v:. 
 
 'T is true, you don't but, pale and struck with terror, 
 
 Retire : but look into your past impression ! 
 And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
 
 Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, 
 The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 
 
 To the unknown ; a secret prepossession, 
 To plunge with all your fears but where? You know not, 
 And that 's the reason why you do or do not. 
 
 VIk 
 But what 's this to the purpose ? you will say. 
 
 Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
 For which my sole excuse is 't is my way. 
 
 Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
 I write what's uppermost, without delay ; 
 
 This narrative is not meant for narration, 
 But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
 To build up common things with commonplaces. 
 
 VIII. 
 You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
 
 " Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind 
 
 blows ;" 
 And such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
 
 Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 
 A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
 
 A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: 
 And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise, 
 But just to play with, as an infant j)lays. 
 
 IX. 
 The world is all before me or behind ; 
 
 For I have seen a portion of that same, 
 And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; 
 
 Of passions, too, I 've proved enough to blame, 
 To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 
 
 Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame: 
 For I was rather famous in my time, 
 Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 
 
 X. 
 I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
 
 The other : that 's to say, the clergy who 
 Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
 
 In pious Kbels by no means j. few, 
 Anil yet I can't help scribbling once a week, 
 
 Tiring ok 4 , readers, nor discovering new. 
 In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 
 And now because I feel it growing dull. 
 3L 91 
 
 XI. 
 
 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? 
 
 WW? 'rink? Why read? To make some hour le 
 
 dreary. 
 It occupies me to turn hack regards 
 
 On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheer) 
 And what I write I cast upon the stream, 
 To swim or sink I have had at least my dream. 
 
 XII. 
 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 't is not easy to express, 
 
 And yet 't is not affected, I opine. 
 In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing 
 The one is winning, and the other losing. 
 
 XIII. 
 Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: 
 
 She gathers a repertory of (acts, 
 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 altracts , 
 And were her object only what's call'd glory, 
 With more ease too, she'd tell a different story. 
 
 XIV. 
 Love, war, a tempest surely there 's variety ; 
 
 Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
 A bird's-eye view too of that wild, Society ; 
 
 A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
 If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety 
 
 Both in performance and in preparation ; 
 And though these lines should only line poi manteaus, 
 Trade will be all the better for these cantos. 
 
 XV. 
 The portion of this world which I at present 
 
 Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 
 Is one of which there 's no descrip'.ion 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 With much to excite, there 's little to exalt : 
 
 Nothing that speaks to all men and all times, 
 A sort of varnish over every fault ; 
 
 A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes ; 
 Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 
 
 A want of that true nature which sublimes 
 Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
 Of character, in those at least who have got any. 
 
 XVII. 
 Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 
 
 They break their ranks and giadly leave tho drifl , 
 But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
 
 And they must be or seem what they were : stiK 
 Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 
 
 But when of the first sight you have ha<. yotu fiR. 
 It palls at least it did so upon me, 
 This paradise of pleasure ana ^nnui.
 
 682 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 \Vhcn we have made our love, and gamed out gaming, 
 Dress'd, 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 /lommes" who stem 
 
 The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 1 is said indeed a general complaint 
 That no one has succeeded in describing 
 
 The monrle exactly as they ought to paint. 
 Some say, that authors only 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 B'it this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
 Are grown of the heau monde a part potential: 
 
 I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
 Especially when young, for that's essential. 
 
 W r hy do their sketches fail them as inditers 
 
 Of, what tiiey deem themselves most consequential, 
 
 The real portrait of the highest tribe? 
 
 'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 u Haud ignnra loquor .-" these are nugee, "quorum 
 Pars parva/ui," but still art and part. 
 
 Now I could much more easily sketch a haram, 
 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. 
 
 " Vetaho Cereris sacrum qui tulgarit," 
 
 Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 
 
 XXII. 
 And therefore what I throw off is ideal 
 
 Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of Freemasons ; 
 Which bears the same relation to the real. 
 
 An Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 
 The grar.J 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 AinL worlds fall. and woman, since she fell'd 
 
 The world (as, since that history, less polite 
 Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held), 
 
 Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
 Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd, 
 
 Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
 Condemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins, 
 Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, 
 
 XXIV. 
 A daily plague which, in the aggregate, 
 
 May average on the whole with parturition. 
 Kut 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, 
 Hui <bim good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 All this were very well, and can't be better ; 
 
 But even this is difficult, Heaven knows ! 
 So many troubles from 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 ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 
 Which even those who obey would fain he 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 dimity. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Much I respect, and much I have adored, 
 
 In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil. 
 Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, 
 
 And more attracts by all it doth conceal 
 A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
 
 A loving letter with a mystic seal, 
 A cure for grief for what can ever rankle 
 Before a petticoat and peeping ancle? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And 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, 
 
 'T is pleasant, if tlicn any thing is pleasant, 
 
 To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 We left our heroes and our heroines 
 
 In that fair clime which don't depend on climate 
 Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 
 
 Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
 Because the sun and stars, and aught ihat shines 
 
 Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
 Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun 
 Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one. 
 
 XXX. 
 And in-door life is less poetical; 
 
 And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet 
 With which I could not brew a pastoral. 
 
 But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
 All difficulties, whether great or small, 
 
 To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
 And work away like spirit upon matter, 
 Emharrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 
 
 XXXI. 
 Juan in this respect at least like saints 
 
 Was all things unto people of all sorts, 
 And lived contentedly, without complaints, 
 
 In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts 
 Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
 
 And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 
 He likewise could be most 'hings to all wcronn. 
 Without he coxcombry of certain ** mi<n
 
 CANTO XIV- 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 68* 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 
 
 'T is also subject to the double danger 
 Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 
 
 Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger ; 
 But Juan had been early taught to range 
 
 The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
 So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
 Knew that he had a rider on his back. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And now in this new field, with some applause, 
 
 He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 
 And never craned, 1 and made but few u faux pas" 
 
 And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
 He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 
 
 Of hunting for the sagest youth is frail ; 
 Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 
 And once o'er several country gentlemen. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 But, on the whole, to general admiration 
 
 He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 
 Marvell'd at merit of another nation : 
 
 The boors cried "Dang it! who'd have thought 
 
 it ?" Sires, 
 The Nestors of the sporting generation, 
 
 Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
 The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 
 And rated him almost a whipper-in. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Such were his trophies ; not of spear and shield, 
 
 But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; 
 Yet I must own, although in this I yield 
 
 To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, 
 Qe thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
 
 Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 
 \nd what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
 Ask'd, next day, "if-men ever hunted twice?" 
 
 XXXVI. 
 He also had a quality uncommon 
 
 To early risers after a long chase, 
 Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 
 
 December's drowsy day to his dull race, 
 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. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 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, th*>re never was a better hearer. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 \nd then he danced ; all foreigners excel 
 
 The serious Angles in the eloquence 
 Of pantomime ; lie danced, I say, right well, 
 
 With emphasis, and also with good sense 
 A ihing in footing in lispcnsable : 
 
 Ho danced without theatrical pretence, 
 Vot like ballet-master in the van 
 Of his d- ; J"d nymphs, but like a gentleman. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
 And elegance was sprinkled o'er hiR figure ; 
 
 Likeswift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the groimit, 
 An' !-ather held in than put forth his vigour; 
 
 And then he had an ear for music's sound, 
 Which might defy a crotchet-critic's rigour. 
 
 Such classic pas sans flaws set off our hero, 
 
 He glanced like a personified bolero ; 
 
 XL. 
 
 Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 
 In Guide'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 do'our 
 
 Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 No marvel then he was a favounte ; 
 
 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 Duchess of Fit7-Fulke, who loved " tracasserie," 
 Began to treat him with some small " agacerie." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 
 
 Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
 For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 
 
 I M rather not say what might be related 
 Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 
 
 Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated : 
 Her late performance had been a dead set 
 At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 This noble personage began to look 
 
 A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
 But such small licenses 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sncer'd ; 
 
 The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
 Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'il 5 
 
 Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
 Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard ; 
 
 Some look'd perplcx'd, and others look'd profound ; 
 And several pitied with sincere regret 
 Poor 'Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 XLV. 
 But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, 
 
 Who, one might think, was something in the aft an 
 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 
 
 Her gayeties, none had a right to stare 
 Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 
 Which never n.w.ts tnd therefore can't fall out.
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO A IV 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Hut, oh that i should ever pen so sad a line ! 
 
 Fired with an a'-istract love, of virtue, she, 
 My Dian of the Eph( eians, Lady Adeline, 
 
 Began to think the duchess' conduct free ; 
 Regretting much that she had chosen, so bad a line, 
 
 And waxing chiller in hur courtesy, 
 Jvook'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
 For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 
 
 XLVII. 
 There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy : 
 
 'T is 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!" 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough, 
 
 Especially when we are ill at ease ; 
 They 're 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. 2 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But this is not my maxim : had it been, 
 
 Some heart-acl's had been spared me ; yet I care 
 
 not 
 ( would not be a tortoise in his screen 
 
 Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not: 
 'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 
 
 That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 
 And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 
 
 L. 
 Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 
 
 Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, 
 Is that portentous phrase, " I told you so," 
 
 Ulter'd by friends, those prophets m 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 " bonos mores" 
 With a long memorandum of old stories. 
 
 LI. 
 The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
 
 Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 
 Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 
 
 Unless her habits should begin to mend ; 
 But Juan also shared in her austerity, 
 
 But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 
 Flis inexperience moved her gentle ruth, 
 And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 
 
 LH. 
 These forty days' advantage of her years 
 
 And hers were those which can face calculation, 
 Hnldly referring to the list of peers, 
 
 And noble births, nor dread the enumeration 
 Jave her a right to have maternal fears 
 
 f'or a young gentleman's fit education, 
 Inougp she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, 
 femalf dates, strides time all of a heap. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty 
 
 Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 
 The strictest in chronology and virtue 
 
 Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 
 Oh, Time ! why dost not pause f Thy scythe, so dirty 
 
 With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 
 Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 
 If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 
 
 LFV. 
 But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
 
 Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 
 'Twas rather her experience made her sage, 
 
 For she had seen the world, and stood its test, 
 As I have said in I forget what page ; 
 
 My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 
 By this time ; but strike six from seven-and-twenty 
 And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 
 
 LV. 
 At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 
 
 She put all coronets into commotion : 
 At seventeen too the world was still enchanted 
 
 With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
 At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
 
 A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
 She had consented to create again 
 That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
 winters, 
 
 Admired, adored ; but also so correct, 
 That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
 
 Without the apparel of being circumspect ; 
 They could not even glean the slightest splinters 
 
 From off the marble, which had no defect. 
 She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
 To bear a son and heir and one miscarriage. 
 
 LVII. 
 Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
 
 Those little glitterers of the London night ; 
 But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her- 
 She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 
 Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
 
 But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 
 And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
 A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify ? 
 
 LVIII. 
 I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, 
 
 Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
 Leaving all claretless the unmoistcn'd throttle, 
 
 Especially with politics on hand ; 
 I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 
 
 Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the Sana 
 I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
 A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 
 
 LIX. 
 'T is 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 Oxenstien?.'
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 606 
 
 With the kind view of saving an eclat, 
 Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
 
 The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 
 That Juan was unlikely to resis^ 
 
 (For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 
 In England ranks quite on a different list 
 
 From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, 
 
 Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is) 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The Lady Adeline resolved to take 
 
 Such measures as she thought might best impede 
 The 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. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
 His grace was an enduring, married man, 
 
 And was not likely all at once to burst 
 Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 
 
 Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
 The magic of her grace's talisman, 
 
 And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
 
 With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, 
 And somewhat michante 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 : 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 
 
 Or make a Werter 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. 
 'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
 If that a " bonne fortune" be really "bonne." 
 
 LXV. 
 And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, 
 
 Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 
 Bhe 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 wile ; 
 ^nd answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 
 In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 
 
 LXVI. 
 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 sorls of things:" 
 Fhirdly, 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." 
 3L2 
 
 LXVH. 
 
 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 bienneance allows : 
 
 That time would temper Juan's faults cf youth ; 
 That young men rarely made monastic vow , 
 
 That opposition only more atlases 
 
 But here a messenger brought in despatches: 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
 Another gentle commonplace 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. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 But there was something wanting on the whole- 
 I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell- 
 
 Which pretty women the sweet souls ! call ou. 
 Certes it was not body , he was well 
 
 Proportion'd, as a poplai or a pole, 
 A handsome man, that human miracle ; 
 
 And in each circumstance of love or war, 
 
 Had still preserved his perpendicular. 
 LXXI1. 
 
 Still there was something wanting, as I 've said- 
 That undefinable u je ne aais </woi," 
 
 Which, lor 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 bin 
 
 Was much inferior to King Menelaus , 
 
 But thus it is some women will betray us. 
 LXXIII. 
 
 There is an awkward thing which much perpiexe*. 
 Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
 
 By turns the difference of the several sexes : 
 Neither can show quite how they would be loven 
 
 The sensual for a short time but connects _s 
 The sentimental boasts to be unmovrd ; 
 
 But both together form a kind of centaur 
 
 Upon whose back 'l is better not 'o vuntur*.
 
 580 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO XIV 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A sometnlng nil-sufficient for the heart 
 
 Is thj.t For wi.ich tho sex are always seeking ; 
 
 But how to fill up thr.t same vacant part 
 
 There lies the rub and this they are but weak in. 
 
 Frail mariners afloat without a chart, 
 
 They run before the wind through high seas breaking ; 
 
 And when they have made the shore, through every shock, 
 
 *T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 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, " voiUt la pervenche !" 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 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 as her supercargo. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 41 Beatus ille procul!" from "ne^oft'ts," 
 
 Saith Horace ; the great little poet 's wrong ; 
 
 His other maxim, " Noscitur a $ociis," 
 
 Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 
 
 Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
 Unless good company he kept too long ; 
 
 But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or stal'on, 
 
 Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing ; 
 
 Eve made up millinery with fig-leases 
 The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 
 
 As far as I know, that the church receives : 
 And since that time, it need not cost much showing, 
 
 That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
 And still more women, spring from not employing 
 Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 And hence nigh life is oft a dreary void, 
 
 A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 
 A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
 
 Bards may sing what they please about content; 
 Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
 
 And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 
 Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 
 Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 
 LXXX. 
 
 ilo declare, upon an affidavit, 
 
 Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
 Nor If unto the world I ever gave it, 
 
 Would some believe that such a tale had been: 
 Hut sch intent I never had, nor have it; 
 
 Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
 Especially when they would l"cl; line lies; 
 I therefore deal >n generalities. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 1 An oyster may be cross'd in love," and wh> ' 
 
 Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
 And heaves a lonely subterraneous sigh, 
 
 Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
 And h propos of monks, their piety 
 
 With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
 Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
 Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
 Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
 
 Thou hast struck one immense colossus down, 
 Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 
 
 But there 's another little thing, I own, 
 Which you should perpelrate some summer's day 
 
 And set the other half of earth to rights : 
 
 You have freed the blacks now pray shut up the whites. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ; 
 
 Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; 
 Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gander," 
 
 And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
 Shut up each high heroic salamander, 
 
 Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small) 
 Shut up no, not the king, but the pavilion, 
 Or else 't will cost us all another million. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out, 
 And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
 
 All things pursue exactly the same route, 
 As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 
 
 This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
 Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 
 
 But till that point (C appui is found, alas! 
 
 Like Archimedes, 1 leave earth as 't was. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 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 't is frailer, doubtless, than a staunch one ; 
 But when the latter works its own undoing, 
 Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
 
 Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 
 The stone of Sysiphus, 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 <:old. 
 
 LXXX VII. 
 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 wuters wash'd, 
 Where mingled and yet separate appears 
 
 The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 
 Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 
 Which tain would lull its river-child U slsep.
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 DUN JUAN. 
 
 68' 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Now, when she once had ta'cn an interest 
 In any tiling, howiver she might flatter 
 
 Herself that her intentions were the best, 
 Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 
 
 [mpressions were muclr Stronger than she guess'd, 
 And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 
 
 Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 
 
 Was not at first too readily impress'd. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
 Of double nature, and thus doubly named 
 
 Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
 That is, when they succeed ; hut greatly blamed 
 
 As obstinacy, both in men and women, 
 
 Whene'er their triumph nales, or star is tamed : 
 
 And 'twill perplex the casuists in morality, 
 
 To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo, 
 
 It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity : 
 
 Must the event decide between the two ? 
 I leave il 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 iu her way too was a heroine. 
 
 XCI. 
 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 .vild 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. 
 
 XCII. 
 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 German}', where people purely kiss. 
 
 To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 
 But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 
 She was as capable as woman can be. 
 
 XCIII. 
 No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
 
 Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
 An innocent predominance annex, 
 
 And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
 If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 
 
 And your true feelings fully understood, 
 J\u Iriend like to a woman earth discovers, 
 So that you have not been not will be lovers. 
 
 XCIV. 
 Love bears within its breast the very germ 
 
 Of change ; and how should this be otherwise? 
 'f hat violent things more quickly find a term 
 
 Is shown through Nature's whole analogies : 
 And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 
 
 Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 
 Methinks love's very title says enough : 
 How snou.ii - che tender uassion" e'er be tough ? 
 
 XCV. 
 
 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 forge; 
 
 The marriage state, the best or worst of an) ". 
 
 Who were the very paragons of wives, 
 
 Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 I 've also seen some female friend* ('t is 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. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
 Grew friends in this or any other sense, 
 
 Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: 
 At present I am glad of a pretence 
 
 To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 
 And keeps the atrocious reader in fuxpense ; 
 
 The surest way for ladies and for books 
 
 To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
 To read Don Quixote in the original, 
 
 A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 
 
 Whether their talk was of the kind call'd " email, 
 
 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. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
 
 Anticipating aught about the matter : 
 They '11 only make mistakes about the fair, 
 
 And Juan, too, especially 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, 't will be their ruin. 
 
 C. 
 But great things spring from little : would you tlunl 
 
 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 '11 never guess, 1 'II bet you millions, milliard 
 It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 
 
 CI. 
 'T is strange but true ; for truth is always strung 
 
 Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 
 How much would novels gain by the exchange ' 
 
 How differently the worlc would men l>eho!o . 
 How oft would vice an'l virtue olaces change 
 
 The new world would be nothing to the o'd 
 If some Columbus of the moral seas 
 Would show mankind their souls' antipodal
 
 GSS 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CJJVTO AT 
 
 CEL 
 
 IT. ires visr. sr-^ <: everts iile" tjca 
 H~ouu3 bediseora'd the hmman soul! 
 
 W/J: st^- !;ve in vie cei'-e is -^.-^ ixxe! 
 What Anthropophagi are rune of tea 
 
 Of those who hold the lirifcihmi control ! 
 Were thmgs hut only eai'd by their right BUM, 
 Casar mmsetf wwmi be ashamed of &me. 
 
 CANTO XV. 
 
 AH! what shmndfoaWsfapsfrom ay reflectm 
 
 Whatever fcBows nevertheless nay be 
 
 As a propos of hope or retrospection, 
 As though the kwkmg thought had fclk>wd free. 
 
 AE present fife is bat an interjection, 
 A "Oh!" or -Ah!" of joy or Misery, 
 
 Ora H!ha!"r "Bah!" * yawn, or -Pooh!" 
 
 Of which perhaps tbe biter m most true. 
 
 Jnat watery ounme of eternity, 
 Or miniature at least, as 'a my notion, 
 
 Which ii 1 in r T unto the souPs defight, 
 
 In seeing matters which are out of sight. 
 
 m. 
 
 But al are better than the sigh sopprest, 
 CorrodEBg m the cavern of tbe heart, 
 t of rest, 
 an art. 
 Few men dare show their thoughts of wont or 
 
 DnBawaiatton always sets apart 
 A comer far herself; and therefore fiction 
 b lhatwhk 
 
 an teEI Or rather, who can not 
 
 .without teSng, pasaon's etron? 
 Tbe dniacr of ob-incm, eren the sol, 
 
 w_ _ - i _ i "1 f -r_ 
 
 ruin got Mae oevits lor DH laoinnig arron : 
 Wha* though on Lethe's stream he seen to float, 
 
 UeeaoDot silk bk tremors or bis terrors; 
 Therdbygbss that shakes within his band, 
 I -oma a caJ Kdunent of Tune's worst sand. 
 
 . 
 
 We win proceed. 
 
 AM as fcr We Oh, Lore! 
 
 the Lady AdeSne 
 A pretty Bane as one would wish to read, 
 
 Mast perch harmonicas OB siy taaefai qniL 
 Hwrr^i mosic in the sighiag of a reed ; 
 
 Time's music in the gushing of a riD ; 
 "here s hc m al things, if men bad can: 
 rWi: fcn v s hot an echo of I'JK 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Li^r Aoelii*, riihi 
 
 And honoured, ran a nsk of growing less so ; 
 For few of the soft sex are very stable 
 
 In their resolves alas ! that I should say M 
 They diner as wine diners from its label, 
 
 When once decanted ; I presume to guess so, 
 Butwm not swear: yet both upon occasion, 
 Til aid, may undergo adulteration. 
 
 VTL 
 
 But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 
 
 -Tne unmmgled essence of tbe grape ; and yet 
 Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
 
 Or glorious as a diamond richly set; 
 A paee where Time should hesitate to print ge. 
 And fcr which Nature might forego her debt- 
 Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 'l 
 The luck of finding every body solvent. 
 
 vra. 
 
 Oh, Death! tboudunaest ofal duns! taou daily 
 Knockest al doors, at first with modest tap, 
 
 Lite a meek tradesman when approaching palely 
 Some splendid debtor be would take by sap: 
 
 But oft denied, as patience 'gins to (ail, he 
 Advances with exasperated rap, 
 
 And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 
 
 On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom. " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Whate'er tbou takes!, spare awhie poor Beauty! 
 
 She is so rare, and ihou bast so much prey. 
 What though she now'and then may sop from duty, 
 
 The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
 Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for JIM: boot* 
 
 You should be civil in a modest way : 
 Suppress then some sSgbt feminine diseases, " 
 And lake as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 
 
 X. 
 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 shun A pomts we need not now UIHCUBI > 
 
 Would give up artlessly both bean and head 
 Unto such fe^fings as seem'd innocent, 
 For objects worthy of tbe -*.. 
 
 XI. 
 Some parts of Joan's history, which rumour, 
 
 That five gazette, had scauerM to disfigure, 
 She had heard; but women bear with more good bmmauY 
 
 Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 
 Besides bis conduct, since in England, grew more 
 
 Strict, and bis mind assumed a manlier vigour; 
 Because he had, like Alcmiades, 
 The art of firing in al comes with ease. 
 
 X1L 
 His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
 
 Because be ne'er seemed anxious to seduce; 
 Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
 
 Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 
 Of bis attractions marr'd the (air perspective, 
 
 To indicate aCnpidon broke loose, 
 And seem to say, a resist us if wa ear. *"- 
 WWfa ak-t a dandy while it mu a B-.*.
 
 xv. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 630 
 
 XHL 
 
 fltey are wrong that 's not the way to set about '*. ; 
 
 As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
 But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 
 
 In fact, his manner Iras bis own alone: 
 Sincere be 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 far the heart like a sweet voice. 
 
 XIV. 
 By aat ore soft, his whole address held off 
 
 Suspicion: though not timid, his regard 
 Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof; 
 
 To shield himself, than put yon on your guard : 
 Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough, 
 
 But modesty's at times Ms own reward, 
 Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
 Will go much further than there's need to mention. 
 
 XV. 
 Serene, accompush'd, cheerful, but not loud; 
 
 Insinuating without insmuation; 
 Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 
 
 Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
 Proud with the proud, yet courteotniy proud. 
 
 So as to make them feel be knew his station 
 And theirs; without a struggle for pitotity, 
 Be neither brook'd nor daim'd super iutity. 
 
 XVL 
 
 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, 
 
 fhey fill the canvas 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 Bapharl. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 AdeEn*, no deep judge of character, 
 
 Was apt to sdd a colouring from her own. 
 
 Tis thus the good wiD amiably err, 
 
 And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
 
 Experience B the chief philosopher, 
 
 But saddest when his science is well known: 
 
 And persecuted sages teach the schools 
 
 Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 
 
 XVIU. 
 Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? 
 
 Great Socrates? And thou, diviner stifl, 1 
 Whose lot it by man to be mtrtakfo, 
 
 And thy pure creed made sanction of all 3 ? 
 Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 
 
 How was thy toil rewarded? We might fitt 
 Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
 But feave them to the conscience of the 
 
 XX. 
 
 I don't know that tfaere may be much ability 
 Shown in this son of desultory rhyme ; 
 
 But there's a conversational facility, 
 Which may round off an hour upon a time. 
 
 Of this I'm sure at least, there's no servility 
 In mine irreguianty of f himf, 
 
 Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, 
 
 Just as I fed the tf usprowisatore. n 
 
 XXL 
 
 "Crania vuk btOe Matho dicere die afiquando 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ,' perch upon an humbler promontory, 
 
 Amidst life's infinite variety: 
 With no great care for what is nicknamed glory. 
 
 But speculating as I east mine eye 
 On what may suit or may not sin: my story, 
 
 And never straining hard to versify 
 
 rattle on exact!* as I'd talk 
 With any body in a ride or waft. 
 9-2 
 
 Et bate, die fria, die afiqn 
 
 The first is rather more than mortal can do; 
 
 The second may be sadly done or gaily ; 
 The third is stiU more difficult to stand to; 
 
 The fourth we bear, and see, and say fax. daily : 
 The whole together it what I could wish 
 To serve in this conundtum of a dish. 
 
 XXIL 
 A modest hope bat modesty 's my forte, 
 
 And pride my foible: let as rambl on. 
 I meant to make this poem very shor. 
 
 Bat now I can't tefl where k may no* xt. 
 No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
 
 To critics, or to hail the ttttimg son 
 Of tyranny of aO lands, my concision 
 Were more ; but I was bora for 
 
 XXHL 
 
 Bat then 'tis mostly on the weaker side: 
 
 So that I verily believe if they 
 Who now are basking in their full-blown pride. 
 
 Were shaken down, and "dogs had had their dWj," 
 Though at the first I might by chance deride 
 
 Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
 And wax an uhra-royanst in loyalty, 
 Because I hate even democratic royalty. 
 
 XXIV. 
 I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
 
 If I had never proved the soft condiuon; 
 I think I should have made monastic vows, 
 
 But for my own peculiar superstition: 
 'Gainst rhyme I never should have knoekM my brow*. 
 
 Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian , 
 Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 
 If someone had not told me to forego M. 
 
 XXV. 
 Bat "bussex aSer" faughts and dames I sing, 
 
 Such as the times may furnish. Tis a fight 
 Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
 
 Plumed by LongiBus or the Stagjrite: 
 The difficulty fie* in colouring 
 
 (Keeping the due proportions stS in sight* 
 With nature manners which are artificial. 
 And rendering general that which is especial 
 
 XXVL 
 
 The difference is, that in the days of old 
 
 Men made the manners ; manners now make men 
 
 Pmn'd Eke a flock, and fleeced too in their fife. 
 At least nine, and a ninth beside often. 
 
 Now tlos at a3 events most reader cold 
 Tour writers, who must either draw again 
 
 Days better drawn before, or eke assume 
 
 The present, wah their cotomnnslace
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 We 'ft Jo our best to tnake the best on 't : March ! 
 
 March, ny Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter ; 
 And w l ien you may not be sublime, be arch, 
 
 Or atarch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
 We surely shall find something worth research : 
 
 Col'imbus found a new world in a cutter, 
 Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
 While yet America was in her non-age. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 When Adeline, in all her growing sense 
 
 Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
 Felt on the whole an interest intense 
 
 Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
 Or that he had an air of innocence, 
 
 Which is for innocence a sad temptation, 
 As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
 She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 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, marriage ; and, this question carried, 
 
 She seriously advised him to get married. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 luan replied, with all becoming deference, 
 
 He lad 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 thit they were not married all already. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 stockholder in growing pelf) 
 
 Than match-making in general : 't is no sin 
 (lertes, but a preventalive, and therefore 
 That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 
 
 XXXII. 
 Rut 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, 
 An those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
 They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 They generally have some only son, 
 
 Seme heir to a larg'i property, some friend 
 O* an old family, some gay Sir John, 
 
 Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 
 \ iinr. and leave poste\ ity undone, 
 
 Unions a marriage was applied to mend 
 Th prospect and their mora' < : and besides, 
 Thev have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 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 connexions ; 
 A third, because there can be no objections. 
 
 XXXV. 
 When Rapp the harmonist embargo'd marriage 3 
 
 In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes 
 Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 
 
 Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 
 Without those sad expenses which disparage 
 
 What Nature naturally most encourages) 
 Why call'd he "Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 
 Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Because he cither meant to sneer at harmony 
 
 Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 
 But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
 
 Or no, 't is 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. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
 
 Who favour, malgre Malthus, generatun 
 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. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; 
 
 I wish she had: his book's the eleventh commandmen'. 
 Which says, " thou shall not marry " unless wed 
 
 This he (as fa.r as I can understand) meant : 
 'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell, 
 
 Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand " meant ; J * 
 But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
 Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 But Adeline, who probably presumed 
 
 That Juan had enough of maintenance, 
 Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd 
 
 As on the whole it is an even chance 
 That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groomed, 
 
 May retrograde a little in the danoc 
 Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame, 
 Like Holbein's " Dance of Death" but 't is the same)' 
 
 XL. 
 
 But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 
 ] Jn her own mind, and that 's enough for woman. 
 But then,with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading, 
 
 Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, anu Mist 
 
 Knowman, 
 And the two fair co-heiressns Giltbedding 
 
 She deem'd his merits something more tha* eommor 
 All these were unobjectionable mat-hes, 
 And might go on, if well wound up, like watcnes.
 
 XV- 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 691 
 
 * ". XLI. 
 
 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 gome milk and 
 
 water, 
 With a slight shade of Blue too it might be, 
 
 Beneath the surface; hut what did it matter? 
 Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
 And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet, 
 
 XLII. 
 And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
 
 A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
 Whose heart was fix'd upon a star of bluestring; 
 
 But whether English dukes grew rare of late, 
 Or that she nad not harp'd upon the 'rue string, 
 
 By which such sirens can attract our great, 
 She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
 A Russ or Turk the one 's as good as t' other. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And then there was but why should I go on, 
 
 Unless the ladies should go off? there was 
 Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 
 
 Of the best class, and better than her class, 
 Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
 
 O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 
 A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
 A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 
 
 XL1V. 
 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, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
 To fee!, in friendless palaces, a home 
 Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 
 
 XLV. 
 Early in years, and yet more infantine 
 
 In figure, she had something of sublime 
 In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
 
 All youth 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. 
 
 XLVI. 
 She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 
 
 As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 
 And deern'd that fallen worship far more dear, 
 
 Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 
 Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear 
 
 Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
 To novel power ; and as she was the last, 
 She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 
 
 XLVII. 
 She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
 
 As seeking not to know it ; silent, ux;e, 
 As gvows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
 
 And kept her heart serene within its zone. 
 1 nere was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
 
 Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 
 Anart from the surrounding world, and strong 
 l.i it* own .rengd most strange in one so young. 
 
 XLV1II. 
 
 Now it so hpppon'd, in the catalogue 
 
 Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
 Although her birth and wealth had given her vogti* 
 
 Beyond the charmers we have already cited : 
 Her oeauty also seem'd to form no clog 
 
 Against her being mention'd as well fitted 
 By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
 Of single gentlemen who would be double. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And this omission, like that of the bust 
 Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
 
 Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
 
 This he express'd half smiling and half serious 
 
 When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
 
 And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 
 
 She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 
 
 As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ?" 
 
 L. 
 
 Juan rejoin'd "She was a Catholic, 
 
 And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 
 
 Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
 And the Pope thunder excommunication, 
 
 If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 
 
 Herself extremely on the inoculation 
 
 Of others with her own opinions, stated 
 
 As usual the same reason which she late dil. 
 
 LI. 
 
 And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason, 
 If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 
 
 If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on 
 And amplify: you lose much by concision, 
 
 Whereas insisting in or out of season 
 Convinces all men, even a politipian ; 
 
 Or what is just the same it wearies out. 
 
 So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route? 
 
 LH. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 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 i 
 And womankind too, if we so may say, 
 
 Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 
 Like "Antony's by Ca;sar," by the few 
 Who look upon them as they ought to do. 
 
 LIV. 
 It was not envy Adeline had none ; 
 
 Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
 It was not scorn which could not light on on< 
 
 Whose greatest Jault was leaving few to find, 
 It was not jealousy, I think: but shun 
 
 Following the "ignes fatui" of mankind, 
 
 It was not but '; is easier far, alas ' 
 
 To sav what it was not, thn what it wat.
 
 G92 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO XV 
 
 LV. 
 
 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 niouiei t in the beam 
 Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
 
 Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled 
 
 She had so much, or little, of the child. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Tho 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. 
 
 LVII. 
 His fame too, for he had that kind of fame 
 
 Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 
 A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 
 
 Half virtues and whole vices being combined j 
 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, 
 Sucli was her coldness or her self-possession. 
 
 LVIII. 
 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
 
 Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 
 And, as my friend Scott says, "I sound my Warison ;" 
 
 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 
 
 fhere had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
 Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 
 
 LX. 
 1 gay, in my slight way I may proceed 
 
 To play upon the surface of humanity. 
 1 write the world, nor care if the world read, 
 
 At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
 My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
 
 More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 
 Thought that it might turn out so now I know it, 
 But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 
 
 LXI. 
 The conference or congress (for it ended 
 
 A jongresses of late do) of the Lady 
 A^euae and Don Juan rather blended 
 
 Some acias with '.he sweats for she was heady ; 
 But. w; tne matter coihu DC marr'd or mended, 
 
 p lh silf cry bell rung, not for "dinner reruly," 
 But for that hour, call'd hiUf-hour, given to dress, 
 Though l.idies' rolip seem scant enough for less. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
 With massy plate for armour, knives and forki 
 
 For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
 (His feasts are not the worst part of his worki) 
 
 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, b-ches, or physicians brew. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 There was a goodly "soupe k la bonne femme," 
 
 Though God knows whence it came from; there was o 
 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 (his gourmand stanza through? 
 Soupe h la Beauveau, whose relief was dory, 
 Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 
 
 LXIV. 
 But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
 
 Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail, 
 My Muse would run :nuch more into excess, 
 
 Than when some squeamish people deem her frax. 
 But, though a " bonne vivanie," 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. 
 
 LXV. 
 Fowls h. la Conde, slices eke of salmon, 
 
 With sauces Genevoise, and haunch of venison ; 
 Wines too which might again have slain young Ammon, 
 
 A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many soon; 
 They also set a glazed Westphahan ham on, 
 
 Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 
 And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 
 As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 
 
 LXVI. 
 Then there was God knows what "h 1'AIlemande," 
 
 " A 1'Espagnole," "limballe," and " Salpicon" 
 With things I can't withstand or understand, 
 
 Though swallow'd with much /rst upon the whole ; 
 And "entremels" to piddle with at hand, 
 
 Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 
 While great Lucullus' robe triomphale muffles 
 (There's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
 truffles.* 
 
 LXVH. 
 
 What are the Jillets on the victor's brow 
 
 To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch 
 Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 
 
 Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march? 
 Gono to where victories must like dinners go. 
 
 Further I shall not follow the research 
 But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
 When will your names Ic-nd lustre even *o parlridget 1 
 
 LXVIH. 
 Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
 
 Follow'd by " petits puils d'ainour," a dish 
 Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
 
 So every one may dress it to his wich, 
 According to the !est of dictionaries, 
 
 Which encyclof>aedise both flesh end fiah : 
 But even sans "confitures,"' it i"> < true is, 
 There's pretty picking in those "^c.-* pait."*
 
 CArtTO XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 693 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 LXX. 
 
 The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 
 
 The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
 The ladies with more moderation mingled 
 
 In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
 Also the younger men too; for a springald 
 
 Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel, 
 But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
 (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 
 
 LXXI. 
 Alas ! I must leave undes cribed the gibier, 
 
 The salmi, the consommee, 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 " becasse," 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
 From nature for the service of the gout, 
 
 Twite or the gout, pronounce it as inclines 
 Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do ; 
 
 But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
 Which prove plain English truer of the two. 
 
 4ast ever had the gout ? I have not had it 
 
 But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 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 't was oft my luck to dine, 
 
 The grass my table-cloth, in open air, 
 On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
 Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 
 
 And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
 The guests were placed according to their roll, 
 
 But various as the various meats display'd: 
 L on Juan sate next an " a 1'Espagnole " 
 
 No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
 But so far like a lady, that 't was drest 
 Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 
 
 LXXV. 
 By some odd chance too he was placed between 
 
 Amora and the Lady Adeline 
 A situation difficult, I ween, 
 
 For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
 A.so 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 seem'd to look through him. 
 3M 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears 
 This much is sure, that, out of ear-shot, things 
 
 Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, 
 
 Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge spring*. 
 
 Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 
 Which no one hears so loudly though it rings 
 
 'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
 
 Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Aurora sat with that indifference 
 
 Which piques a preux chevalier as it ought : 
 Of all offences that 's the worst offence, 
 
 Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
 Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 
 
 Was not exactly pleased to be so caught 
 Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
 And after so much excellent advice. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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 inani'.y ? 
 
 Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 
 
 Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And look'd as much as if to say, ** I said it ;" 
 A kind of triumph I '11 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 z. jest to a serious end ; 
 
 For all men prophesy what is or was, 
 
 And hate those who won't let them come to past. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
 
 Slight but select, and just enough to express 
 To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 
 
 That he would rather make them more than less. 
 Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 
 
 Though probably much less a fact than guess ^ 
 So fa relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 
 As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 
 
 . LXXXI. 
 From answering, she began to question : thi 
 
 With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 
 Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 
 
 Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette 
 So very difficult, they say, it is 
 
 To keep extremes from meeting, when once sw 
 In motion ; but she here too much refined 
 Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 But Juan had a sort of winning way, 
 
 A proud humility, if such there be, 
 Which show'd such deference to what females sa> 
 
 As if each charming word were a decree. 
 His tact too temper'd him from grave to gay, 
 
 And taught him when to be reserved or free: 
 He had the art of drawing people out, 
 Without their seeing what he was about
 
 694 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 cj.vi o xt: 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Aurora, who in her indifference 
 
 Confounded him in common with the crowd 
 (If flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 
 
 Than whispering foplings, or than wn.ings .oud, 
 Commenced (from such slight things wHl great com- 
 mence) 
 
 To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
 Rather by deference than compliment, 
 And wins even by a delicate dissent. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And then he had good looks ; that point was carried 
 
 ffem, con. amongst the women, which I grieve 
 To sav, 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 have done, somehow these good looks 
 Make more impression than the best of books. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
 
 Was very young, although so very sage, 
 Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
 
 Especially upon a printed page. 
 But virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, 
 
 Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 
 And Socrates, that model of all duty, 
 Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 
 
 But innocently so, as Socrates : 
 And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 
 
 At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
 Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 
 
 Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
 In virgins always in a modest way, 
 Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua."' 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
 
 (See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 
 Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
 
 Twin opposites, the second is the best. 
 Perhaps I have a third too in a nook, 
 
 Or none at all which seems a sorry jest ; 
 But if a writer should be quite consistent, 
 How could he possibly show things existent ? 
 
 LXXXVIH. 
 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 
 
 muddy, 
 
 And cut through such canals of contradiction, 
 That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 
 
 Are false, but may be render'd also true 
 Bv those w no sow them in a land that 's arable. 
 
 T is wonderful what fable will not do ! 
 *T is said it makes reality more bearable : 
 
 B A what 's reality ? Who has its clue ? 
 Philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 
 Religion? 1>< but which of all her sects/ 
 
 XC. 
 
 Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty cleat 
 Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
 
 God help us ! Since we 've need on our career 
 To keep our no.y beacons aiways oright, 
 
 'T is time that some new prophet should appea 
 Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 
 
 Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
 
 Without a small refreshment from the sphere* 
 
 XCI. 
 
 But here again, why will I thus entangle 
 Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 
 
 So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
 And yet such is my folly, or my fate, 
 
 I always knock my head against some angle 
 About the present, past, and future state ; 
 
 Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
 
 For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 But though I am a temperate theologian, 
 
 And also meek as a metaphysician, 
 Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 
 
 As Eldon on a lunatic commission, 
 In politics, my duty is to show John 
 
 Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
 It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hec'.a, 
 To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 
 
 XCIII. 
 But politics, and policy, and piety, 
 
 Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
 Not only for the sake of their variety, 
 
 But as subservient to a moral use ; 
 Because my business is to dress society, 
 
 And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 
 And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
 Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 And now I will give up all argument : 
 And positively henceforth no tempation 
 
 Shall " fool me to the top up of my bent ;* 
 Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 
 
 Indeed I never knew wfiat people meant 
 By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
 
 Was dangerous ; I think she is as harmlws 
 
 As some who labour more and yet may charm less, 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 
 
 No; but you've heard I understand be dumb 
 And don't regret the time you may have lost, 
 
 For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
 And do not think I mean to sneer at most 
 
 Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
 That source of the sublime and the mysterious: 
 For certain reasons my belief is serious. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Serious ? You laugh : you may ; that will I no ; 
 
 My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
 I say I do believe a haunted spot 
 
 F.xists and where? That shall I noi recaL, 
 Because I'd rather it should be {or got. 
 
 1 Shadows the soul of Richard ' may appal : 
 In short, upon that subject I 've SOTIB qualms, vry 
 Like those of th? philosopher o* Mlrtsburv.'
 
 I7AXTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 69c 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 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 
 Rattle's around me her discordant hymn : 
 
 Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl 
 I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 
 
 The dying embers dwindle in the grate 
 
 I think too that 1 have sate up too late: 
 
 XCVIH. 
 
 And therefore, though 't is by no means my way 
 To rhyme at noon when I have other things 
 
 To think of, if I ever think, I say 
 
 I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 
 
 And 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. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 '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 heave but like some passing waves. 
 
 CANTO XVI. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE antique Persians taught three useful things, 
 
 To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 
 This was the mode of Cyrus best of kings 
 
 A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
 Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
 
 Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 
 At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 
 But draw the long bow oetter now than ever. 
 
 II. 
 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 contradictio i 
 The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 
 
 III. 
 And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
 
 From any tning, this Epic will contain 
 A wilderness of the most rare conreits, 
 
 Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain 
 Tis true thrre be some bitters with the sv/eets, 
 
 Yet niira so slightly that you can't complain, 
 But vender they so few are, since my tale is 
 K De rtbus cunctis et ouibusjam ali;s." 
 
 IV. 
 
 But of all truths which she has told, the most 
 True is that which she ip aboui 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 dweJ I 
 
 'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb a* 
 
 The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 
 
 V. 
 
 Some people would impose now with authority, 
 Turpin's or Monmouth GeofTry'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 V is go. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 
 
 Quiets at once with "quia impossible." 
 
 VI. 
 
 And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 
 
 Believe: if 'tis improbable you must; 
 And if it is impossible, you shall: 
 
 'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
 I do not speak profanely to recall 
 
 Those holier mysteries, which the wise and jusi 
 Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
 As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 
 
 VII.' 
 
 I merely mean to say what Johnson said, 
 
 That in the course of some six thousand years, 
 
 All nations have believed that from the dead 
 A visitant at intervals appears ; 
 
 And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
 Is that whatever bar the reason rears 
 
 'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger sti* 
 
 In its behalf, let those deny who will. 
 
 VIII. 
 The dinner and the soiree too were done, 
 
 The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 
 The banqueters 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 saloor 
 Than dying tapers and the peeping moon. 
 
 IX. 
 The evaporation of a joyous day 
 
 Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
 The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 
 
 Or like a system coupled with a doubt; 
 Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray 
 
 Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
 Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
 Without the animation of the wind ; 
 
 X. 
 Or like an opiate which brings troubled resi, 
 
 Or none ; or like like nothing that I knvw 
 Except itself; such is the human breast; 
 
 A thing, of which similitudes can show 
 No real likeness, like the oia Tyrian verf 
 
 Dyed purple, none at present can tell hoy 
 If from a shell-fish or from cocnineal. ' 
 So perish every tyrant's -obe piecemeal '
 
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 098 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO Xl"l 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " But add I he words," cried Henry, " which you made, 
 
 For Adeline is half a poetess," 
 1 timing 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, tho words, the harper's skill, at once 
 Could hardly be united by a dunce. 
 
 XL. 
 
 After some fascinating hesitation, 
 
 The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 
 I can't tell why, to this dissimulation 
 
 Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
 At first, then kindling into animation, 
 
 Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
 And sang with much simplicity, a merit 
 Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 
 
 1. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman slone, 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey, 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 2. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 
 
 To turn church 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 church, 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
 3. 
 And whether fcr good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say ; 
 But still to the house of Amundeville, 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve; 
 And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes but not to grieve. 
 
 4. 
 When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He waUs from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'T is shadow'd by his cowl ; 
 tiM his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 
 5. 
 Hut ocware ! beware of the Black Friar, 
 
 Ha still retains his sway, 
 Kor he is yet the church's heir, 
 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Amunaeville is lord by day, 
 
 But the monk is lord by night, 
 Nor wine not wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 6. 
 Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he '11 say nought to you : 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 
 
 Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
 Died from the touch that 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. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
 As if she rated such accomplishment 
 
 As the mere pastime of an idle day, 
 Pursued an instant for her own content, 
 
 Would now and then as 't were without display, 
 Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
 
 To such performances with haughty smile, 
 
 To show she could, if it were worth her while. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
 Was pardon the pedantic illustration 
 
 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 his own repartee. 1 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 
 
 (By doing easily, whene'er she chose, 
 What dilettanti do with vast parade), 
 
 Their sort of half profession : for it grow 
 To something like this when too oft display'd, 
 
 And that it is so every body knows 
 Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T' othei 
 Show ofF to please their company or mother. 
 
 XLV. 
 Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 
 
 The admirations and the speculations ; 
 The " Mamma Mias !" and the " Amor Mios !" 
 
 The " Tanti Palpitis " on such occasions : 
 The " Lasciamis," and quavering "Addios!" 
 
 Amongst our own most musical of nations ; 
 With " Tu mi chamases " from Portingale, 
 To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 3 
 
 XLVI. 
 In Babylon's bravuras as the home 
 
 Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands. 
 That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 
 
 O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
 The calentures of music wnich o'ercome 
 
 All mountaineers with dreams that they are nijh kmig, 
 No more to be beheld but in such visions, 
 Was Adeline weu verged as compositions,
 
 ZANTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 69!> 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 She also had a twilight tinge of " JB/ue," 
 CoulJ 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. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Aurora since we are touching upon taste, 
 Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
 
 By whose degrees all characters are class'd 
 Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
 
 The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 
 Had more of her existence, for in her 
 
 There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
 
 Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
 The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 
 
 If she had any, was upon her face, 
 And that was of a fascinating kind. 
 
 A little turn for mischief you might trace 
 Also thereon, but that 's not much ; we find 
 
 Few females without some such gentle leaven, 
 
 For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 
 
 L. 
 
 I have not heard she was at all poetic, 
 
 Though once 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 rimes." 
 
 LI. 
 
 '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 wish to confirm him in it, 
 Though why I cannot say at least this minute. 
 
 LII. 
 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 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 'arious similar remarks to tally, 
 
 But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 
 1^ icn. same mystic friar's curious doings, 
 About the present family's deaths and wooings. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Of these few could say more than has been said ; 
 
 They pass'd, as such things do, for superstition 
 With some, while others, who had more in dread 
 
 The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
 And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 
 
 But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, 
 Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it 
 Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 
 
 LV. 
 And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 
 
 The company prepared to separate : 
 Some to their several pastimes, or to none ; 
 
 Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
 There was a goodly match, too, to be run 
 
 Between some grayhounds on my lord's estate. 
 And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
 Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 
 
 LVI. 
 There was a picture-dealer, who had brought 
 
 A special Titian, warranted original, 
 So precious that it was not to be bought, 
 
 Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
 The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 
 
 The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
 His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
 Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 
 
 LVII. 
 But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, 
 
 The friend of artists, if not arts, the owner, 
 With motives the most classical and pure, 
 
 So that he would have been the very donor 
 Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
 
 So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 
 Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale, 
 But for his Judgment, never known to fail. 
 
 LVIII. 
 There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 
 
 Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 
 Brought to survey these gray walls, which, though so 
 thick, 
 
 Might have from time acquired some slight defect , 
 Who, after rummaging the Abbey through thick 
 
 And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
 New buildings of correctest conformation, 
 And throw down old which he call'd restoruiwn, 
 
 LIX. 
 The cost would be a trifle an " old song," 
 
 Set to some thousands ('tis the usual burthen 
 Of that same tune, when people hum it long) 
 
 The price would speedily repay its worth in 
 An edifice no less sublime than strong, 
 
 By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth 
 Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money. 4 
 
 LX. 
 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 are discord's torcne* 
 Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage. 
 
 "Untying" squires "to tight against thecni'rchen: r 
 There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and plcugnman 
 For Henrv was a sort of Sabine showmi n
 
 oo 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO XVI 
 
 LXI. 
 
 T here were two poacher caught in a steel trap, 
 Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ; 
 
 There was a country girl in a close cap 
 
 And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since 
 
 Since since in youth I had the sad mishap- 
 But luckily I 've paid few parish fees since). 
 
 That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigour, 
 
 Presents the problem of a double figure. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 
 One can't tell how it e'er got in or out, 
 
 Therefore the present piece of natural history 
 I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt, 
 
 And merely state, though not for the consistory, 
 Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 
 
 The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 
 
 Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
 Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 
 
 And morals of the country from caprices 
 Of those who 've not a license 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 precautions benches. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The present culprit was extremely pale, 
 Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 
 
 By nature, as in higher dames less hale, 
 'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. 
 
 Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 
 Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 
 
 And knew no better in her immorality 
 
 Tha^ to wax white for blushes are for quality. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Her black, bright, downcast, yet espigle eye 
 
 Had gathcr'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. 
 
 LXVI. 
 Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, 
 
 Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
 The lawyers in the study; and in air 
 
 The prize pig, ploughman, poachefs ; the men sent 
 From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
 
 Both busy (as a general in his tent 
 Writing despatches) in their several stations, 
 Kxultmg in their brilliant lucubrations. 
 
 LXVII. 
 But this poor gir 1 was left in the great hall, 
 
 While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 
 Piscuss'o (he hated heer yciept the "small") 
 
 A mighty mug of moral double ale : 
 She waited until Justice could recall 
 
 Us kiKd attentions to their proper pale, 
 To rame a thing in nomenclature rather 
 
 fot most virgins a child's father. 
 
 LXVIH. 
 
 You see here was enough of occupation 
 
 For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horsey 
 
 There was much bustle too and preparation 
 Below stairs on the score of second courses, 
 
 Because, as suits their rank and situation, 
 Those who in counties have great land resources, 
 
 Have "public days," when all men may carouse, 
 
 Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house " 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But once a week or fortnight, uninvited 
 (Thus we translate a general invitation), 
 
 All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 
 May drop in without cards, and take their station 
 
 At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
 With fashionable wines and conversation ; 
 
 And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 
 
 Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 
 
 Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit, 
 
 But country contests cost him rather dearer, 
 
 Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbfr 
 
 Had English influence in the self-same sphere here 
 His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit, 
 
 Was member for "the other interest" (meaning 
 
 The sejf-same interest, with a different leaning). 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 A friend to freedom and freeholders yet 
 
 No less a friend to government he held 
 That he exactly (he just medium hit 
 
 'Twixt place and patriotism albeit compell'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. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 He was " free to confess" (whence comes this phrase 7 
 
 Is 't English ? No 't is only parliamentary) 
 That innovation's spirit now-a-days 
 
 Had made more progress than for the last century. 
 He would not tread a factious path to praise, 
 
 Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
 As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
 That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
 
 Haa 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 incisio-l!) 
 The Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 
 Have tied together Commons, Lord , ai d Kings
 
 CANTO 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 701 
 
 LXXV. 
 Sooner " come plact wito the civil list, 
 
 And champion him to the utmost" he would keep it, 
 Till duly disappointed or dismis=s'd : 
 
 Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 
 But should the day come when place ceased to exist, 
 
 The country would have far more cause to weep it ; 
 For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 
 He gloried in the name of Englishman. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 He was as independent ay, much more 
 
 Than those who were not paid for independence, 
 As common soldiers, or a common shore 
 
 Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 
 O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 
 
 Who do not give professional attendance. 
 Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 
 To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 
 
 And 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 official candidate. I '11 touch 
 No more on this the dinner-bell hath rung, 
 And grace is said ; the grace I should have sung 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 But I 'm too late, and therefore must raake play. 
 
 'T was a great banquet, such as A'.bion old 
 Was wont to boast as if a glutton's tray 
 
 Were something very glorious to behold. 
 But 't was 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. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 The squires familiarly formal, and 
 
 My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 
 The very servants puzzling how to hand 
 
 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 masters too their places. 
 
 LXXX. 
 There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
 
 Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor grayhounds deign'd 
 
 to lurch ; 
 Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 
 
 Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 
 Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
 
 There were some massy members of the church, 
 Fakers of tithes, and makers of good matches, 
 And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 Fhere 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. 
 \nd lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 
 
 I sate next that o'erwhelming son of Heaven, 
 /he very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
 The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd w ; *'^ 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 I knew him in his livelier London days, 
 A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate ; 
 
 And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
 Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 
 
 (Oh, Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways, 
 Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ? 
 
 Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln 
 
 A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 
 
 But both were thrown away amongst the fens ; 
 For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 
 
 No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
 Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax: 
 
 The poor priest was reduced to common sense. 
 Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
 To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 There w a difference, says the song, " between 
 A 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) 
 
 A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
 A difference between crockery- ware and plate, 
 
 As between English beef and Spartan broth 
 
 And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 But of all Nature's discrepancies, none 
 Upon the whole is greater than the difference 
 
 Beheld between the country and the town, 
 Of which the latter merits every preference 
 
 From those who've few resources of their own, 
 And only think, or act, or feel with reference 
 
 To some small plan of interest or ambition 
 
 Both which are limited to no condition. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But " en avant !" The light loves languish o'er 
 Long banquets and too many guests, although 
 
 A slight repast makes people love much more, 
 Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 
 
 Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
 With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 
 
 To these the invention of champagne and truffles 
 
 Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 
 
 And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
 Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 
 
 And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair ; 
 Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fra> 
 
 He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
 Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
 (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 On which, at the third asking of the bans 
 He started ; and, perceiving smiles arouna 
 
 Broadening to grins, he coloured more than onrt. 
 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 J. 
 
 He 'd paid his neighbour's prayer with half a vm urn
 
 02 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 This was no bud nistake, as it occurr'd, 
 
 The sup->lisator being an amateur; 
 Bui others, w}\o were left with scarce a third. 
 
 Were angry as they well might, to be sure. 
 They wonuer'd how a young man so absurd 
 
 Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
 And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
 ilaa fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 
 
 XC. 
 
 They little knew, or might have sympathized, 
 That he the night before had seen a ghost ; 
 
 A prologue, which but slightly harmonized 
 With the substantial company engross'd 
 
 By matter, and so much materialized, 
 That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
 
 Of two things how (the question rather odd is) 
 
 Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 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) 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
 And something like a smile upon her cheek. 
 
 Now this he really rather took amiss : 
 
 In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 
 
 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. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 
 
 Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
 And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 
 
 Which was not very wise and still less witty, 
 Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 
 
 A most important outwork of the city 
 As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
 By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 
 
 XCIV. 
 But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 
 
 Nor seem embarrass'd quite the contrary; 
 Her aspect was, as usual, still not stern 
 
 And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
 Vet grew a little pale with what ? concern ? 
 
 1 know not ; but her colour ne'er was high 
 Though sometimes faintly flush'd and always clear 
 As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 But Adeline was occupied by fame 
 
 This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
 To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 
 
 And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
 y\s all must blend whose part it is to- aim 
 
 . Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
 At meir lord's, son's, and similar connexions' 
 Safe- conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
 And usual Juan, when he cast a glance 
 
 On Adeline while playing her grand role. 
 
 Which she went through as though it were a Janet 
 
 (Betraying only now and then her soul 
 By a look scarce perceptibly askiinr.e. 
 
 Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 
 
 Some doubt ,how much of Adeline was real ; 
 
 XCVH. 
 
 So well she acted all and every part 
 
 By turns with that vivacious versatility, 
 
 Which many people take for want of heart. 
 They err 't is merely what is call'd mobility, 8 
 
 A thing of temperament, and not of art, 
 
 Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 
 
 And false though true ; for surely they 're sincerest, 
 
 Who 're strongly acted on by what is nearest. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
 Heroes sometimes, though seldom sages never ; 
 
 But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
 Little that 's great, but much of what is clever ; 
 
 Most orators, but very few financiers, 
 
 Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour, 
 
 Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 
 
 And grow quite figurative with their figures. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 The poets of arithmetic are they, 
 
 Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
 Five, as they 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 sra, 
 That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
 The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 
 
 C. 
 
 While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
 
 The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; 
 Though loo well-bred to quiz men to thair faces. 
 
 Her laughing blue eyes with a glance cuuld sei?* 
 The ridicules of people in all places 
 
 That honey of your fashionable bees 
 And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 
 And this at present was her kind employment. 
 
 CI. 
 However, the day closed, as days must close ; 
 
 The evening also waned and coffee came. 
 Each carriage was announced, and ladies rcse, 
 
 And curtsying off, 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. 
 
 COL 
 
 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 ve-'.'.yi 
 Yes : she was truly worthy her high p'uce ! 
 
 No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 
 And then her dress what beautiful simplicity 
 Draperied her form with curious (elicit? "
 
 CANTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 703 
 
 cm. 
 
 Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 
 
 By an impartial indemnification 
 For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 
 
 In a most edifying conversation, 
 Which 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. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 True, skj said little 't was the rest that broke 
 
 Forth into universal epigram: 
 But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 
 
 Like Add ison's "faint praise" so wont to damn 
 Her own but served to set off every joke, 
 
 As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
 How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 
 I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 
 
 CV. 
 
 There were but two exceptions to this keen 
 Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 
 
 Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
 And Juan too, in general behind none 
 
 In gay remark on what he 'd heard or seen, 
 Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: 
 
 [n vain he heard the others rail or rally, 
 
 He would not join them in a single sally. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 T is true he saw Aurora look as though 
 She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook 
 
 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, silling silent in his nook, 
 
 Observing little in his reverie, 
 
 Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 The ghost at least had done him this much good, 
 
 In making him 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 
 
 In him some feelings he had lately lost 
 Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
 Are so divine, that I must deem them real: 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 The love of higher things and belter days ; 
 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways ; 
 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or praise, 
 
 Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own, 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 CIX. 
 Who would not sigh At at ray KvOtjptiav ! 
 
 That hath a memory, or that had a heart? 
 Alas ! her star must wane like that of Dian, 
 
 Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
 Anacreon only h^d the soul to tie on 
 
 Unwithcring myrtle round the unblunted dart 
 Of Eros ; but, though thoii hast play'd us many tricks, 
 Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genitrk !" 
 
 CX. 
 
 And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
 
 Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 
 
 Don Juan, when the midnight hour of nillows 
 Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 
 
 Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willowg 
 Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
 
 Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 
 
 And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The night was as before : he was undrest, 
 Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 
 
 Completely "sans culotte," and without vest ; 
 In short, he hardly could be clothed with less ; 
 
 But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
 He sate, with feelings awkward to express 
 
 (By those who have not had such visitations), 
 
 Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And not in vain he listen'd Hush ! what 's that ? 
 
 I see I see Ah, no ! 't is not yet 't is 
 Ye powers ! it is the the the Pooh ! the cat ! 
 
 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. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 Again what is 't ? The wind ? No, no, thw time 
 
 It is the sable friar as before, 
 With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme, 
 
 Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much morn. 
 Again, through shadows of the night sublime, 
 
 When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
 The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
 Spangled with gems the monk made his blood curdle. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 A noise like tp wet fingers drawn on glass,' 
 Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter 
 
 Like showers which on the midnight guests will pas 
 Sounding like very supernatural water, 
 
 Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
 For immaterialism 's a serious matter : 
 
 So that even those whose faith is the most great 
 
 In souls immortal, shun them t6te-a-t6te. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Were his eyes open? Yes! and his mouth too. 
 
 Surprise has this effect to make one dumb, 
 Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips thronjh 
 
 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 d<x 
 
 CXVI. 
 It open'd with a most infernal creak, 
 
 Like that of hell. "Lasciate ognt speranza, 
 Vk> che entrate!" The hinge seem'd to speak. 
 
 Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; 
 Or but all words upon such themes are wean: 
 
 A single shade 's sufficient to entrance * 
 Herofor what is subst.ince to a spiiit? 
 Or how is 't matter trembles to come near i T
 
 704 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 The door flew wide, not swiftly but, as fly 
 The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight 
 
 And tnen swung back ; nor close but stood awry, 
 Half letting in long shadows on the light, 
 
 WhicK 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. 
 
 cxviir. 
 
 Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
 
 The night 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 aoul and body on the whole 
 Were odds against a disembodied soul. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce ; 
 
 And he arose advanced the shade retreated ; 
 But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
 
 Follow'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
 Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 
 
 At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
 The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
 He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Juan put forth one arm Eternal Powers ! 
 
 It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, 
 On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 
 
 Chequcr'd with alt the tracery of the hall : 
 He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 
 
 When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal. 
 How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.* 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 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 fvr a silly blunder, 
 And that in his confusion he ,:ad caught 
 Only the wall instead of what he sought. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul, 
 
 As (iver lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
 A dimpled chin neck of 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 (ill!, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, 
 The phantom of her frolic grace Fitz-Fulke ! 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza v. 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 
 " Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," etc. /foroc* 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xvii. 
 Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar! 
 " Description des vcrtus incomparables de 1'huile de 
 Macassar." See the advertisement. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xlii. 
 Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 
 
 See Longinus, Section 10, Iva pri ev rt vepl atrfei 
 
 vado; tpaivijrai, TraOfav ie <rvi'ooo$. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xliv. 
 They only add them all in an appendix. 
 Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
 obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
 the end. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixxxviii. 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 
 ' Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming ; (I thimr) the 
 opening of Canto II. but quote from memory. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza cxlviii. 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely t 
 
 Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly 
 did not take Algiers but Algiers very nearly took him ; 
 he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 
 not much credit, from before that city, in the year 17 . 
 
 Note 7. Stanza ccxvi. 
 My days of love are o'er, me no more. 
 " Me nee fcemina, nee puer 
 Jam, nee spes animi ciedula mutui; 
 
 Nee certare juvat mero, 
 Nee vincire novis tempora floribus." 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xlv. 
 
 For none likes more to hear himself convene. 
 Eispose allor Margutte: a dirtcl tosto, 
 
 lo non credo piu al nero, ch' a I'azzurro; 
 
 Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli airosto; 
 
 E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro, 
 
 Ne la cervogia, e quanoo' io n* ho nel mos'o; 
 
 E molto piu ne 1'aspro che il maneurro ; 
 
 Ma sopra tutto nel boon vino ho fede ; 
 
 E credo che sia salvo chi gli credo. 
 PULCI, Morgante Maggiore, Canto ]8 Stanza 115 
 
 Note 2. Stanza Ixxi. 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar ar 
 worn in the manner described. The reader will oer 
 ceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was of 
 Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the counlrv.
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 705 
 
 Note 3. Stanza Ixxii. 
 A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd. 
 The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sov- 
 ereign rank in the women of the families of the Deys, 
 and is worn as such by their female relatives. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxiii. 
 Her person if allow'd at large to run. 
 This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
 whom I remember to have seen, wno possessed their 
 hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, the 
 other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that length 
 and quantity that, when let down, it almost entirely 
 shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a su- 
 perfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair ; the Ori- 
 ental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza cvii. 
 Oh Hesperus '. tbou bringest all good things. 
 'EO-JTE/JE, iravra <j>epw, 
 4>epc<; oivov, tytpus aiya, 
 $epeis parcpi iraic!a. 
 
 Fragment of Sappho. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza cviii. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
 "Era gia 1' ora che volge '1 disio, 
 
 A' naviganti e 'ntenerisce il cuore 
 Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci araici addio, 
 
 E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore 
 Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano 
 Che paja 'I giorno pisnger che si muore." 
 
 DANTE'S Purgatory, Canto viii. 
 
 ThU last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by 
 him without acknowledgement. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza cix. 
 
 Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb. 
 See Suetonius for this fact. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xii. 
 
 " Whom the gods love, die young," was said of yore. 
 See Herodotus. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza Hx. 
 
 A vein had burst. 
 
 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, 
 u mourut subitement d'une hemorrhagie causee par une 
 veine qui s'eclata dsrxs s-v poitrine," (see Sismondi and 
 Daru, vols. i. ind ii.) t tha age of eighty years, when 
 * who would hat thought the old man had so much blood 
 n 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, how- 
 ever, aid not die in consequence, at that time, but fell 
 v victim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same 
 und, arising from causes intimately connected with 
 Agitation of mind. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza kxx. 
 But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
 This is a f ict. A. lew years ago, a man engaged a 
 8N 94 
 
 company for some foreign theatre ; embarked them at 
 an Italian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold 
 them all. One of the women, returned from her cap*- 
 tivity, I heard sing, by a strange coincidence, in Ros 
 sini's opera of " L'ltaliana in Algieri," at Venice, in 
 the beginning of 1817. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 
 From all the pope makes yearly, 't would perplex, 
 To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 
 
 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. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza ciii. 
 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base 
 The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, u 
 about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of 
 the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, 
 who gained the battle, was killed in it ; there fell on 
 both sides twenty thousand men. The present state 
 of the pillar and its site is described in the text. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza iii. 
 The ocean stream. 
 
 THIS expression of Homer has been much criticised. 
 It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, 
 but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the 
 Bosphorus, with the ^Egcan, intersected with islands. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza v. ' 
 "The Giant's Grave." 
 
 "The Giant's Grave " is a height on the Asiatic 
 shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
 parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
 And running out hs fabt I was able. 
 The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 
 
 of December, 1820. in the streets of R , not a 
 
 hundred paces from the residence of the writer. Tho 
 circumstances were as described. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
 Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
 There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
 sawn half off: it had just been discharged, and was 
 still warm. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza liii. 
 Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
 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 belter for it ; I tried the experiment, but was like 
 the Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called 
 kittiewiaks were admirable whets, ate six of ihem, anu 
 complained that "he was no hungrier than when in 
 began." 
 
 Note 6. P .anza Iv. 
 
 Splendid but silent, gave in one, where, dropping 
 A marble fountain echoes. 
 
 A common furniture. I recollect being received o
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Ali Pad u. in a room containing a marble basin anc 
 fountain, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
 
 T.ie gate BO splendid was in all its features. 
 
 Featu-es of a gate a ministerial metaphor ; " the 
 
 feature jpon which this question hinges." Seo the 
 
 "Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
 
 Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 
 
 There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
 
 than the hand : it is almost the only sign of blood 
 
 which Aristocracy can generate. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza cxlvii. 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 
 
 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 : " The destruction of Mustapha was so 
 fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks 
 from Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, 
 and of strange blood ; for that Solymus the Second was 
 thought to be supposititious." But Bacon, in his his- 
 torical authorities, is often inaccurate. I could give 
 half a dozen instances from his apophthegms only. 
 
 Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, 
 after ha> ing 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 
 thing could add to my opinion of the talents and true 
 feeling of that gentleman, it would be his classical, 
 hcnest, and triumphant defence of Pope, against the 
 vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Grub-street. 
 
 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 
 Humphry Clinker (the only work of Smollett's from 
 which Tabitha, etc., etc. could have been taken) was 
 written during Smollett's last residence at Leghorn, in 
 1770. " Argal," if there has been any borrowing, 
 \nstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor. I 
 refer Mr. Campbell to his own data in his lives of Smul- 
 IM and Anstey. 
 
 Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cowper 
 (note to page 358, vol. 7), 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 of Fer- 
 ney, with its inscription, " Deo erexit Voltaire." 
 
 Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shak- 
 ipearo thus. 
 
 " To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
 Or add fresh perfume to the violet." 
 
 This version by no means improves the original, 
 wnien is as follows : 
 
 To gild refined RI d, to paint the lily. 
 To tliroic a perfumt on the violet," etc. 
 
 King John. 
 
 A great piet, quoting another, should be correct ; he 
 mould also & accurate when he accuses a Parnassian 
 
 brother of that dangercus charge "bop-owing:" t 
 poet had belter borrow any thing (excepting money) 
 than the thoughts of another - they are always sur* to 
 be reclaimed : but it is very hard, having been tha 
 lender, to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case ct 
 Anstey versus Smollett. 
 
 As there is " honour amongst thieves," let there be 
 some amongst poets, and gire each his due, none can 
 afford to give it more than .Mr. Camobell himself, who, 
 with a high reputation for originality, and a fame which 
 cannot be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except 
 Rogers) who can be reproached (and in him it is in- 
 deed a reproach) with having written too litUe. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 Stanza Ixxv. 
 
 A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found. 
 " Nel mezzo del cammin' di nogtra vita 
 Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura," etc.. etc., etc. 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 Stanza li. 
 
 Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 
 Fact: Souvaroff did this in person. 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza viii. 
 
 All sounds it pierceth, " Allah ! Allah ! Hu !" 
 " Allah ! Hu !" is properly the war-cry of the Mui 
 sulmans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
 gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza ix. 
 
 " Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daughter." 
 " But thy most dreaded instrument 
 In working out a pure intent, 
 la man array'd for mutual slaughter ; 
 Yea, Cnrnaee is thy daughter I" 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S Thanksgnms Ode. 
 
 To wit, the deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
 sedigree for murder as ever was found out by Garter- 
 King-at-arms. What would have been said, had an/ 
 ree-spoken people discovered such a lineage ? 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
 
 Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 
 A fact ; see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect re- 
 marking at the time to a friend : " There is fame! a 
 man is killed his name is Grose, and they print it 
 rove." I was at college with the deceased, who 
 was a very amiable and Clever man, and his society in 
 great request for his wit, gayety, and "chansons a 
 wire." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xxui. 
 
 A any other notion, and not nation.tr 
 
 See Maji Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Putunt
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 707 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xxv. 
 
 'T w pi'y " that such meanings should pave hell." 
 The Portuguese proverb says that "'Hell is paved with 
 f}^( intentions." 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xx.xiii. 
 By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 
 Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
 fr'ar. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xlvii. 
 
 Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 
 They were but two feet high above the level. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza xcvii. 
 That you und t will win Saint George's collar. 
 The Russian military order. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza cxxxiii. 
 
 (Power* 
 Eternal! such names mingled !) " Ismail's ours!" 
 
 In the original Russian 
 
 " Slava bogu ! slava vam ! 
 Krepost Vzala, y la tarn." 
 
 A kind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza i. 
 
 Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay!" 
 Query, Ney? PRINTER'S DEVIL. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza vi. 
 And send the sentinel before your gate 
 A slico or two from your luxurious meals. 
 
 " I at this time got a post, being 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 the 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." Journal of a Soldier of the list Regt. during 
 he war in Spain. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
 Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
 He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
 een exasperated, by his extreme costivity, to a degree 
 > f insanity. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xlvii. 
 And had just buiied the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
 H was the "grande passion" of the grande Cathe- 
 rine. See her Lives, under the head of "Lanskoi." 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xlix. 
 
 Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
 His parts of speech. 
 
 This was written long before the suicide of that 
 rerson. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Ixiii. 
 Your " fortune" was in a fair way " to aweil 
 A man," as Giles says. 
 
 " His fortune swells him, it is rank, he 's married." 
 Sir Giles Overreach; MASSINGER. See".4.ZVeu>/Paj 
 to Pay Old Debts." 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xiii. 
 
 Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes." 
 "Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The Baron 
 Bradwardine, in Waverley, is authority for the woid. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xv. 
 The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 
 
 Query, suit? PRINTER'S DEVIL. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
 Balgounie's Brig's Hack wall. 
 
 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, thouga 
 perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which made 
 me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish 
 delight, 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 tie son and a mear's at foal, 
 Down ye shall fa'l" 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
 Oh, for a forty-parson power to chaunt 
 Thy praise, hypocrisy ! 
 
 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 after 
 wards that his dull neighbour had a " twelve-parson 
 power" of conversation. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xxxvi. 
 
 To strip the Saxons of their hydcs, like tanners. 
 " Hyde." I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 
 word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xlix. 
 
 Was given to her favourite, and now bore kn>. 
 The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied b) 
 the Emperor Joseph, in the year I forget which. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza Iviii. 
 
 Which gave her dukes the graceless name of " Biron." 
 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 blesseo 
 year of the Allies the Duchess of S. to whom trte 
 English Duchess of S 1 presented me as a name- 
 sake.
 
 70S 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza IxiL 
 Etarea I *. usaod maidenheads of bone, 
 Tl* cn*te*t number flesh bath ever known. 
 
 St. Ursula aad her eleven thousand virgins were still 
 extant in 1316, and may be so yet as much as ever. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza Ixxxi. 
 
 Who butcher' J half the esjth. and bullied t' other. 
 India. America. 
 
 CANTO XI. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza six. 
 
 Who on k lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing) 
 So prime, to swell, so nutty, and so knowing 7 
 
 The advance of science and of language has rendered 
 rt unnecessary to translate the above good and true 
 English, spoken in its original purity by the select 
 mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza 
 of a song which was very popular, at least in my early 
 ays : 
 
 " On th high toby-cpice flash the muzzle, 
 
 In spite of each tallows old scout ; 
 If you at the spetken can't hustle. 
 
 You'll be hobbled in making a Clout. 
 
 Then your blowing will wax gallows haughty, 
 When she hears of your ecaly mistake, 
 
 Sn ' 11 surely turn snitch tor the forty, 
 That her Jack may be regular weight." 
 
 If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
 traducUon, I refer him to niv old friend and corporeal 
 pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of 
 Pugilism ; who I trust still retains the strength and 
 ymmetry of his model of a form, together with his 
 good humour, and athletic as well as mental accom- 
 plishments. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxix. 
 St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." 
 
 u He'.ls," gaming-houses. What their number may 
 now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age 
 I knew them pretty accurately, both "gold" and 
 "silver." I was once nearly called out by an acquaint- 
 ance, because when he asked me where I thought that 
 his soul would be found hereafter, I answered, "In 
 Silver HelL" 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xliii. 
 
 a_nd therefore even I won't aneot 
 
 This subject quote. 
 
 " Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning "concerning," 
 ' with regard to." It has been made English by the 
 
 (scotch Novels ; and, as the Frenchman said u If it be 
 
 tot, ought to be English." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xln. 
 The milliners who furnish " drapery misses. * 
 " Drapry misses" This term is probably any thing 
 *w but a mystery. It was however almost so to me 
 when I first returned from the East in 1811-1812. fc 
 nearvs a iretty, a high-bom, a fashionable young fe- 
 male, well instructed by her friends, and furnished by 
 her milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
 when married, by the husband. The riddle was first 
 a4 to me by % y^ung and pretty heiress, on my prais- 
 
 ing the " drapery " of an " tmtoehered" but " pretty VJT 
 ginities" (like Airs, Anne Page) of the the* day, which 
 has now been some years yesterday : she assured me 
 that the thing was common in London ; and as ier own 
 thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity cf 
 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 which case 1 
 could quote both " drapery" and the wearers. Let ui 
 hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ix. 
 
 T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
 Should let iuelf be snutf'd out by an article. 
 
 "Divinae particulam aurse." 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xix. 
 
 Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie 
 See MITFORD'S Greece. "Gnecia Ferot." 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 his- 
 torians 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 
 writer, because they make him write in earnest. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxxvii. 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty 't sure. 
 This line may puzzle the commentators more tnan the 
 present generation. 
 
 Note 3. Stanra born. 
 
 Like Russians rushing from hot bath? to snows. 
 The Russians, as is well known, run out from thei 
 hot baths to plunge into the Neva: a pleasant practica 
 antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza hxxii. 
 The world to gaze upon those northern lights. 
 For a description and print of this inhabitant of tht 
 polar region and native country of the aurora borealis 
 see PARRY'S Voyage in search of a North-West Pat 
 sage, 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 As Philip's son proposed to do with At'ios. 
 A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a stalue 
 of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a 
 river in his pocket, with various other similar devices. 
 But Alexander 's gone, and Athos remains, I trust, tn 
 long, to look over a nation of freemen. 
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 Note I. Stanza vii. 
 Right honestly, "he liked an honest hater.* 
 "Sir, I like a good hatci." See the Life of h 
 Johnson, etc.
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 "00 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxvi. 
 Alo there bin another pioui reason. 
 ' With eVery thing that pretty tin. 
 My lady iweet arise." Skakspcare. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
 
 They and their bills, " Arcadiana both," are ifi. 
 "Arcades ambo." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxi. 
 Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's. 
 Salvator Rosa. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixxii. 
 
 His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish. 
 If I err not, " Your Dane" is one of lago's Catalogue 
 of Nations "exquisite in their drinking." 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Ixxviii. 
 
 Even Nimrod'i self might leave the plain* of Dura. 
 In Assyria. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
 
 "That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 
 M Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blas- 
 phemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This 
 dogma was broached to her husband the best Chris- 
 tian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latter 
 chapters. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his pullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it 
 
 It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
 tentimental 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 angling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest 
 of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties 
 of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of 
 fish ; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off {he 
 streams, and a single bite is wort., 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, etc., are more humane and useful but 
 angling ! No angler can be a good man. 
 
 " One of the best men I ever knew as humane, del- 
 icate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any 
 in the world was an angler : true, he angled with 
 painted flies, and would have been incapable of the 
 extravagances of I. Walton." 
 
 The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
 ver the MS. " Audi alteiam partem " I leave it to 
 counterbalance my own observation. 
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xxxiii. 
 
 And never craned, and made but few "faui po." 
 Cloning'. "To crane'" is, or was, an expression used 
 u> denote a gentleman's stret china ouf bis neck over a 
 3 x 2 
 
 hedge, "to look before he leaped:" a pause in hb 
 " vaulting ambition," which 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 which 
 generally sent the aspirant on again ; and to good pur- 
 pose : for though "the horse and rider" might fall, they 
 made a gap, through which, and over him and his steed 
 the field might follow. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xlviii. 
 Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 
 
 In SWIFT'S or HORACE WALPOLE'S Letters, I hin 
 it is mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of 
 friend, was answered by a universal Pylades : " Wher 
 I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-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 
 iook melancholy. " What is the matter, Sir William ?" 
 cried Hare, of facetious memory. "Ah!" replied SirW. 
 " I have just lost poor Lady D." " Last > What ! at 
 Quinze or Hazard ?" was the consolatory rejoinder of 
 the querist. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza lix. 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstiera. 
 
 The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his ion, <rt 
 the 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 wi 
 dom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 
 
 CANTO XV. 
 
 Note I. Stanza xviii. 
 
 And thou. Diviner still, 
 
 Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken 
 
 As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
 I say, that I mean, by w Diviner still," CHRIST. If evet 
 God was Man or Man God he was both. I never ar- 
 raigned his creed, but the use or abuse made of tU 
 Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction 
 Negro Slavery, and Mr. Wilberfbrce had little to say IB 
 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. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxrv. 
 
 When Bapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 
 
 In his harmonious settlement. 
 
 This extraordinary and flourishing German colony 
 America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as tnt 
 " Shakers" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as pre- 
 vent more than a certain quantum of births within 
 certain number of years ; which births (as Mr. Hulrn* 
 observes) generally arrive " in a little flock like those of 
 a farmer's lambs, all within the same month perhaps." 
 These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
 tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing 
 pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writer 
 on America.
 
 710 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxviii. 
 Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand " meant 
 Jacob Tonson according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed 
 to call his writ jrs " ab!e pens " " persons of honour," 
 and especially "eminent hands." Vide correspond- 
 ence, etc., etc. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixvi. 
 
 While great Lucullus' robe triomphale muffles 
 (There 'g fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles 
 
 A dish " k la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered 
 the East, has left his more extended celebrity to thj 
 transplantation 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 conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a 
 bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to earn celeb- 
 rity from both. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixviii. 
 But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 
 There 's pretty picking in those " petits puits." 
 
 " Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," a classical 
 and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second 
 coarse. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 For that with me "s a " sine qua.' ' 
 Subauditur " JVon," omitted for the sake of euphony. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
 
 In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very 
 Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbury. 
 
 Ilobbes ; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
 compliment to the souls of other people as to decline 
 their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 
 
 CANTO XVI. 
 
 Note 1. Stanxa x. 
 If from a shell-fish or from cochineal 
 The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
 from a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from kermes, 
 is still an article of dispute ; and even its colour some 
 Bay purple, others scarlet : I say nothing. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xliii. 
 For a spoil'd carpet but the " Attic Bee " 
 Was much consoled by his own repartee. 
 
 I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, 
 with " Thus I trample on the pride of Plato !" "With 
 greater pride," as the other replied. But as carpets 
 are meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably 
 misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a 
 lable-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece 
 of furniture. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
 With " Tu mi chamnses " from Portingale, 
 To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 
 
 I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 
 
 somewhat surfei'.ed with a similar dbplay from foreign 
 parts, did richer indecoro-jsly break thrr.ugh the ap 
 plauses of rji ir.te'.n'ger.i {.u^ience intelligent, I mean, 
 as to music, far the '.vcrds, beside? being in recondit* 
 language? (it was some years before the peace, ere all 
 the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian) 
 were rorely disguised by the performers; this mayoress, 
 I say, broke out with, "Rot your Italianos ! frr my 
 part, I loves a simple ballat !" Rossini will go A good 
 way to bring most people to the same opinion some 
 day. Who would imagine that he was to be the suc- 
 cessor of Mozart? However, I state this with diffidence, 
 as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, 
 and of much of Rossini's: but we may say, as the con- 
 noisseur did of painting, in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
 "that the picture would be better painted if the painter 
 had taken more pains." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza lix. 
 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
 " Ausu Romano, sere 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, I believe, im- 
 perial, and inscribed by Napoleon. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Lx. 
 
 "Untying" squires "to fight against the churches." 
 " Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
 Against the churches." Macbeth. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza zcvii. 
 
 They err 'tis merely what is call'd mobility. 
 
 In French "mobilite." I am not sure that mobility 
 
 is English ; but it is expressive of a quality which rathe: 
 
 belongs 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 without losing the past ; and is, though 
 
 sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most 
 
 painful and unhappy attribute. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza cii. 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity. 
 "Curiosa felicitas." PETRONIUS ARBITER., 
 
 Note 8. Stanza cxir. 
 A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 
 See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
 Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer "Karl Karl 
 was wait wolt mich ?" 
 
 Note 9. Stanza cxz. 
 How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host's idrnlitp! 
 
 " Shadows to-night 
 
 Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
 Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers jtij., el 
 Sec Richard III.
 
 711 
 
 [The following productions of Lord Byron's pen were not published during his life; 
 and, with the exception of two or three of them which were attributed to him upon tencertain 
 grounds, they have made their appearance, for the first time, in Mr. Murray's recent and 
 authoritative edition of the Life and Writings of Byron. From that work they have been 
 carefully selected, and added to the present volume, with a view of rendering it in every 
 respect a complete edition of Byron's Poetical Worts.] 
 
 feint* Crow 
 
 BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE "AD PISONES, DE ARTK POKTICA," AND 
 INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 
 
 " Ergo fungar vice cotis, annum 
 Reddere quz ferrum valet, eisora ipsi secandi." 
 
 HOR. Ut Arte Pott. 304, 306. 
 
 ' Rhymes are difficult things they are stubborn things, sir 
 
 FIELDING'S Amelia, Vol. iii. Book 5. Ch,?. 5. 
 
 Athens. Cipuchin Convent, March I2th, 1811. 
 
 WHO would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
 His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 
 Ahused 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* Dubost (as once the world has seen) 
 Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen? 
 Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
 Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
 Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
 The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
 Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
 Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 
 
 Poets and painters, as all artists know, 
 May shoot a little with a lenpthen'd bow; 
 We claim this mutual mercy for our task. 
 And grant in turn the pardon which we ask; 
 But make not monsters spring from gentle dams- 
 Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 
 
 A labour'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
 (Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends: 
 And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
 As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
 Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
 The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 
 
 Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
 Jungere si velit, et varias inducore plumas, 
 Undique collatis inembris. nt turpiter atrum 
 Desinat in piscem mulic.r formosa superne; 
 Spectatum aduiissi risuin tenoatis. amici ? 
 Credite, Pisones, iste tahn]a> (We librum 
 Persimilem, cujiis, velut a>L'ri snmnia, vans? 
 Fineentur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
 Reddatur formae. Pictoribus atque poetis 
 Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aqua potestas. 
 Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicis- 
 
 sim : 
 
 Sed non tit placidis coe'ant immitia; non ut 
 Serpentes avibus geminentur, tijrribus agni. 
 
 Incceptis gravibus pleritmque et magna professi 
 Purpureus, late qui splendeat, units et alter 
 
 * In an Enzlfch newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherever li.ere 
 e Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. 
 , and the conseq-ient action, fcc. The circumstance is probably too 
 w Koowu *" require further comment. 
 
 The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls, 
 
 King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and aid 
 
 walls: 
 
 Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
 To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames.! 
 
 You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine- 
 But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; 
 You plan a rase it dwindles to a pot; 
 Then glide down Grub-street fasting and forgot; 
 Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review. 
 Whose wit is never troublesome till true. 
 
 In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
 Let it at least be simple and entire. 
 
 The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
 (Give ear, my friend, for thou hast 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 fly, 
 He spins his subject to satiety; 
 Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
 Fish in the woods, and boars beneath ths waves I 
 
 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. 
 
 Assuiter pannus; cum lucus et ara Dianse, 
 Et properantis aqua; per amcenos ambitus agros, 
 Atit fliimen Rhenuni. aut pluvius describitur arcut 
 Sed mine non erat his locus; et fortasse ciipressum 
 Scis simulare: quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes 
 Navibus, ifre dato qui pingitur? ampora cccpit 
 Inslitui : currente rota cur nrceus exit? 
 Denique sit quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unuin. 
 
 Maxima pars vatutn, pater, et juvenes patre digni 
 Decipirnur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
 Obscurus fio: stctantem levia, norvi 
 Deficiunt animique: professus gramlm, turgei: 
 Serpit humi, tutus nimiuin, timidusque proeell* > 
 Qui variare cupit rom prodiginliter unam, 
 Delphinnm sylvis appingit fluctibus aprum. 
 
 In vitium ducit ctilpa; fuga. si caret arte. 
 JEmilium circa liiduin faber unus et unguci 
 Exprimet, et molles imitahitu. are capil!o, 
 
 t " Where pure description heM thr. olux o' i
 
 712 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 For galligaskins Slowshears is your man, 
 
 Hut 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, witn 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, 
 frace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 
 
 Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
 With future parts the now omitted line; 
 This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
 Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
 Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
 To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
 Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
 Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
 I As fPitt 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 refuso 
 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 411-um'ted tongues ; 
 'Tis then and shall be lawful to present 
 Reform in writing, as in parliament. 
 
 As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
 So fade expressions which in season please. 
 
 Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum 
 Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid componere Curem. 
 Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, 
 Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo. 
 
 Sumite matcriem vestris, qui scribitis, equam 
 Viribus; et versate diu quid ferre recusent 
 Uuid valeant humeri. Cui lecta poteritererit res, 
 Ncc facundia deserct liuiic nee lucidus ordo. 
 
 Ordinis hiec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor, 
 Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici 
 Pleraque differat, et prasens in tempiis omittat ; 
 Hoc amet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor. 
 
 In vcrbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis: 
 Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
 Rcddiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est 
 Indiciis monstrare recentibus abditn rerum, 
 Fingere cinctutis non exaudiia Cethegis 
 Continget; dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter; 
 Et nova factaque nuper habebunt verba fideni, si 
 Greeco fonte cadant, parce detorta. Quid autem 
 CtEcilip Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum 
 Virgilio Varioque? ego cur, acquirere pauca 
 Si possum, invideor; cum lingua Catonis et Enni 
 Hermonem pat Hum ditaverit, et nova rerum 
 Nomina protulerit? Licuit, semperque licebit, 
 Signatum prtesente nota producere nomen. 
 
 Ut silva; foliis pronos mutantur in annos; 
 Piima cadunt : ita verborum vetus interit tetas, 
 Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque. 
 Uebemur morti nos nostraque: sive receptus 
 
 Mere common mortals were commonly content with one tailorand with 
 Joe bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible to confide 
 heir lower pirments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak of the be- 
 tuning of 1809: what reform may have ince taken place I neither know 
 o: desirs to know. 
 
 1 Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our parliamentarv tongue, as 
 or if. teta ID many publications, particularly the Edinburgh Review. 
 
 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 cinais ; 
 
 Though swamps subdued, and marshes drsLn'd, sailaU 
 
 The heavy ploughshare and the yellow giain. 
 
 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 ;J 
 
 Though those shall sink, which now appear te thrire 
 
 As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
 
 Our life and language must alike obey. 
 
 The immortal wars which gods and angeU wage, 
 Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? 
 His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
 To themes celestial told in epic song. 
 
 The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
 The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 
 But which deserves the laurel, rhyme or blank 7 
 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 Alinanzor rhymed in Dryden'g day*, 
 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 hero's state. 
 
 Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, 
 Regis opus; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque remia 
 Vicinas urbes alit, et grave sentit aratrum: 
 Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus nmnis, 
 Doctus iter melius; mortalia facta peribunt: 
 Nedum sermonum stet honos, et gratia viva*. 
 Multa renascentur, quffi jam cecidere; cadentqje, 
 Qua; nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet mus; 
 Quern penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loqufcndi 
 
 Res gestffi regumque ducumque et tristia belln. 
 Quo Bcribi possent numero monstravit Homeruti. 
 
 Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum; 
 Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos. 
 Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
 Grammatici certant, et adhuc sub judice lis est. 
 
 Archilocum proprio rabies armavit iambo; 
 Hunc socci cepere pedem gramlesque cothurni, 
 Alternis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
 Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendia. 
 
 Mtisa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum 
 Et pugilem victorem, et equum certamine primum 
 Et juvenum curas ct libera vina referre. 
 
 Descriptas servare vices operumque colorea, 
 Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor? 
 Cur nescire pudens prave, quam discere male? 
 
 Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult 
 Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 
 
 } Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present In at 
 much request asnld wine or new speeches. In fact, this is the mil.enniuM 
 of black-letter: thanks to our Hebers, Weben, and Scoits ! 
 
 Mac Flecnoc, the Dunciad, and all Swift's lampooning balla'k. What- 
 ever their other works may be, these originated in personal fec<ings, and 
 angry retort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability of these satires tie. 
 vatu the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the personal character of 
 the writers. 
 
 II With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence oi'puni, they ban 
 Aristotle on their side, who permits them to on'on, and gives them cou> 
 quencr by a (rave disquisition.
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 713 
 
 At times. Melpomene forgets to groan. 
 
 And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 
 
 Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
 
 Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 
 
 Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
 
 When common prose will serve for common things; 
 
 And I'.vely Hal resigns heroic ire. 
 
 To 'hollowing Hotspur"* and the sceptred sire. 
 
 'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
 To polish poems; they must touch the heart: 
 Where'er the scene be laid, whatever the song. 
 Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 
 Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
 Whiche'er may please youanything 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, 
 Lull'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, 'tis said or sung. 
 She gave our mind's interpreter the tongue, 
 Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
 At least in theatres) with common sense; 
 J'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
 And raise a laugh with anything but wit. 
 
 Dignis carminibus narrari ccuna Thyestse. 
 Singula quaeque locum teneant sortita decenter. 
 Interdum tamen et vocem commdia tollit, 
 Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore: 
 Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
 Telephus nt Peleus, cum pauper et exul, uterque 
 Projicit ampullas, et sesquipedalia verba ; 
 Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 
 
 Non satis est pulchra esse poemata ; dulcia sunto, 
 Et quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 
 Ut ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent 
 Humani vultus; si vis me flere dnlenduni est 
 Primum ipsi tibi ; tune tua me infortuniajtedent. 
 Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mamlat.i loqueris, 
 Aut dormitabo, aut ridi-bo: tristia imestunt 
 Vultum verba decent; irntuin, plena minarum; 
 Ludentem, lasciva; severum, seria dictu. 
 Format-enim natura prius non intus ad omnem 
 Fortunarum habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad iram ! 
 Aut ad huinum moeron: gravi deducit, et angit ; 
 Post effert animi motus interprete lingua. 
 Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, 
 Romani tollent equites, peditesque cachinnum. 
 
 Intererit inultum, Davusne loquatur an heros; 
 Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente jurenta 
 Fervidus; an matrona potens, and sedula nutrix; 
 Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli ; 
 Colchus an Assyrius; Thebis nutritus. an Argis. 
 
 A'lt famam cequere, aut sibi convenientia finge. 
 Scriptor honoratum si forte reponis Achillem ; 
 Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 
 Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. 
 Sit Medea ferox invictaque, flebilis Ino ; 
 Perfidus Ixion ; lo vaga; tristis Orestes; 
 Si quid inexpertum seems committis, et audes 
 Personam formare novam ; servetur ad imum 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 
 
 Difficile est proprie communia dicere ; tuque 
 Rectius Iliacum carmen deilucis in actus, 
 iluain si proferres ignota imlictaque primus. 
 Publics materies privati juris erit. si 
 Nee circa vilem patulumque moraberis orbem ; 
 Vec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 
 hiterprcs, ncc desilies imitator in arctum 
 
 " And in hi: 
 
 rill hollow, Mortimer?' 1 Hairy If, 
 
 05 
 
 To skilful writers it will much import. 
 Whence spring their scenes, from common life orcrtn 
 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 VOJCP 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 might have been. 
 
 If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, t 
 
 Present him raving, and above all law: 
 If female furies in your schune are plann'd, 
 Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand; 
 For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
 Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devilt 
 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. 
 
 'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail. 
 Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale; 
 And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
 A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err. 
 Yet copy not too closely, but record, 
 More justly, thought for thought than word for word; 
 Nor trace your prototype through 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 If 
 " Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
 And pray, what fallows from this boiling brain? 
 He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
 Whose epic mountains never fail ,n mice! 
 
 Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet, aut operis lex. 
 Nee sic incipies, us scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
 " Foltunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum." 
 Quid dignum ta,nto feret hie promissor hiatu 
 Parturiunt monies: nascetur ridiculus mus. 
 Uuanto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte! 
 " Die mihi, Musa. viruni eapta post tempora Trojm 
 Qui mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes." 
 Non ftimum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
 Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat, 
 Antiphalen, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclone Charybdim. 
 Nee redilum Di'oinedis ab inleritu Meleagri, 
 Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
 
 t About two year* ago a young man, named Townsend, was announced 
 
 by Mr. Cumterlaud (in a review since deceased) u being engaged in an 
 
 :pic poem lo be entitled ' Armageddon." The plan and specimen promis* 
 
 uuch ; bul I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend nor his friends, by recom- 
 
 nending to his attention the linet of Horace lo which these rhymes allude. 
 
 If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, 
 
 how much will the \vnrld be indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing him 
 
 before the public! But till that eventful day arrives, it nii>y be doubted 
 
 hether the premature display of Lis plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly 
 
 e) has not, by raising expectation too h'gh. or diminishing curiosity, by do 
 
 sloping his argument, rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. TOWB 
 
 nd's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depre- 
 
 _ ate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not icp- 
 
 pose me actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. 1 v'.sli the author 
 
 all the success be can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic po 
 
 etry weighed up from the ba'hos where it lies sunken with Souther, Cottle, 
 
 Cowlev (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy. Wilkie, Pye, and all -he "dull of put 
 
 ind present days." Even if he is not a Milton, he may be better than Bladt- 
 
 norc; if not a' Homer, an Jtnlimaclna. I should deem myself presumpti- 
 
 ius, as a young man, in offering advice, were it not addiessed to one tttV 
 
 younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest difficulties to encounter: bet ill 
 
 mquering them he will find employment ; in havlig conquered them, tin 
 
 ward. I know loo well " the wribhiert scoff, the critic's contumely," ant 
 
 I am afraid time will teach Mr. Townsend to knew them better. Those wh 
 
 iucceed. and those who do not, roust bear this alike, and it is hard to taf 
 
 which have most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be frc.m 
 
 ivy: he will soon know mankind well enougn not tc ittribute this a 
 
 The above note was written before the author wts appnnd of Mi> .* 
 berlaod's death.
 
 714 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
 The temper'd warhlings of his muster lyre; 
 S<ift as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
 "<>f man's first disobedience and the fruit" 
 U.t sneaks, but as his subject swells along, 
 F.nrth. heaven, and hades echo with the song. 
 Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
 As if we witnessed all already done; 
 Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
 T. 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 sueh art compounds, 
 'We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
 If you would please the public, deign to hear 
 What soothes the many -Beaded monster's ear; 
 If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
 Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall. 
 Deserve those plaudits study nature's page. 
 And sketch the striking traits of every age; 
 While varying man and varying years unfold 
 Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told. 
 Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 
 His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays; 
 Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
 And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! 
 
 I!. 'hold 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 T v 1's frown to "Fordham's Mews:" 
 (Unlucky T v 1! doom'd to daily cares 
 By pugilistic pupils and by bears t.) 
 Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions, threat in vain, 
 Before houndg, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
 Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
 Ci'ril to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
 Constant to naught save hazard and a whore, 
 Yet cursing both for both have made him sore ; 
 Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
 The p-x becomes his passage to degrees); 
 Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away, 
 And, ui,expell'd perhaps, retires M. A. 
 Master of arts! as kells and clubsj proclaim, 
 Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 
 
 Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
 He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
 Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
 Buys laud, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
 
 Semper ad eventum festinat; et in medias res 
 Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit, et qua; 
 Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit: 
 Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
 Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum. 
 
 Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desideret, audi. 
 Pi plausoris eges atihra inanentis, et usque 
 Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat; 
 yEtatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores, 
 Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis. 
 Reddere oui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
 Signal nuii.um ; gestit paribus colludere, et iram 
 Colligit ac ponit temere, et miitatur in horas. 
 Imberbis juvcnis, tandem custode remote. 
 
 Harvey, (he circulator of the circulation of the blood, used to fline 
 tn-.iv V.r'i'l in his ecstacy of admiralion, and ay. " the book had a devil." 
 ISow, such a character as I am copying would probably fling it away also, 
 But ra'ber wish that the devi! ba-1 the book ; not from any dislika to the 
 piet but a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed the public school 
 penance of " long and short" is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for 
 the m'.l rf a man's life, and. [*rhaps, so far may be an advantage. 
 
 ' rnfandum, regini. jubes renovare dolorem." I dare say Mr. T T 1 
 (M n nnm I mean no affront) will understand me ; and it is no matter whe- 
 ther anv one else does or no. To the above events, ''quaeque ipse miserrima 
 ,..., et quorum pars .niagna fui." all time* and ttrmt bear tes!iinony. 
 
 i Hell," a samir.z-h-iuse so called, where you risk little, and are cheat- 
 d a pood dra.. * Club." a pleasant purgatory, where you lose. more, and 
 IT* an* tu?Dued to ue cheated at all 
 
 Sits in the senate; gels a son and heir; 
 Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there 
 Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to ch,:ei 
 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; 
 ("on nis 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 les 
 Though women weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd 
 When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
 Yet many deeds preserved iii history's page 
 Are better told than acted on the stage; 
 The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
 And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
 True Briton all beside, I here am French 
 Bloodshed 't is 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 trirk, 
 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 naturt bear? 
 A halter'd heroine Johnson sought to slay 
 We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
 And (Heaven he 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 I 
 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. 
 
 Gaudet cquis canibusque, et aprici gramine campt; 
 Cereus in vitium flecti, nionitoribiis asper, 
 Utilium Urdus provisor, prodigus a>ris, 
 Suhlimis, cupidiisque, et umata relinquere pernix 
 
 Conversis sludiis, a?tas animusque viiilis 
 Q,userit opes, et amicitias, insurvit honor! ; 
 Commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. 
 
 Multa senem conveniunt incommoda ; vel quod 
 Ciua-rit, ct inventis miser abstinct, ac timet uti ; 
 Vel quod res omnrs timide gelideque ministrat, 
 Dilator, spe longus, iners. avidusque futiiri; 
 Difticilis, quRruiut, laudator temporis acti 
 Sa puero, castipator censorque niinoruin. 
 Multa feruiit anni venientes c/>inmoda secum, 
 Multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
 Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriles. 
 Semper in adjnnctis, ievoque morabimur aptis. 
 
 Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 
 
 5 " Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round her uert ! tot 
 the audience cried oul 'Murder!' and she was obliged to be can -ed off the 
 s . a .-e." Botwcll't Life of Johram. 
 
 II In the postscript to the " Castle Spec're"Mr. Lewis tells at, that though 
 Hacks were unknown n England at the period of his action, yet ie bal 
 made the anachronkm to sel off !he scene and if he could h.ve product" 
 the effect "by making k heroine blue"- I -"uote h p- ~"bl at h wo.M h 
 nude her I"
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 715 
 
 Of all the mons-./ous things I'd fain forbid, 
 ' loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
 Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
 Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
 Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
 Wliir.h Gaul allows, and still Mesperia lends! 
 Napoleon's edict!" no embargo lay 
 On whores, spies singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
 Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
 Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread; 
 In all, iniquity is grown so nice, 
 It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
 Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
 Aches with the orchestras he pays to hear, 
 Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
 His anguish doubling by his own "encore;" 
 Squeezed in " Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
 Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes; 
 Scarce wrestles through the night, nor taste 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 pleas'd 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 with feats so lewdly low, 
 Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;f 
 Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place, 
 Oaths, boxing, begging, all, save rout and race. 
 
 Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime 
 tn ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
 Wad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared t>e 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: 
 4 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 "Cnrononhotonthologos must die," 
 And Author struts in mimic majesty. 
 
 Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit 
 \nd smile .it folly, if we can't at wit ; 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem 
 duam quae sunt oculis subjecta fldelibus, et qua; 
 Ipse sibi tradit s[K>ctator. Non tamen intus 
 Digna geri, promes in scenam; multaque tolles 
 Ex oculis, qusB mox narret facundia przsens. 
 Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet ; 
 Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus; 
 Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem 
 Quodcunque ostendis mini sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 
 Fabula, qua; posci vult, ft spectata reponi. 
 Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 nciderit. * * * 
 
 Ex noto fictum carmen sequar. ut sibi quivis 
 riperet idem: sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
 Ausus idem: tantiim series juncturaque pollet ; 
 Tantum de medio gumtis accedit honoris. 
 
 * " The first theatrical representations, entitled ' Mysteries and Moral! 
 et,' we-e generally enacted nt Ghris'mas, by monks (it the only persons 
 who could read), and latterly ly the clergy and stutlrnts of the universities 
 fh draniatn person* were usually Adam. Pa'er, Crelestis, Faith, Vice, 1 
 tc. fcc. Vtdt Warton'i Hillary of KnglM Poetry, 
 
 t Bruvnlio does not bet : hut even- man who maintains race-horse* is : 
 r-imcirr of all Ihr concomitant evi's -f 'be Hirf. Avoidine to bet i > lil 
 lie pliarisaical \- .'. an eiculjntior I Ih'nk not. I never yet heard ; 
 fava praised for chast ; 'y tw-^c 1/12 hcrttlf did r )t commit fon-icitinn. 
 
 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 JEgcan 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 lam 
 But find in thine, like pagan Plato'sf bed, 
 Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 
 
 Now to the Drama let HJ bend our eyes. 
 Where fctter'd by whig Walpole low she lies; 
 Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance; 
 Decorum left her for an opera dance 1 
 Yet jChesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 
 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays; 
 Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains, 
 And damning dullness of lord chamberlains. 
 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|j" spouse; 
 The moral's scant but that may be excused, 
 Men go not to be lectured, tut amused. 
 He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
 Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; 
 Ay, but Mackheath's example psha ! no morel 
 It form'd no thieves the thief was form'd before; 
 And spite of puritans and Collier's curse.lT 
 Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
 Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men I 
 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 fagot let them hope; 
 Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
 As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
 So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
 E'en now UK songs of Solyma begin ; 
 Faith cants, erplex'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 dune*. 
 Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 
 But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
 And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb faili. 
 
 Let pastoral be dumb; for who can hope 
 T<f match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? 
 Yet his and Philips' faults, of different kind, 
 For art too rude, for nature too refined, 
 
 Silvis deduct! caveant, me judice, Fauni, 
 Ne velut innati triViis, ac pene forenses, 
 Aut nimium tenens juvenentur versibus unquam, 
 Aut immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta. 
 Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et rei! 
 Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis emtor, 
 jEquis accipiunt animis, donantve corona. 
 
 Syllaba longa brevi subjecta, vocatur iambus, 
 Pes citus: unde etiam trimetris accrescere jussit 
 Nomen iambeis, cum senos redderet ictus, 
 Primus ad extremum similis sibi : non ita pridem. 
 
 } Under Plato's pillow a volu 
 
 day be died. fidt Barthelemi, DtPauvs, or Dioftna Uatna, if igro>> 
 able. De Pauw call* il a jeil book. Cumberland, m hi Obterver, 
 ral, nice the sayings of " Publius Cyrus." 
 
 of the Mima of Sophrxn wu found I 
 if igr 
 term 
 
 , . 
 
 His speech on the licensing act it one of his most eloquent efforts. 
 II Michael Perez, the " Copper Captain," IB ' lule a Wife and hart) 
 Wife." 
 
 H Jerry Collier't controversy with Conrreve, tc. on the tubject <t fbt 
 drama, is too well known to require further comment. 
 
 * * Baiter's Shove to nravy-a d Christians." The veritable title m I 
 book once in pxrf repute, and likely enoush to he to apm.-Mr. Simeo. * 
 the very bullv of beliefs, and rattieator of " ood works." He it ably fp- 
 porfed by John Stickles, a labourer in the same vin-vard kut \ my m 
 more, for according to Johnny in full confrega! ion, " No Ui u i<r tt
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Instruct how hard th nedium 't is 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 them pass, 
 Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hubibras ! 
 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet. 
 Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
 Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
 This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
 Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
 Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
 Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
 This measure shrinks not. from a theme of weight. 
 An 1, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
 Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
 Wh>se fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
 Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 
 
 But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
 What few admire irregularity. 
 Phis some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard 
 When such a word contents a British bard. 
 
 Aii'l must the bard his g'.owing thoughts confine, 
 Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line!. 
 Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
 To gain the paltry suffrage of "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 
 j.o heathen Greek, content with native strains: 
 The few who read a page, or used a pen. 
 Wore satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
 The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
 Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste; 
 Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
 It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
 Though you and I, who eruditely know 
 To separate the elegant and low, 
 Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
 Detect with fingers in default of ears. 
 
 Tardior ut paulo graviorque veniret ad aures. 
 Spondees stabiles in jura paterna recepit 
 Commodus et putiens; non ut'de sede secunda 
 Cederet aut quarta socialiter. Hie et in Acci 
 Nobilibus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
 In scenam missos magno cum pondere versus, 
 Aut opera celeris nimium, curaque carentis, 
 Aut ignoratse premit artis crimine turpi. 
 
 Non quivis videt immodulata poemata judex ; 
 Et data Romanis venia est indigna poetis. 
 Idcircone vagsr, scribamque licenter? an omnes 
 Visuros peccata putem mea; tutus, et intra 
 8pem venite cautus? vitavi denique culpam, 
 Non laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Grzca 
 Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 
 At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros et 
 Latidavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque, 
 Ne dicam stulte. mirati; si modo ego et vos 
 Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto, 
 Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 
 
 Ignotum tragicse genus invenisse Camenie 
 Dir.ilur, et platistris vexisse poemata Thospis, 
 Uure oanerant agerentque peruncti fecibus era 
 Post hunc personjp dallteque repertor honestae 
 iKsrhylu.* et modicis instravit pulpita tignis, 
 Et nocuit magnumque loqui. nitique cothurno. 
 
 Sutcessit vetus his comcedia, non sine multa 
 
 In sooth I do not know or greatly care 
 To learn who our first English strollers were; 
 Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
 Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart. 
 But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
 There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays; 
 Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
 Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone 
 
 Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
 Though too licentious for dramatic laws: 
 At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
 Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest.j 
 
 Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside. 
 Our enterprising bards pass naught untried; 
 Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
 An English subject for an English muse, 
 And leave to minds which never dare ii.vent 
 French flippancy and German sentiment. 
 Where is that living language which could claim 
 Poetic more, as philosophic, fame. 
 If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
 Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? 
 
 Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
 O'erlhrow whole quartos with their quires of fault! 
 Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
 And prove our marble with too nice a nail! 
 Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
 He only thought, but you would make, us mad I 
 
 But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
 Against 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 hut 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; 
 
 Laude; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
 Dignam lege regi ; lex est accepta, chorusque 
 Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi. 
 
 Nil intentatum nostri liquere poets; 
 Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Grteca 
 Aussi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta 
 Vel qni pratextas, vel qui docuere togatas. 
 Nee virtute fortk clarisve potentius armis. 
 (luam lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum 
 quenque poctarum lima: labor, et mora. Vos, 6 
 Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
 Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
 Prasectum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 
 
 Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
 Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
 Democritus; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
 Non barbam : secreta petit loca, balnea vital. 
 Nanciscetur enim prelium nomenque poets, 
 Si tribus Anticyris caput insnnabile nonquara 
 Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego lievus, 
 Qui purgor bilem sub verni tcmporis horaml 
 Non alius faceret meliora poemata: verum 
 Nil tanti est: ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
 
 * A* famous a tonsor as Lu-inus himself, and better paid, and may, IPkl 
 him, be one day a senator, bavins a better qualification than one half of tk 
 heads he crops, vix. independence.
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
 ( cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
 ['II labour gratis as 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, 
 Tifc just as well to think before you write; 
 Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
 Bo shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 
 
 He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
 To friend 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, philosophize ; 
 Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
 As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 
 
 Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told. 
 Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
 A longer empire o'er the public mind 
 Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 
 
 Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days 
 The muse may celebrate with perfect praise. 
 Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
 With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
 Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
 To "long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
 From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
 ' 4 A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
 Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
 Two thirds, how much will the remainder make? 
 " A groat." " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
 He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 
 
 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; 
 
 Reddere quae ferruni va'et. exsors ipsa secandi : 
 Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo; 
 Unde parentur opes; quid alat formetque poetam; 
 Quid deceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat error. 
 
 Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 
 Rem tibi Socraticze poterunt ostendere chartse: 
 Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur. 
 (iui didicit patrke quid debeat, et quid amicis; 
 duo sit amore parens, quo frator amandus. et hospes ; 
 Quod sit conscript!, quod judicis officium; qute 
 Partes in bellum missi ducis ; ilte profecto 
 Reddere personae scil convenientia cuique. 
 Respicere exemplar vitte morumque jubebo 
 Doctum imitatorem, et vivas nine ducere voces. 
 
 Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte 
 Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
 Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, 
 Qi;am versus inopes rerum nugseque canorte. 
 
 Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
 Musa loqui; prater laudem nullius avaris, 
 Romani pueri longis rationibus assem 
 Discunt in partes centum diducere: dicat 
 Filius Albini, Si de qiiincunce remota est 
 (Jncia, quid superat' poterat dixisse Triens. Eu ! 
 Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia: quid fit? 
 Semis. An hsc animos aerugo et cura peculi 
 Cum semel imbuerit, spcramus carinina fingi 
 Posse linendd cedro, et levi servanda cupresso? 
 
 Aut prodesse volunt, ant delectare poette; 
 Aut simul et jnciimla et iponea dicere vitce. 
 Quidquid prtecipies. esto brevis: ul cito dicta 
 Fercipiant aniini dociles. teneantque fidrles. 
 >>mne supervacuurn pleno de pectore manat. 
 
 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 /rus,f o tn Irish mine,} 
 
 Two objects a'.vtays 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 youth: 
 Expect no credit for too wond'rous 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 wilh 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 cover, flints withhold their spark. 
 And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark.} 
 
 Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view 
 \Ve must not quarrel for a blot or two; 
 But pardon equally to books or men, 
 The slips of human nature, and 'te pen. 
 
 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
 Despises all advice too much to mend. 
 But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
 Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
 Let JHavard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once 
 Produced a play too dashing for a dunce: 
 
 Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris: 
 Nee quodcunque volet, pnscat sibi fabula credi : 
 Neu pransx Lamia vivum puerum extrahat alvo. 
 
 Centurix seniorum agitant expertia frugis: 
 Celsi pnetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. 
 Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
 Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 
 Hie meret sera liber Sosiis; hie et mare transit. 
 Et longum noto scriptori prorogat revum. 
 
 Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse volimus; 
 Nam neque chorda sonuiu reddit quern vult manui 
 
 et mens, 
 
 Poscentique gravem perssepe remittit acutum ; 
 Nee semper feriet quodcunque minabitur arcus. 
 Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucil 
 Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit. 
 
 * I have not the original by me, but 'be Italian translation runs a* follows 
 " E una cnsa a mio credere molto stranaganle.che ua padrede*tideri. oper 
 metta. che suo figliuolo coltiri e perfezioui questo lalen'o." A little further 
 on : " Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento." dt 
 
 zivne dti Fanciulli di Sifnor Lackt. Venetian edition. 
 
 t " Iro pauperior :" this is the same beeger who bored with Ulynek for a 
 pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and half a dozen teeth besides. Set Ody 
 ey, b. 18. 
 
 t The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields just ore enough 10 twe 
 by, or gild a bad guinea. 
 
 As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he was imoVr 
 ,,-eal obligations ".Ind Homer (damn him !) caUi" it may be presanMsl 
 that any body or any thine may be damned in verse by poetical license ; an*. 
 ' case'of accident, I beg'leave to plead so illustrious a precedent. 
 
 II For the story of Billy Havard<s tragedy, see Dat ecS Life of Ow 
 
 rk." I believe it i "Refulus," or "Charles the First." -The moment it 
 
 a known to be hi., the lhatre thinrw* and tbe b~ti<:llei refuted lo | M 
 Ihe cus'.omari- sum forllie copyrignt
 
 718 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 At first none deem'd it his, bi t 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 scrutinized, 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 Ersk'.ties who mislead the bar: 
 But poesy between the best and worst 
 No mediii.il knows ; you must be last or first : 
 For midd'ing poets' miserable volumes, 
 Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 
 
 Again, .ny Jeffrey! as that sound inspires, 
 How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 
 Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel, 
 When Southerns writhe upon their critic wheel, 
 Or mild Eclectics,* when some, worse than Turks, 
 Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good works." 
 
 Aut humana parum cavit natura. Quid ergo? 
 Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, 
 Quamvis est monitus. venia caret; ut citharcedus 
 Ridetur, chorda qui semper aberrat endeni : 
 Sic mihi, qui multum cessat, fit Chrerilus ille, 
 Quern bis terve bonum cum risu miror; et idem 
 Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus 
 Verum operi longo fast est obrepure somnum. 
 
 Ut pictura, poesis : et erit quae, si propius stes, 
 Te eapict magis; et qusedam, si longius abstes: 
 Hsec amat obscurum; volet haec sub luce videri, 
 Judicis argutum que non formidat acumen : 
 Hrec placnit semel ; IKPC decies lepetita piacebit. 
 
 O major juvenum, qtiamvis et voce pa tern a 
 Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis; hoc tibi dictum 
 Tolle memor: certis medium et tolerabile rebus 
 Recte concedi : consultus juris, et actor 
 Tausarum mediocris abest virtute diserti . 
 Messal*, nee scit quantum Cassellius Aulus: 
 Sed tamen in pretio est : mcdiocribus c.sac poetis 
 Non homines, non di, non concessere columns. 
 Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors. 
 Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver 
 OfTendtmt. poterat duci quia crena sine istis 
 Sir animis natiim inventiimque poema juvandis, 
 Pi paulum a sum in o decessit, vergit ad imum. 
 
 Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis, 
 Indoctusque pilse, piscive, trochive, quiescit, 
 Ne spisste risum tollaiit impune coronse: 
 
 To (he Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thankk for the 
 hrrnur of tli charily which in 1809 induced them to ex|>re a hnpe, that a 
 tiling then published by me n>i?h; lead to certain consequences, which, al- 
 though natural enourh, surely came but rashly from reverend lips. I refer 
 them to their own paees, where they congratulated themselves on the pros- 
 pect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, fmm which some ^real good 
 wai to accrue, provided one or both were knocked on the head. Having 
 Kirvived two yean and a half those "Elegies" which they were kindly pre- 
 paring to review, I have no peculiar euslo to rive them " so joyful a trou- 
 ble," except, indeed. " upon compu'sion, Hal ;" but if, as David says in the 
 "Rivals." it should come to "bloody sword and gun fiehtine." we " won't 
 run, will we, Sir Lucius?" 1 do not know what I had done to these Ec- 
 lectic gentlemen : my work* are their lawful perquisite, lo be hewn in pieces 
 like Ajrae. if it shmild seem meet unto them; but why they should be in 
 urh a hurry to kill off their author. I am isnorant. "The race is not 
 always to the swift nor 'he battle lo the strong :" and now, as these Chris- 
 tians have " smote me on one cheek, n I hold them up the other ; and in re- 
 turn fir their food wishes. give them an opportunity of repeating tliem. Had 
 my other set of men expressed such sentiments, 1 should have smiled, and 
 .eft them to the 'recording ansel," but from the Pharisees of Christianity 
 icency mifht be exnrc'ed. I can assure these brethren, tha', publ lean and 
 nner as I am. I would no' have treated " mine enemy's dot thus." To 
 ihr tnem the superiority of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend 
 Messrs. Simeon or R v,-l ' shiu'd be engaged in sucn a conflict as that in 
 which they reiu^'ed me to fall. I hope they may escape with being "wing- 
 .T an) tnat Heaviside may be at hand to extract the ball. 
 
 Such ate the genial feelings thou canst claim, 
 
 My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
 
 Mightiest of all Dunedin'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 by choice so wholly thine? 
 
 Dear, d d contemner of my schoolboy songs. 
 
 Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs I 
 
 If ut. provoked thou once couldst bid me bleed, 
 
 Hast thou no weapon for my daring -deed? 
 
 What ! not a word ! and am I then so low 7 
 
 Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 
 
 Hast, thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 
 
 No wits 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 thought of Homer less than Holyrood? 
 
 On shore of Euxine or JEgean sea. 
 
 My hate untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 
 
 Ah! let me cease; in vain my bosom burns, 
 
 From Corydon unkind Alexisf turns: 
 
 Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 
 
 Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 
 
 What then? Edina starves some lanker 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 rhyme. 
 Mere roast and hoil'd no epicure invites; 
 Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 
 
 Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
 Will he who swims not to the river run? 
 And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
 Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
 Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil. 
 None reach expertness without years of toil; 
 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
 Tqg twenty thousand couplets when they please. 
 Why not? shall I, thus qualified to sit 
 For rotten boroughs, never show my wit? 
 Shall T, 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, 
 
 Qui nescit, versus tamen audet fingere I Quid ni ? 
 
 Liber et ingenutis prsesertim census equestrem 
 
 Snmmam nummoriim, vitioque remotus ab onini. 
 
 Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva: 
 
 Id tibi ji.idicium est, ea mens; si quid tamen Mim 
 
 Scripseris, in Metii descendant judicis aures, 
 
 Et patris. ot nostras nonumque prematur in annum 
 
 Membranis inttis positis, dolere licebit 
 
 Quod non edideris; nescit vox missa reverti. 
 
 Sylvestres homines sacer interpresque deorttra 
 C&dibus et victu fcedo deterruit Orpheus; 
 
 luveuiei ilium, si te hie fistidit, Alexia
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 719 
 
 Who (ere another Thalaba appears;, 
 
 I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
 
 And hark'ye, Soythey !* pray but don't be vext 
 
 Burn all your last three works and half the next. 
 
 Hut why this vain advice? once published, books 
 
 Can never be recall'd from pastry-cooks ! 
 
 Though " Madoc," with "Pucelle,"t instead of Punch, 
 
 May travel back to duito on a trunk !| 
 
 Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
 Led all wild beasts but woman by the ear; 
 And had he fiddled at the present hour. 
 We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
 And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
 Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
 Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
 Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
 Abolish'd cuckoldnm with much applause, 
 Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
 Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
 And served the church without demanding tithes; 
 And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
 Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
 Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
 Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 
 
 Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
 And fighting's been in fashion ever since; 
 And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
 (A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
 Though wa-ll'd Ithome had resisted long, 
 Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 
 
 When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
 In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
 
 Mr. Southey his lately tial another canister to his tail in the " Curse of 
 Kehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc, &c., and has in one instance had a 
 wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely even- 
 ing lasl summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddiugton canal, was alarm- 
 ed by the ory of "one in jeopardy :" he rushed alon<, collected a body of 
 Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), procured 
 three rake;, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horesco referens) 
 pulled out his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and 
 Jo was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on 
 inquiry, 'o have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its "alacrity of sinking" 
 was so great, that it has never since been heard of. though some maintain 
 that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises, 
 Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of 
 ** Felo de bibliopola" against a " quarto unknown ; v aud circumstantial evi- 
 dence being since strong against the " Curse of Kehama" (of which the above 
 word are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers next session, in 
 Grub-street. Arthur, Alfred, Daviiieis, Richard Cceur de Lion, Exodus, 
 Exodia, Epigonaid, Calvary, Fill of Cambria, Siege of Acre, l)on Roderick, 
 and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The 
 judges are Rye, Bowles, and the bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The same ad- 
 vocates, pro and con, will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Burden's 
 celebrated cause in the Scotch court. The public anxiously await the result, 
 nd all live publishers will be subpoenaed as witnesses. 
 
 But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of Kehama:" an inviting title 
 toquibblers. By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Campbell, and not 
 much above Southey.'to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle them, in the 
 Edinburgh Annual "Register (of which, by the by, Southey is editor) "the 
 grind poeticaltriumvirateof the day." But, on second thoughts, it can be no 
 Teat degree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, though they 
 
 ght as well keep to themselves " Spoil's thir'y thousand copies sold," 
 which must sadly discomfit poor Southey^ unsaleable*. Poor Southey, it 
 should seem, is the " I^pidus" of this poetical triumvirate. I am only sur- 
 prised to see him in such good company. 
 
 " Such things we know are neither rich nor rare, 
 Bui wonder how the devil /it came there." 
 
 The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid : " Because, 
 in the triangles DBC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and BC, common to both ; 
 flie two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, CB, each to each, and the 
 ngle DBC a equal to the angle ACB : therefore, the base DC is equal to the 
 base AB, and tne triangle DBC (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle ACB, 
 the lot to 'he grralo-, hich is absurd," IK. The editor of the Edinburgh 
 Register will find the rest of the theorem har;l by his stabling : he has only 
 to cms. the river ; 't is the first turnpike t' other side " Pons Asinorum. 1 -* 
 
 t Voltaire's " Pucelle" is n->t quite so immaculate as Mr. Southey's " Joan 
 rl Arc," and yet I am afraid the Frenchman has both more truth and poet- 
 ry too on his side (they rarely go together) than our patriotic m instrel, 
 whoe firs! essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose title 
 of witch would be correct with Ihe change of the first letter. 
 
 J Like Sir B. Burgess's Richard, the 'enth book of which I read at Malt*, 
 on a trunk of Eyres, 19. Cookspur-street. If this be doubted, I shall buy a 
 portmanteau to quote from. 
 
 Then if your verse is what all verse should be. 
 And gods were not ashamed on't, why should we? 
 
 The muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd. 
 In turns she'll seem a Paphian or a pruiJ. . 
 Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright 
 Mild as the same upon the second ni^hl. 
 Wild as the wife of alderman or peer v 
 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 privation 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 follow'd Music through her furthest 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 arid 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 quell them; Pollia 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 I 
 Reviews record this epidemic crime, 
 Those "Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme, 
 Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen 
 In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 
 There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot-prest. 
 Behold a quarto Tarts must tell the rest. 
 
 Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones, 
 Dicttis et Amphion, Thebana? conditor arcis, 
 Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda 
 Ducere quo vellet: fuit IKEC sapientia quondam, 
 Publica privatis sccernere; sacra profanis; 
 Concubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis; 
 Oppida moliri ; leges iucidere ligno. 
 Sic honor et noinen divinis vatibus atque 
 Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis Homeru* 
 TyrtJEtisque mares anirnos in Martia bella 
 Versibtis exacuit; dicta; per carmina sortes: 
 Et vitse monslrata via est: et gratia regum 
 Pieriis tentala modis: ludusque repertus, 
 Et longoruin operuin finis: ne forte pudori 
 Sit tibi Musa lyrae solers, et cantor Apollo. 
 Natura floret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
 Qtixsituin est: ego nee stiidium sine divite vena, 
 Nee rude quid prosit video insenium; alterius sic 
 
 Tibicen, didicit pritis, extimuitque magistrum. 
 Nunc satis est dixisse; ego mira poemata pango: 
 Occupet extremum scabies; mihi turpe relinqui e 
 Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 
 
 ******* * 
 
 ThisLa'in has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. Ballintyne 
 B^l it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," but Soulhey claimed it as half En- 
 
 *: Scott swore it was vhe " Brig o' Stirling ;" he had just passed two 
 King James's auH > dw Douglasses over it. At last it was decided by Jef- 
 frey that it meant nothin wore nor lex than the "counter of Archy Consta- 
 tle 1 ! mop." 
 
 Turn quoque marmorea caput a cerviee rerufaiua 
 Gtinrite cum nie^lio por'ans (Eagrius Hebrui, 
 Volveret Eurydicen vox ip-a. et friiida lingua; 
 Ah. miseram Eurydicen ! anirra fugiente vocabat/ 
 Eurydicen toto referebant nYmine ripz.
 
 720 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
 
 To muse-mad baronets or madder lords, 
 
 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
 
 Twin- Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale! 
 
 Hark to those notes, narcotically soft: 
 
 The cobbler laureates sing* to Capel Lofftlt 
 
 Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
 
 Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears t 
 
 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. 
 Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown. 
 Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town ; 
 If BO, alas! 'tis nature in the man 
 May heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
 Then be it so; and may his withering bays 
 Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
 While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
 The dullest, (attest weeds on Lethe's brink. 
 But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 
 Be, (what they never were before) be sold! 
 Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 
 In modern physics, we can scarce allow) 
 Should gome pretending scribbler of the court, 
 Borne rhyming peer there's plenty of the sort} 
 All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
 (Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 
 
 * I beg Nathaniel's pantos ; he is not a cobbler ; it a a tailor, but begged 
 Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface to t\vo pair of panta - 
 psha ! of cantos, which b', wished the public to try on ; but the sieve of a 
 patron let it out, and so far saved the expense of an advertisement to his 
 country customers. Merry's " MoorfJeld's whine" was nothing to all this. 
 The ' Delia Cruscans" were people of some education, and no profession ; 
 but these Arcadians (" Arcades arubo" bumpkins bo'h) send out their na- 
 >ive nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and small- 
 clothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures and 
 Paeans to Gunpowder. Sitting on a shopboard, they describe fields of battle, 
 when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the finger ; and an " Ks- 
 tay oa War" is produced by the ninth part of a " poet." 
 
 " And own that nine such poets made a Tale." 
 
 Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, why not take it as 
 his motto? 
 
 t This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoe-makers, 
 aid been accessary to the poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor. 
 Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire sing- 
 ing ; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. Prait too (whoonee 
 was wiser) has caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fel- 
 low named Blackett into poetry; but he died .luring the operation, leaving 
 one child, and two volumes of "Remains'' utterly destitute. The girl, if 
 she dont take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoe-making Sappho, 
 may do well ; but the " tragedies" are as rickety as if they had been the 
 offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this poor 
 lad are certainly answerable for his end, and it ought to be an indictable of- 
 fence. But this is the least they have done, for, by a refinement of barbari- 
 ty. they have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing 
 what he would have had sense enough never to print himself. Ceres these 
 rakers of " Remains" come under the statute against " resurrection men." 
 What does it Mznify whether a poor, dear, dead dunce is to be stuck up in 
 Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall ? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as his 
 
 blunders ' Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, th 
 rtavo ? " We know what we are, but we know not what we may be ;> 
 ind it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed through 
 life with a sort of eclat is to find himself a mountebank on the other side 
 f Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory. 
 The plea of publication is lo provide for the child ; now, might not some of 
 bis " Sutor ultra Crepidum's" friends and seducers hive done a decent ac- 
 tion witbojt inveigling Pratt into biography? And then his inscription split 
 iltn to many modicums! To the Dutchess of So-much, the Rich! Hon. 
 Pe-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these volumes are, kc. fcc." why, 
 tins is doling out the "soft milk of dedication" in gills, there is but a quart, 
 ad he divides it among a doien. Why, Pralt, hadst thou not a puff left ? 
 Dost thou think six families of di-tinct ion can share this in quiet ? There if 
 A child, a book, and a dedication ; send the girl to her grace, the volumes to 
 tjiefrocrr. and the dedication to the devil. 
 
 t Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to his notice 
 SM sol- survivor, the "ultimus Homanorum," the last of the "Crascan- 
 
 -* Edwin'' the " profound. 1 ' by our Lady of Punishment ! here he 
 - b-if is in fne oavs of " ill laid Baviad the Correct" I thought 
 
 Condemn the unlucky cur;ito to recite 
 
 Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
 
 How would the preacher lurn each rueful leal, 
 
 Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 
 
 Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death. 
 
 He'll risk no living for a little breath. 
 
 Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line 
 
 (The Lord forgive him!) '-Bravo! grandl divine' 
 
 Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry fed 
 
 Dependence barters for her bitter bread,) 
 
 He strides and stamps along with creaking boot 
 
 Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot; 
 
 Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
 
 As when the 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," 
 
 * * * Si carmina condes, 
 
 Nunquam te fallnnt aiiimi sub vulpe latentes 
 
 Uuimilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes, 
 Hoc (aiebat) et hoc: melius te posse negares, 
 Bis terque expertum frustra, delere jtibebat, 
 Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
 Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 
 Nullum ultra verbum, autoperam insumebat inane n 
 Quiii sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 
 
 Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy, but, alas ! he is only the pert* 
 mate. 
 
 A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
 MORNING CHRONICLE. 
 
 " What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
 
 Do some men spoil, who never think ! 
 
 And so perhaps you 11 say of me, 
 
 In which your readers may agree. 
 
 Still I write on, and tell you why: 
 
 Nothing's so bad, you cant deny, 
 
 But may instruct or entertain 
 
 Wilhou't the risk of giving pain. 
 
 And should you doubt what I assert, 
 
 The uame of Camden I insert, 
 
 Who novels read, and oft maintained 
 
 He here and there some knowledge gain'd 
 
 Then why not I indulge my pen, 
 
 Though I no fame or profit gain, 
 
 Yet may amuse your idle men ; 
 
 Of whom, though some may be severe, 
 
 Others may read without a sneer ? 
 
 Thus much premise.], I next proceed 
 
 To give you what I feel my creed, 
 
 And in what follows to display 
 
 Some humours of the passing day. 
 ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORM1S1I 
 In tracing of the human mind 
 
 Through all its various course*. 
 Though strange, t is true, we often find 
 
 It knows not its resources: 
 And men through life assume a part 
 
 For which no talents they possess, 
 Tet wonder that, with all their art. 
 
 They meet no better with success. 
 T is thus we see, through life's career, 
 
 So few excel in their profession ; 
 Whereas, would each man but appear 
 
 In what *s within bis own possession. 
 We should not see such daily quacks 
 
 (For quacks there are in every art) 
 Attempting, by their strange attacks, 
 
 Nor mean I here the stage alone, 
 
 Where some deserve th' applause they meet; 
 For quacks there are, and they well known, 
 
 In either house, who bold a seat. 
 Reform V the order of the day, I hear, 
 
 To which I cordially assent : 
 But then let this reform appear, 
 
 And ev'ry class of men cement 
 For if you but reform a few. 
 
 And others leave to their full bait, 
 fear you will but little do. 
 
 And find your time and pains misspent 
 Let each man to hi< post assign 'd 
 
 By Nature, take his part lo act. 
 And then few causes shall w find 
 
 To call each man we meet a quack.* 
 
 ivho either appears to ' wb n ia
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 721 
 
 And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
 Without amendment, and lie 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'll 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; 
 Vour 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, f or their quills. 
 
 As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tone, 
 Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 
 All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, 
 As yawning waiters flyj 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 pauses until rents increase. 
 While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
 O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 
 
 Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes: 
 Culpabit et duros; incomptis allinet atrum 
 Transvcrso calamo sigiium ; ambitiosa recidet 
 Ornamentn ; parum Claris lucem dare coget; 
 Arguet ambigue dictum; mutanda notabit; 
 Fiet Aristarchus: nee dicet, Cur ego amicum 
 OfTendam in nugis? has nugie seria ducent 
 In mala derisum semel excepttimque sinistre. 
 
 Ut mala quern scabies aut morhus regius urguet, 
 Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
 Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiunriue poetam, 
 Qui sapiunt ; agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. 
 Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat 
 Si veluli merulis intentus decidit auceps 
 In puteum, foveamve ; licet, Succurrite, longutn 
 Clamet, lo cives! non sit qui tollere curet. 
 Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funem, 
 Q.UI scis an prudens hue se dejecerit, atque 
 Servari nolit? Dicam : Siculique poettc 
 Narrabo iiiteritum. Deus immortalis haberi 
 Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus /Etnam 
 Insiluit: sit jus liceatque perire poet is: 
 Invitum qui servat, idem facit Occident!. 
 Nee semel hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit, jam 
 Fiet homo, et ponet famosse mortis amorem. 
 Nee satis apparel cur versus factitet; utrum 
 Minxi'rit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
 Moverit incestus; certe furit, ac velut ursus, 
 
 Battard of yaw brain*. Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, 
 ind a variety or equally unaccountable parturitioni upon earth, such at Ma- 
 4oc, Sc. iic. kc. 
 
 t A eruit for the critics." Bayu, in lltt RchtartaL 
 
 And the '* waiter*" are the only fortunate people who can " fly w from 
 tiem : all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the " Literary Fund," being 
 compelled, by co-irteiv, r rtiu' 'he recitation without a hope of ejclaim- 
 tag, " Sic" (that :s. by nua*ing Fitz, with bad wine or worse poetry) "me 
 
 WYlTlt ADOllo!" 
 
 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 I" 
 Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace: 
 For there his carcase he might freely fling, 
 From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
 Though this has happen'd to more liants than or 
 I 'II 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 leave* 
 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 cage. 
 If free, all fly his versifying fit, 
 Fatal at once to' simpleton or wit. 
 But him, unhappy ! whom he seizes, kirn 
 He flays with recitation limb by limb; 
 Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 
 And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 
 
 Objectos caveie valuit si frangere clathros, 
 Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbns. 
 Quern vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque lependo, 
 Non missura culem, nisi plena cruoris, hiri/ao 
 
 On his table were found these words : If/ml Colo did and Jlddiim of 
 oroved cannot be wrong-" But Addison did not ' approve ;*' and if he had. 
 it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on th 
 wme water party, but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped thil last pa- 
 ternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of " Alticas," and the enemy of 
 Pope, 
 
 II If "dosed with," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to tbt 
 iginal for something still lower; and if any reader will translate ,' Mini- 
 erit in patries cineres," kc. into a decent couplet, I will insert laid couplet 
 a lieu of the present 
 
 " D'.fficile at propne communta dicert." Mde. Dacier, Mde. de Sevigne, 
 Roileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of this passage in 
 a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace, ft is printed at th 
 close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigne's Letters, edited by 
 Grovelle, Paris, IS06. Presuming that all who can construe may venture 
 an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so many who can not hav* 
 taken the same liberty. I should have held my " farthing candle" as awk- 
 wardly as another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth 1 * 
 Augustan siecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 1st. 
 Boileau : "11 esl difficile de trailer des sujets qui son! a la portee de tout le 
 monde d'une maniere qui vous les renHe propres, ce qui s'appelle i'jppro- 
 prier un sujet par le tour qu' on y donne." 2dly, Battcul : f > Mais ll est 
 bien difficile de donner des traits propres et individuels aui etres purement 
 possibles." 3dly, Dacier : " II est difficile de trailer conveuablement ftt 
 caracteres que tout le monde peut inventer." Mde. de SevigneN opinion 
 and translation, consisting of some thirty pages. I omit, particularly as M. 
 Grouvelle observes " La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverse* 
 interpreiations ne parait etre la veritable." Bui, by way of comfort, it seem*, 
 fifty years afterwards, " Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance Is) 
 set Horace on his legs again, "dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier too let 
 dissentimens ;" and, some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, 
 wilt doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on Ihis 
 weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or com- 
 men,ts of no more consequence than astronomical calculations on the present 
 comet. I am happy to say, " la longueur de la dissertation" of M. D. pj 
 vents M. G. from .yicg any more on the matter. A better poet than Jloilemm. 
 and at least as good a scholar as Sevigne. has aaid, 
 
 "A little learning is a dangerous thing.* 1 
 And by this comparison of comment) it may be perceived liov. t food < 
 may be rendered w rjjrilous to the proprietors 
 
 3o2 
 
 96
 
 722 
 
 to tfie 
 
 [T ieie were several editions of the Hours of Idleness published in England; but no ono ol 
 hem unUl that of 1832, contained all the pieces which properly belonged to that collection 
 The following, when added to those in front of the book, make up the complete number.] 
 
 ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 
 SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 
 
 Ob ! mihi pneteritos referat si Jupiter anno!. 
 
 Virgil, neid, lib. 8, 560. 
 1. 
 
 Ye Kenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
 
 Embitters the present, compared with the past; 
 Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, 
 And friendships were form'd too romantic to last; 
 
 2. 
 
 Where fanry 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! 
 
 3. 
 
 Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 
 The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
 
 we fought; 
 
 The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 
 To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 
 
 4. 
 
 Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
 As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay; 
 Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 
 To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 
 
 5. 
 I once more view the room with spectators surrounded, 
 
 Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; 
 While to swell my young pride such applauses re- 
 sounded, i 
 I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone : 
 
 6. 
 Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 
 
 By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived; 
 Tilt, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
 I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 
 
 7. 
 Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 
 
 Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
 
 Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you; 
 
 Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 
 
 8. 
 To Ida full of! may remembrance restore me, 
 
 While fate shall the shades of the future unroll t 
 Wince darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
 More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 
 
 9. 
 But it, through the course of the years which await me, 
 
 Oome new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
 . will say, while with rapture the thought shall 
 
 elate me, 
 
 " Oh 1 uch were the days which my *fancy knew." 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO D. 
 1. 
 
 In thee I fondly hoped to 'clasp 
 
 A friend, whom death alone could aever; 
 Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
 
 Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 
 
 2. 
 True, she has forced thee from my breast; 
 
 Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; 
 There, there thine image still must rest, 
 
 Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
 
 3. 
 And, when the grave restores her dead, 
 
 When life again to dust is given. 
 On thy dear breast I'll lay my head 
 
 Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
 February, J803. 
 
 TO EDDLESTON. 
 
 1, 
 Let Folly smile, to view the names 
 
 Of thee and me in friendship twined; 
 Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
 To love, than rank with vice combined. 
 
 2. 
 And though unequal is thy fate, 
 
 Since title deck'd my higher birth; 
 Yet envy not this gaudy state; 
 Thine is the pride of modest worth. 
 
 3. 
 Our souls at least congenial meet. 
 
 Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace; 
 Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
 Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
 
 Jfmember, 1802. 
 
 REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M B. PTGOT.IUUl 
 
 ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 
 1. 
 
 Why, Pigot, complain 
 
 Of this damsel's disdain, 
 Why thus in despair do you fret? 
 
 For months you may try, 
 
 Yet, believe me, a sigh 
 Will never obtain a coquette. 
 2. 
 
 Would you teach her to love? 
 
 For a time seem to rove ; 
 At first she may frown in a pet; 
 
 But leave her a while, 
 
 She shortly will smile. 
 And then you may kiss your coquette
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 75* 
 
 For such are the airs 
 
 Of these fanciful fairs, 
 fhry think all our homage a debt; 
 
 Yet a partial neglect 
 
 Soon takes an effect, 
 \tid humbles the proudest coquette. 
 
 4. 
 
 Dissemble your pain, 
 
 And lengthen your chain, 
 And seem her hauteur to regret; 
 
 If again you shall sigh, 
 
 She no more will deny 
 That yours is the rosy coquette. 
 
 5. 
 
 If still, from false pride, 
 
 Your pangs she deride, 
 This whimsical virgin forget; 
 
 Some other admire. 
 
 Who will melt with your fire, 
 And laugh at the little coquette. 
 G. 
 
 For me, I adore 
 
 Some twenty or more, 
 And love them most dearly; but yet, 
 
 Though my heart they enthral, 
 
 I'd abandon them all, 
 Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
 7. 
 
 No longer repine, 
 
 Adopt this design, 
 Anil break through her slight-woven net ; 
 
 Away with despair, 
 
 No longer forbear, 
 To fly from the captious coquette. 
 8. 
 
 Then quit her, my friend 1 
 
 Your bosom defend. 
 Ere quite with her snares you're beset: 
 
 Lest your deep-wounded heart. 
 
 When incensed by the smart. 
 Should lead you to curse the coquette. 
 
 October 27tA. 1806. 
 
 TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 
 1. 
 
 Your pardon, my friend, 
 
 If my rhymes did offend, 
 Your pardon, a thousand times o'er; 
 
 From friendship I strove 
 
 Your pangs to remove, 
 But I swear I will do so no more. 
 2. 
 
 Since your beautiful maid 
 
 Your flame has repaid, 
 No morn I your folly regret; 
 
 She's now the most divine. 
 
 And I bow at the shrine 
 Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
 3. 
 
 Yet still, I must own, 
 
 I should never have known 
 Prom your verses, what else she deserved 
 
 Your pain seem'd so great, 
 
 i pitied your fate, 
 Aa your fair was so devilish reserved 
 
 4. 
 
 Since the balm-breathing kiss 
 
 Of this magical miss 
 Can such wonderful transports produce; 
 
 Since the "world you forget. 
 
 When your lips once have met," 
 My counsel will get but abuse. 
 
 5. 
 
 You say when "1 rove, 
 
 I know nothing of love;" 
 'Tis true, I am given to range: 
 
 If I rightly remember, 
 
 I've loved a good number, 
 Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
 
 6. 
 
 I will not advance, 
 
 By the rules of romance, 
 To humour a whimsical fair; 
 
 Though a smile may delight, 
 
 Yet a frown won't affright, 
 Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
 
 7. 
 
 ~WhiIe my blood is thus warm 
 I ne'er shall reform, 
 To mix in the Piatonists' school; 
 Of this I am sure, 
 Was my passion so pure, 
 Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
 
 a 
 
 And if I should shun 
 
 Every woman for one, 
 Whose image must fill my whole breast 
 
 Whom I must prefer, 
 
 And sigh but for her 
 What an insult 'twould be to the rot I 
 
 9. 
 
 Now, Strephon, good bye; 
 
 I cannot deny 
 Your passion appears most absurd , 
 
 Such love as you plead 
 
 Is pure love indeed, 
 For it only consists in the word. 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 1. 
 
 Eliza, what fools are the Musselman sect, 
 
 Who to women deny the soul's future existence; 
 Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd rwn their defect, 
 
 And this doctrine would meet with a general resist* 
 ancc. 
 
 2. 
 Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 
 
 He ne'er would have women from paradise dnven. 
 Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 
 
 With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
 
 3. 
 Yet still to increase your calamities more, 
 
 Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 
 He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! 
 With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who euuM 
 bear it? 
 
 4. 
 His religirn to please neither party is made; 
 
 On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil 
 Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been saiit. 
 " Though women are anpels. vet wedlock's the deil
 
 724 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 UINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN 
 NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. 
 ROUSSEAU. FOUNDED ON FACTS." 
 
 "Away, away! your flattering arts 
 May now betray some f ;> nri' -r hearts; 
 And you will smile at uieu ueiieving, 
 And they shall weep at your deceiving." 
 
 NSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS . 
 
 Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 
 
 From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 
 
 Exist but in imagination, 
 
 Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 
 
 For he who views that witching grace, 
 
 That perfect form, that lovely face, 
 
 With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, 
 
 He never wishes to deceive thee: 
 
 Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 
 
 Thou 'It there descry that elegance 
 
 Which from our sex demands such praises, 
 
 But envy in the other raises: 
 
 Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 
 
 Believe me, only does his duty: 
 
 Ah I fly not from the candid youth; 
 
 It is not flattery.-'tis truth. 
 
 THE CORNELIAN. 
 
 No specious splendour of this stone 
 
 Endears it to my memory ever; 
 With lustre only once it shone. 
 
 And blushes modest as the giver. 
 
 2. 
 Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties. 
 
 Have for my weakness oft reproved me; 
 Yet still the simple gift I prue, 
 
 For I am sure the giver loved me. 
 
 3. 
 He ofter'd it with downcast look. 
 
 As fearful that I might refuse it; 
 I told him when the gift I took, 
 
 My only fear should be to lose it. 
 
 4. 
 This pledge attentively I view'd, 
 
 And sparkling as I held it near, 
 Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 1 
 
 And ever since I've loved a tear. 
 
 5. 
 Still, to adorn his humble youth. 
 
 Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield, 
 But he who seeks the flowers of truth. 
 
 Must quit the garden for the field. 
 
 6. 
 Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
 
 Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; 
 The flowers which yield the most of both 
 
 ID Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
 
 7. 
 Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
 
 For once forgetting to be blind, 
 His would have been an ample share, 
 
 If well-proportion'd to his mind. 
 
 8. 
 But had thft goddess clearly seen, 
 
 His form nad fix'd her fickle brpast; 
 Hei countless hoards would his have been, 
 
 And tone remain'd to git; the rest. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY 
 
 Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening glow 
 Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove, 
 Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, 
 Anil scatter flowers on the dust I love. 
 
 2. 
 Within this nartow cell reclines her clay. 
 
 That clay where once such animation beam'd; 
 The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
 Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd 
 
 3. 
 Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
 
 Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate I 
 Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
 
 Nor here the Muse her virtues would relate. 
 
 4. 
 But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars 
 
 Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; 
 And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
 
 Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 
 
 5. 
 And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 
 
 And, madly, godlike providence accuse 1 
 Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain, 
 
 I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 
 
 . 
 Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
 
 Yet fresh the memory of thai beauteous face; 
 Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
 
 Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 
 
 TO EMMA. 
 1. 
 
 Since now the hour is come at last, 
 
 When you must quit your anxious lover; 
 Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
 
 One pang, my girl, and all is over. 
 
 2. 
 Alas! that pang will be severe, 
 
 Which bids us part to meet no more, 
 Which tears me far from one so dear, 
 
 Departing for a distant shore. 
 
 3. 
 
 Well: we have pass'd some happy hours, 
 
 And joy will mingle with our tears; 
 When thinking on these ancient towers, 
 
 The shelter of our infant year*; 
 
 4. 
 Where from the gothic casement's height, 
 
 We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 
 And still, though tears obstruct our sight. 
 
 We lingering look a last farewell 
 
 5. 
 O'er fields through which we used to run, 
 
 And spend the hours in childish play; 
 O'er shades where, when our race was dctte. 
 
 Reposing on my breast you lay; 
 
 6. 
 Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 
 
 Forgot to scare the hov'ring ttiea, 
 Yet envied every fly the kiss 
 
 It dared to give your slumbering \JF'
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 7. 
 Bee still Ihe little painted bark, 
 
 In which I row'd you o'er the lake; 
 Bee there, high waving o'er the park, 
 The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 
 
 8. 
 These times are past our joys are gone, 
 
 You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 
 These scents I musl retrace alone; 
 Without thee what will they avail? 
 
 9. 
 Who can conceive, who has nol proved, 
 
 The anguish of a lasl embrace? 
 When, lorn from all you fondly loved, 
 You bid a long adieu lo peace. 
 
 10. 
 This is ihe deepesl of our woes, 
 
 For ihis ihese lears our cheeks bedew; 
 This is of love ihe final close, 
 Oh, God, ihe fondesi, lasl adieu! 
 
 TO M. 8. G. 
 
 1. 
 
 WHEKE'BR I view those lips of thine, 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss; 
 Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
 Alas 1 it were unhallow'd bliss. 
 
 2. 
 
 Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
 How could I dwell upon its snows? 
 Yet is the daring wish represt, 
 For that, would banish its repose. 
 
 3. 
 A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
 
 3an raise with hope, depress with fear; 
 Yet I conceal my love, and why? 
 I would not force a painful tear. 
 
 4. 
 I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
 
 Hast seen my ardent flame too well; 
 And shall I plead my passion now, 
 To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 
 
 5. 
 No I for thou never canst be mine. 
 
 United by the priest's decree; 
 By any ties but those divine, 
 Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shall be. 
 
 6. 
 Then let the secret fire consume. 
 
 Let it consume, thou shall not know; 
 With joy I courl a certain doom. 
 Rather than spread its guilty glow. 
 
 7. 
 I will not ease my tortured heart. 
 
 By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; 
 Rather than such a sting impart, 
 Eah thoughl presumpluous I resign. 
 
 8. 
 Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
 
 More than I here shall dare to tell ; 
 Thy innocence and mine to save, 
 I bid thee now a last farewell. 
 
 9. 
 
 Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
 And hope no more thy soft embrace, 
 Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
 All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 
 
 10. 
 At least from guilt shall thou be free, 
 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove; 
 Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
 
 No martyr shall thou be to love. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 1. 
 THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes 
 
 Suffused in tears, implore lo slay; 
 And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
 Which said far more than words can say ) 
 
 2. 
 Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
 
 When love and hope lay both o'erthrownt 
 Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
 Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 
 
 3. 
 But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
 
 When Ihy sweel lips were join'd to mine. 
 The tears thai from my eyelids flow'd 
 Were losl in those lhal fell from thine. 
 
 4. 
 Thou could'st nol feel my burning cheek. 
 
 Thy gushing lears had quench'd its flame 
 And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
 In sighs alone it breathed my name. 
 
 5. 
 
 And yel, my girl, we weep in vain, 
 In vain our fate in sighs deplore; 
 Remembrance only can remain. 
 But lhat will make us weep the more. 
 
 6. 
 Again, thou best beloved, adieu I 
 
 Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
 Nor let thy mind past joys review, 
 Our only hope is to forget! 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 1. 
 
 WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, 
 Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; 
 For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
 And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive 
 
 2. 
 Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, 
 
 That love, like ihe leaf, musl fall inlo the sear, 
 
 That age will come on, when, remembrance, deploring, 
 
 Contemplates Ihe scenes of her youlh with a tear. 
 
 3. 
 
 That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
 Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to thi 
 
 breeze, 
 
 When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining 
 Prove nature a prey lo decay and disease. 
 
 4. 
 Tis Ihis, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er n 
 
 fealures, 
 
 Though I ne'er shall presume lo arraign the desree 
 
 Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creature*, 
 
 In the death which one day will deprive you of ma 
 
 5. 
 
 Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion 
 
 No doubt can the mind of your lover invade: 
 
 He worships each look with uch failh'.ul devwtKMi 
 
 A smile can enchanl, or a .ear can dinuad*.
 
 726 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 But as death, my behaved, soon or late shall o'ertako us, 
 And our breasts which alive with such sympathy 
 
 glow, 
 
 Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
 When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low : 
 
 7. 
 Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
 
 pleasure, 
 
 Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow: 
 Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
 And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 
 
 1805. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 1. 
 
 Onl when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? 
 Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
 
 clay! 
 
 Fhe present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
 But brings with new torture, the curse of to-day. 
 
 2. 
 
 From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, 
 I blast not the fiends who have hurt'd me from bliss; 
 For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
 Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 
 
 3. *- 
 
 Was my eye. 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
 
 bright'ning, 
 Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could 
 
 assuage, 
 On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its 
 
 lightning, 
 With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 
 
 4. 
 But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
 
 Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 
 Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
 Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 
 
 5. 
 
 Vot still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
 Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; 
 Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, 
 In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 
 
 6. 
 
 Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
 Sine" in life, love and friendship Tor ever are fled? 
 If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, 
 Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 
 
 THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 
 " 'A BopfltToj oe jopc5aif 
 
 Anaereon. 
 
 1. 
 
 ft way with tnose fictions of flimsy romance! 
 
 Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! 
 fiivr me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 
 
 Or the rapt-a/e which dwells on the first kiss of love. 
 
 2. 
 Ve rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 
 
 Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, 
 r*iom what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow. 
 
 Could vou ever have tasted the first kiss of love! 
 
 Ff Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
 
 Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rovt 
 Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse. 
 
 And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 
 
 4. 
 I hate you, ye cold compositions of art: 
 
 Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprov, 
 1 court the effusions that spring from the heart 
 
 Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of lov* 
 
 5. 
 Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical theme* 
 
 Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: 
 Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
 
 What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 
 
 6. 
 Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, 
 
 From Adnm till now, has with wretchedness strove 
 Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
 
 And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
 
 7. 
 
 When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
 past 
 
 For years fleet away with the wings of the dove 
 The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
 
 Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 
 Sweet girl! though only once we met, 
 That meeting I shall ne'er forget; 
 And though we ne'er may meet again 
 Remembrance will thy form retain. 
 I would not say, "I love," but still 
 My senses struggle with my will: 
 In vain to drive thee from my breast, 
 My thoughts are more and more represt, 
 In vain I check the rising sighs, 
 Another to the last replies: 
 Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
 Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 
 
 What though we never silence broke, 
 
 Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; 
 
 The tongue in flattering falsehood deals. 
 
 And tells a tale it never feels: 
 
 Deceit the guilty lips impart. 
 
 And hush the guilty mandates of the heart; 
 
 But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 
 
 Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
 
 As thus our glances oft conversed, 
 
 And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 
 
 No spirit, from within, reproved us, 
 
 Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 
 
 Though what they utter'd I repress, 
 
 Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess, 
 
 For as on thee my memory ponders, 
 
 Perchance to me thine also wanders. 
 
 This for myself, at least, I'll say. 
 
 Thy form appears through night, through daj 
 
 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 make me wish for endless night 
 
 Since, oh! wbate'er my future fate, 
 
 Shall joy or woe my steps awai', 
 
 Tempted by love, by storms bew t. 
 
 Thine image I can ne'er forget.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 727 
 
 Alas I again no more we meet, 
 No more our former looks repeat ; 
 Then let me breathe this parting prayur, 
 The dictate of my bosom's care : 
 "May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 
 That anguish can ne'er o'ertake her; 
 That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
 But bliss be aye her heart's partaker! 
 Oh! may the happy mortal fated 
 To be, by dearest ties, related, 
 For her each hour new joys discover, 
 And lose the husband in the lover 1 
 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 ! 
 
 TO LESBIA. 
 I, 
 
 ^esbia! since far from you I've ranged, 
 
 Our souls with fond affection glow not: 
 Vou say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
 
 I'd tell why, but yet I know not. 
 
 2. 
 Vour polish'd brow no cares have crost; 
 
 And, Lesbia! we are not much older. 
 Since trembling first my heart I lost. 
 
 Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 
 
 b. 
 Sixteen was then our utmost age, 
 
 Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
 And now new thoughts our minds engage, 
 
 At least I feel disposed to stray, love 1 
 
 4. 
 
 Tis I that am alone to blame, 
 I, that am guilty of love's treason; 
 
 Since your sweet breast is stilt the same. 
 Caprice must be my only reason. 
 
 5. 
 I do not, love! suspect your truth, 
 
 With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; 
 Warm was the passion of my youth, 
 
 One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 
 
 6. 
 No, no, my flame was not pretended. 
 
 For, oh! I loved you most sincerely; 
 And though our dream at last is ended 
 
 My bosom still esteems you dearly. 
 
 7. 
 No more we meet in yonder bowers; 
 
 Absence has made me prone to roving; 
 But older, firmer hearts than ours 
 
 Have found monotony in loving. 
 
 8. 
 Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
 
 New beauties still are daily bright'ning. 
 Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
 
 The forge of love's resistless lightning. 
 
 9. 
 Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms, bleed. 
 
 Many will throng to sigh like me, love! 
 More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
 
 Finder, alas' they ne'er can be, love! 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LAD1". 
 
 As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladiet 
 near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing Dear (La 
 to one of whom the following stanzzi were addressed the next monunj 
 
 1. 
 
 DOUBTLESS, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 
 Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 
 And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, 
 Has fill'd that breast with fond alarm* 
 
 2. 
 
 Surely some envious demon's force, 
 Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
 Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 
 Diverted from its first career. 
 
 3. 
 Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 
 
 The ball obey'd some hell-born guide 
 But Heaven, with interposing power 
 In pity turn'd the death aside. 
 
 4. 
 
 Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
 
 Upon that thrilling bosom fell; 
 Which I, th' unconscious cause of fea, 
 
 Extracted from its glistening cell: 
 
 5. 
 Say, what dire penance can atone 
 
 For such an outrage done to thee? 
 Arraign'd Before thy beauty's throne, 
 
 What punishment wilt thou decree? 
 
 C. 
 Might I perform the judge's part, 
 
 The sentence I should scarce deplor* 
 It only would restore a heart 
 
 Which but belong'd to thee before. 
 
 7. 
 The least atonement I can make 
 
 Is to become no longer free ; 
 Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake 
 
 Thou shall be all in all to me. 
 
 8. 
 But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 
 
 Such expiation o.f my guilt: 
 Come then, some other mode elect; 
 
 Let it be death, or what thou wili. 
 
 9. 
 Choose then, relentless! and I swear 
 
 Naught shall thy dread decree preven > 
 Yet hold one little word forbear 1 
 
 Let it be aught but banishment. 
 
 LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 
 "Ati S\ att pe ^cuy." 
 rfnacreo* 
 
 I. 
 THK roses of love glad the garden of life, 
 
 Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilen 
 
 Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
 
 Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu ). 
 
 '2. 
 In vain with endearments we soothe the sad hetrt, 
 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true; 
 The chance of an hour may command us to poll. 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu I 
 
 3. 
 Still Hope, breathing peace through tb<? srief-iwe!>t 
 
 brent, 
 Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet nmv !'
 
 '23 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu I 
 
 4. 
 
 Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth 
 Love twined round their childhood his flowers as 
 
 they grew ; 
 
 They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu! 
 
 5. 
 Bweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
 
 Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? 
 Yet why do I ask? to distraction a prey. 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
 
 6. 
 Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? 
 
 From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
 There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind; 
 The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 
 
 7. 
 Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
 
 Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; 
 Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins; 
 He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
 
 8. 
 
 How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel 
 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are fow, 
 Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 
 And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 
 
 9. 
 Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; 
 
 No more with love's former devotion we sue: 
 H spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ; 
 The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 
 
 10. 
 [n this life of probation for rapture divine, 
 
 Astrea* declares that some penance is due; 
 From him who has worshiped at love's gentle shrine, 
 The att-Aement is ample in love's last adieu! 
 
 11. 
 
 Who kneels to the god on his al^ar of light 
 Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
 His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 
 
 IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 
 "SolpieiiadCerinthum." it*. Quart. 
 
 CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease 
 
 Which rackrf my breast your fickle bosom please? 
 
 Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 
 
 That I might live for love and you again: 
 
 But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate: 
 
 By death alone I can avoid your hate. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 
 
 ODE 3, LIB. 3. 
 1. 
 
 TUB man of firm and noble soul 
 No factious clamours can control; 
 tfr threafning tyrant's darkling brow 
 
 Can swerve him from his just intent: 
 Oaies the warring waves which plough, 
 
 B> Auster on the billows spent, 
 To curb the Adriatic main, 
 Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 
 
 The Onddws of Justice. 
 
 Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
 Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
 With all his terrors then unfurl'd, 
 
 He would unmoved, unawed behold: 
 The flames of an expiring world, 
 
 Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
 In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
 Might light his glorious funeral pile: 
 Still dauntless midst the wreck of earth he'd smile 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY 
 A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING 
 THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RA 
 THER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. 
 
 "But if an old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
 Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
 If good Madam Squiulum my work should abuse, 
 May I venture to give her a smack of my muse "'" 
 
 Jnstey't New Bath Guide, p. 169. 
 
 CANDOUR compels me-, BECHER ! to commend 
 The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
 Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause 
 From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
 For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
 I sue for pardon, must I sue in vain? 
 The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart; 
 Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 
 Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
 The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
 When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind 
 Limping Decorum lingers far behind: 
 Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
 Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
 The young, the old, have worn the chains of love i 
 Let those who ne'er confined my lay reprove: 
 Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
 Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
 Oh! how I hate the nttveiess, frigid song, 
 The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
 Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
 To paint a pang the author ne'er can knowi 
 The artless Helicon I boast is youth; 
 My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth. 
 Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to " taint.' 
 Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
 The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile 
 Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
 Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
 Finn in her virtue's strength, yet not severe 
 She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
 Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine. 
 But for the nymph whose premature desires 
 Torment the bosom with unholy fires, 
 No net to snare her willing heart is spread; 
 She would have fallen, though she ne'er had rean 
 For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
 Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true. 
 Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
 The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
 I seek not glory from the senseless crowd; 
 Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 
 Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
 Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 
 
 November 26 1806.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 ON A CHANGE OP MASTERS AT A GREAT 
 
 PUBLIC SCHOOL. 
 
 WHERE are those honours, Ida ! once your own, 
 When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne ? 
 As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
 Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place, 
 So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
 And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
 Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
 Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; 
 Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
 With florid jargon, and with vain parade; 
 With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
 Buch as were ne'er before enforced in schools 
 Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
 He governs, sanction')! but by self-applause. 
 With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
 Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom: 
 Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
 No trace of science left you but the name. 
 
 July, 1805. 
 
 CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " I cannot but remember such thing? were, 
 And were most dtar to me." 
 
 WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains. 
 Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins; 
 When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
 And flies with every changing gale of spring; 
 Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
 Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind: 
 What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 
 Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
 With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
 While Hope retires appall'd and clings to life. 
 Yet less the pang when through the tedious hour 
 Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
 Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
 When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven ; 
 Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
 Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
 As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
 The orb of day unveils his distant form, 
 Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
 And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
 Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
 The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
 Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
 To scenes far distant points his paler rays; 
 Btill rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
 The past confounding with the present day. 
 
 Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
 Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
 My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
 And roams romantic o'er her airy fields; 
 Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view 
 I'o which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
 Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; 
 Friends lost to me for aye except in dreams; 
 Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
 Whose forms I now remember but to weep; 
 Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
 Of early science, future fame the source ; 
 Who, ftill contending in the studious race, 
 In quick rotation fill the senior place! 
 These with a thousand visions now unite, 
 To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 
 
 IDA! blest spot where Science holds her reign, 
 How joyous once I join'd thy youthful triin ! 
 3P 97 
 
 Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
 
 Again I mingle with thy playful quire; 
 
 Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
 
 Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same; 
 
 Through winding paths, along the glade, I traen 
 
 The social smile of ev'ry welcome face; 
 
 My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woa. 
 
 Each early boyish fri'ind or youthful foe, 
 
 Our feuds dissolved, lut not my friendship past: 
 
 I bless the former, and forgive the last 
 
 Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my breast 
 
 To love a stranger, friendship made me blest: 
 
 Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
 
 When every artless bosom throbs with truth; 
 
 Untaught by wor'^.'y wisdom how to feign, 
 
 And check each impulse with prudential rein; 
 
 When all we feel, our honest souls disclose 
 
 In love to friends, in open hate to foes; 
 
 No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
 
 No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
 
 Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
 
 Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
 
 When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 
 
 His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
 
 Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
 
 Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 
 
 Still to assent, and never to deny 
 
 A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
 
 And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heart!, 
 
 Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
 
 Although against that word his heart rebel. 
 
 And truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. 
 
 Away with themes like this' not mine the task 
 From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask; 
 Let keener bards delight in satire's sting; 
 My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 
 Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow- 
 To hurl defiance on a secret foe; 
 But when that foe, from feeling or from sham*. 
 The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
 Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired. 
 With this submission all her rage expired. 
 From dreaded pangs that feble foe to save, 
 She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
 Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
 Pomposus' virtues are but known to few: 
 I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
 And he who wields must sometimes feel the rot 
 If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
 Who share the converse of a college hall, 
 She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
 'Tis past, and thus she will not fin again. 
 Soon must her early song for ever cease. 
 And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 
 
 Here first remember'd be the joyous band 
 Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; 
 Who join'd with me in every boyish sport 
 Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
 Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 
 Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
 Who, thus transplanted from his father's school 
 Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule 
 Succeeded him whom all unite to praise, 
 The dear preceptor of my early days; 
 Probus, the pride of science, and the boast. 
 To IDA. now, alas! for ever lost. 
 With him for years we search'd the classic page. 
 And fear'd the master, though we loved the * 
 Retired at last, his small yet peaceful *ent 
 From learning's labour '* the b'est retsesr
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Pomposus fills his magisterial chair; 
 Pomposus governs, but, my muse, forbear: 
 Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
 His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 
 tio more his mention shall my verse degrade, 
 To him my tribute is already paid. 
 
 High, thro' those elms with hoary branches crown'd, 
 Fair Inv's bower adorns the landscape round; 
 There Science, from her favoured seat, surveys 
 The vale where rural Xature claims her praise ; 
 To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
 Who move in joy, and dance along the plain; 
 In scalter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue; 
 Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; 
 Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
 In rival bands between the wickets run, 
 Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
 Or chase with nimble feel its rapid course. 
 But these with slower steps direct their way 
 Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray; 
 While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
 And arbours shade them from the summer beat: 
 Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
 S.mie rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
 With frolic quaint their antic jests expose. 
 And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 
 Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
 Tradition treasures for a future day: 
 "Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought, 
 And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought; 
 Here have we fled before superior might. 
 And here rcnew'd the' wild tumultuous fight." 
 While thus our souls with early passions swell. 
 In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; 
 Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
 And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
 Vo splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
 But ruder records Mil the dusky wall ; 
 There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name 
 Secures its owner's academic fame; 
 Here mingling view the names of sire and son 
 The one long graved, the other just begun ; 
 These shall survive alike whet, son and sire 
 Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
 Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
 Denied in death a monumental stone, 
 Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
 The sighing weeds that hide their nameless gr?-r. 
 And here my name, and many an early friend's. 
 Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
 Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
 TV'hr tread our steps, and fill our former place, 
 Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe. 
 Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law, 
 And now in turn possess the reins of power, 
 To rule the little tyrants of an hour; 
 Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 
 They pass the dreary winter's eve away 
 " And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
 And thus they dealt the combat side by side; 
 Jw. ir. this pi ace the mouldering walls they scaled, 
 Not bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd; 
 Her- probu* came, the rising fray to quell. 
 Ami here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
 An l none one night abroad they dared to roam, 
 Wnite bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home;" 
 Wliik* this they speak, the hour must soon arrive. 
 Win q nainr-s nf these, like ours, alone survive 
 
 Yet a few years, one general wreck will wh:lm 
 The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 
 
 Dear honest race, though now we meet no more. 
 One last long look on what we were before 
 Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu 
 Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
 Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
 Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
 I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret. 
 And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
 Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face, 
 Some old companion of my early race, 
 Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy. 
 My eyes, my heart proclaim'J me still a boy ; 
 The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around. 
 Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; 
 The smiles of beauty (for, alas! I've known 
 What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) 
 The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were oe! 
 Could hardly charm me when that friend was near* 
 My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
 The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 
 I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
 I saw andjoin'd again the joyous throng; 
 Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
 And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 
 
 Yet why should I alone with such delight 
 Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
 Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
 Endear'd to all in childhood's very name? 
 Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
 Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
 To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
 And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
 Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee 
 A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
 Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share 
 The tender guidance of a father's care: 
 Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
 The love which glistens in a father's eye? 
 For this can wealth or title's jound atone. 
 Made by a parent's early loss my own ? 
 What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
 What sister's gentle Ui r s has prest my cheek? 
 For me how dull the vacant moments rise. 
 To no fond bosom Tnk'd by kindred ties! 
 Oft in the progr.-si of some fleeting dream 
 Frzternal smiLs collected round me seem; 
 While stili tiie vijions to my heart are prest, 
 The voice of love will murmur in my rest: 
 I hear I wake and in the sound rejoice; 
 I hear again but ah! no brother's voice, 
 A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must elrai 
 Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the rif ; 
 While these a thousand kindred n-reatt* en '.*, 
 I cannot call one single Hossom n-inc: 
 What then remains? in solitude to grocji, 
 To mix in friendship or to sigh alone? 
 Thus must I cling to some endearing hand. 
 And none more dear than IDA'S ocial band, 
 
 Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends. 
 Thy name ennobles him who thus commends; 
 From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, 
 The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
 Oh! in the promise of thj - aarly youth, 
 If hope anticipate the words of truth. 
 Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious 
 To build his own upon t) y deathless %n.
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 731 
 
 Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
 
 Of those with whom I lived supremely blest. 
 
 Oft bare we drain'd the font of ancient lore; 
 
 Though drinking deeply, thirsting Mill the more. 
 
 Vet when confinement's lingering boar was done, 
 
 Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one: 
 
 Together we impell'd the flying ball; 
 
 Together waited in our tutor's hall; 
 
 Together join'd in cricket's manly toil. 
 
 Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
 
 Or plunging from the green declining shore. 
 
 Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; 
 
 In every element, unchanged, the same. 
 
 All, all that brothers should be but the name. 
 
 Nor yet are yon forgot, my jocund boy ! 
 DAVUS, the harbinger of childish Joy ; 
 For ever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
 The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
 Yet with a breast of such materials made- 
 Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 
 Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
 In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
 Still I remember in the (actions strife 
 The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: 
 High poised in air the massy weapon bung, 
 A cry of horror burst from every tongue; 
 Whilst I, in combat with another foe. 
 Fought on, unconscious of th* impending blow ; 
 Tour arm, brave boy, arrested his career 
 Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 
 Disarm 'd and baffled by your conquering band. 
 The gravelling savage roTTd upon the sand: 
 An act like this can simple thanks repay? 
 Or an the labours of a grateful lay ? 
 Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed. 
 That instant, DAVCS, it deserves to Meed. 
 
 Lrcrs! on me thy claims are justly great: 
 Thy milder virtues could my muse relate. 
 To tbee alone, unrivalTd, would belong 
 The feeble effort* of my lengthened song. 
 Well canst tbou boast to lead in senates fit 
 A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: 
 Though yet in embryo these perfections shine. 
 LYCOS! thy father's fame wiU soon be thine. 
 Where learning nurtures the superior mind. 
 What May we hope from genius thus refined! 
 When time at length matures thy growing yean. 
 Bow wilt tbou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
 Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
 With honour's soul, united beam in tbee. 
 
 SnaH fair BOKTAUB pass by unsung? 
 From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprang: 
 What though one sad di-wention bade us part, 
 That name is yet embalm'd within my bean; 
 Yet at the mention does that bean rebound. 
 And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
 Envy dissolved our ties, and not onr win: 
 v7 once were friends, I'll think we are so stilL 
 A form unmatched in nature's partial mould. 
 A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
 fet not the senate's thunder tbon shall wield. 
 Nor seek for glory in the tented field; 
 fo minds of ruder texture these be given 
 Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven, 
 flarly in polish'd conns might be thy seat, 
 Eht that thy tongue could never forge deceit; 
 Tie courtier's supple bow and sneering smile. 
 rita flow of mmpliment. the slippery wile. 
 
 Would make that breast with indignation burn. 
 And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spun. 
 Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; 
 Sacred to lore, unclouded e'er by hate; 
 The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; 
 Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 
 Wow last, but nearest of the social band, 
 See honest, open, generous CLEOX stand; 
 With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing seen* 
 No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
 On the same day our studious race begun, 
 On the same day onr studious race was ran ; 
 Thus side by side we pass'd onr first career, 
 Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
 At last concluded oar scholastic life. 
 We neither conquered in the classic strife ; 
 As speakers each supports an equal name, 
 And crowds allow to each a partial fame: 
 To soothe a youthful rival's early pride. 
 Though aeon's candour would the palm divide. 
 Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
 Justice awards it to my friend alone. 
 
 Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear. 
 Kemembrance hails yon with her warmest tear! 
 Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's mm, 
 To trace the hoars which never can return; 
 Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell. 
 And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell I 
 Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
 As infant laurels round my head were twined 
 When Probns' praise repaid my lyric son*, 
 Or placed me higher in the studious throng. 
 Or when my first harangue received applause. 
 His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
 What gratitude to him my soul nossest. 
 While hope of dawning honours filTd my breast I 
 For all my bum We fame, to him alow 
 The praise is doe, who made that fame my own. 
 Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays. 
 These young effusions of my early days. 
 To him my muse her noblest strain would five: 
 The song might perish, b-t the theme mast tiv*. 
 Yet why tar him Ike needless verse essay? 
 His honoar'd name requires no vain display: 
 By every son of grateful Ida West, 
 It finds an echo in each youthful breast; 
 A fame beyond the glories of the Broad. 
 Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 
 
 IDA, not yet exhausted is the* theme. 
 Nor cloned the program of my youthful dream. 
 How many a friend deserves the grateful strain. 
 What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 
 Yet let me hush Una echo of the past. 
 This parting song, the dearest and the last; 
 And brood in secret o'er those boon of joy. 
 To me a silent and a sweet employ. 
 Bat thou my generous youth, whose tender yeaiv 
 Are near my own, whose worth my bean rrreras 
 Henceforth affection sweetly Urns began. 
 Shall join, our bnsomi and our souls in one ; 
 Without thy aid. no glory shall be nUae; 
 Without thy dear advice, no great design; 
 Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy. 
 In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 
 
 To him Earyahti: "Ito day dun ska me 
 The rising glories whkt ton. tV* I efeia 
 Fortune may favour, rt the skie* >uy w* 
 Bat valour, spile of fat*, c Wains reauwn.
 
 V12 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Yet, ero from h,i- ce our eager steps depart, 
 
 One boon I bet tne nearest to my heart: 
 
 My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
 
 Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
 
 Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
 
 Her feeble .ige from dangers of the main ; 
 
 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
 
 A bright example of maternal love. 
 
 Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 
 
 Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave; 
 
 From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
 
 No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek; 
 
 By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
 
 Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: 
 
 Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
 
 In thee her much-loved child may live again; 
 
 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
 
 Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress. 
 
 So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
 
 To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
 
 Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
 
 In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
 
 Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow; 
 
 Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
 
 " All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied ; 
 
 "Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
 
 To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
 
 Creusa's* style but wanting to the dame. 
 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
 
 But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
 
 Now, by my life! my sire's most sacred oath 
 
 To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
 
 All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
 
 If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
 
 Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
 
 A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 
 
 Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
 
 For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 
 
 A tawny nide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 
 
 Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
 
 Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 
 
 And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
 
 Arm'd thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 
 
 To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
 
 More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
 
 lulus nolds. amid the chiefs his place: 
 
 His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
 
 Lost in the murmurs of the sighing galel 
 
 The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, 
 Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
 When snail the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 
 Alas! some slumber who shall wake no morel 
 Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen; 
 And flowing flasks, and scattered 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: 
 Her* lies our path; lest any hand arise, 
 Wacch taou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies: 
 I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
 Ami clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
 His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
 And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast 
 Btntch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed; 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed: 
 I'o Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince; 
 
 I'M votlwr of lu'v, lt on the night when Troy wu taken. 
 
 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 swoll'n veins the blackening torrerts poar 
 
 Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
 
 Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
 
 And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire: 
 
 Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; 
 
 Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last: 
 
 Ah! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
 
 Andjtill 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 Rhtesus sees the threatening steel. 
 His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
 And vainly in the weak defence confides; 
 Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
 The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
 Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow 
 One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
 Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
 Whose fire emits a faint and trembling ray; 
 There, unconfin'd, behold each grazing steed, 
 Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: 
 Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
 Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: 
 "Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd; 
 Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last ' 
 Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn; 
 Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 
 
 What silver arms, with various art 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 which stud the monarch's golden belt' 
 This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
 Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
 Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
 Messapus' helm his bead 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 walls, 
 When, on the left, a light reflection falls; 
 The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night. 
 Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
 Volscens with question loud the pair alarms: 
 "Stand, stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms' 
 From whence, to whom ?" He meets with no epl>. 
 Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ;
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 733 
 
 fhe thicket's depth with lurried pace they tread. 
 While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 
 
 With brakes entangled, scarce a path between. 
 Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene: 
 Euryalus his heavy spoils impede. 
 The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
 But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
 To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze. 
 Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
 On every side they seek his absent friend. 
 " O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
 In what impending perils art thou left!" 
 Listening he runs above the waving trees, 
 Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze; 
 The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
 Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
 Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
 The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys: 
 The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
 While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 
 Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
 Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
 What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? 
 Ah! must be rush, his comrade's fate to share? 
 What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
 Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
 His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
 Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live? 
 Poising with strength his lifted knee on high, 
 On Luna's orb he casts his frenzied eye: 
 Goddess serene, transcending every star! 
 Queen of the sky whose beams are seen afar! 
 By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove; 
 If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
 Thiue altars with the produce of the chase. 
 Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
 To free nay friend, and scatter far the proud." 
 Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
 Through parting 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 they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
 A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
 Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes; 
 Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
 Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
 "Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 
 Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
 And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
 Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
 Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 
 Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
 And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
 "Me, me your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
 Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
 Ye starry spheres I thou conscious Heaven ! attest 1 
 He could not durst not lo! the guile confestl 
 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, 
 \nd sanguine torrents mantle o'er Mi* broast : 
 As some young rose, \vhosr> blossom scents the air, 
 Languid in death, expires beneath the share: 
 3*2 
 
 Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
 Declining gently, falls a fading flower; 
 Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
 And lingering beauty hovers ruund the" dead. 
 
 But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
 Revenge his loader, and despair his guide ; 
 Volscens he seeks amid the gathering host, 
 Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; 
 Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foM 
 Rage nerves his. arm, fate gleams in every blow; 
 In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds. 
 Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; 
 In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
 Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound 
 Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved 
 Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; 
 Then on his bosom sought his wonted place. 
 And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace! 
 
 Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim. 
 Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! 
 Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
 No future day shall see your names expire, 
 While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! 
 And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome! 
 
 ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN 
 BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THE WAN 
 DEUER IN SWITZERLAND," &c. &c. ENTITLE!.' 
 " THE COMMON LOT." 
 1. 
 MONTGOMERY ! true, the common lot 
 
 Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; 
 Yet some shall never be forgot 
 Some "fcall exist beyond the grave. 
 
 2. 
 " Unknown the region of his birth," 
 
 The hero* rolls the tide of war ; 
 
 Yet not unknown his martial worth. 
 
 Which glares a meteor from afar. 
 
 3. 
 His joy or grief, his weal or woe. 
 
 Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 
 Yet nations now unborn will know 
 The record of his deathless name. 
 
 4. 
 The patriot's and the poet's frame 
 
 Must share the common tomb of all: 
 Their glory will not sleep the same; 
 That will arise though empires fall. 
 
 5. 
 The lustre of a beauty's eye 
 
 Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
 The fair, the brave, the good must Jie, 
 And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
 
 6. 
 Once more the speaking eye revives. 
 
 Still beaming through the lover's strain j 
 For Petrarch's Laura still survives: 
 She died, but ne'er will die again 
 
 7. 
 The rolling seasons pass away. 
 
 And Time, untiring, waves bin wing; 
 Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, 
 But bloom in fresh unfading spring. 
 
 No particu'ir hero is here alluded to. The exploit! of AiTird, i* 
 mouri, Edward (lie Black Prince, anil in ir.ore 
 
 ugh, Frederick the Great, Counl Salt, tn 
 tar to every historical reader, but the r-xic* lace* of (heir birth 
 a very imall proportion of thi ir adoiirr.ri
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 All, i\ must ?ep in grim repose, 
 
 Col'ected it 'he uilent tomb; 
 The old and young, with friends and foes. 
 
 Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 
 
 9. 
 The mouldering marble lasts its day. 
 
 Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 
 To ruin's ruthluss fangs a prey, 
 
 The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
 
 10. 
 What though the sculpture be destroy'd. 
 
 From dark oblivion meant to guard? 
 A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 
 
 By those whose virtues claim reward. 
 
 11. 
 Then do not say the common lot 
 
 Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 
 Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
 
 Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO THE REV. J. T. BECKER. 
 1. 
 
 I'Z\K Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind : 
 
 1 cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
 Out retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 
 I will not descend to a world I despise. 
 
 2. 
 Eid the senate or camp my exertions require, 
 
 Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; 
 When infancy's years of probation expire, 
 Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 
 
 3. 
 The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd 
 
 Still mantles unseen in its secret recess: 
 At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, 
 No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
 
 4. 
 Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
 
 Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. 
 
 Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, 
 
 With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
 
 5. 
 
 For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 
 What censure, what danger, what woe would 1 
 
 brave ! 
 
 Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath 
 Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
 
 6. 
 Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? 
 
 Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? 
 Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? 
 Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? 
 
 7. 
 
 have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; 
 In friendship I early was taught to believe; 
 rfy passion the matrons of prudence reprove; 
 I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive 
 
 8. 
 
 Jo me what is wealth? it may pass in an hour, 
 If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 
 IY> me what is title?- -the phantom of power; 
 To me what is fashion? I seek but renown. 
 
 9. 
 
 C*ct;t is 'a stranger as yet to my soul, 
 ' itiL am unpractised to varnish the trr'h; 
 
 Then why should I live in a hateful control? 
 Why waste upon folly the days of my youth? 
 
 TO MISS CHAWORTH. 
 
 1. 
 
 On! 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. 
 
 2. 
 To thee these early faults I owe, 
 
 To thee, the wise and old reproving: 
 They know my sins, but do riot know 
 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving 
 
 3. 
 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
 And all its rising fires could smother; 
 And now thy vows no more endure, 
 Bestovv'd by thee upon another. 
 
 4. 
 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 
 
 5. 
 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. 
 
 6. 
 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. 
 
 7. 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasu'es; 
 These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
 These thoughtless strains to Passion's measure* 
 
 8. 
 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. 
 
 9. 
 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. 
 
 10. 
 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. 
 
 11. 
 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 ait lost for ever 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams: 
 No more with Hope the future beams; 
 
 My days of happiness are few: 
 Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 
 My dawn of life is overcast, 
 Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! 
 Would 1 could add Remembrance lo>! 
 
 Lift
 
 (735) 
 
 THE BLUES. 
 
 A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 
 
 " Nimium ne crede color!.' 1 Virgil. 
 O Ins! not, ve beautiful creatures, to hue, 
 Though your '.air were as red as your ttockingt t 
 
 ECLOGUE FIRST. 
 London. Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
 
 Enter TRACY, meeting INKEL. 
 Ink. YOU'RE too late. 
 Tra. Is it over ? 
 
 Ink. 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 pas- 
 sion;" 
 
 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 
 
 and Co. 
 With their damnable 
 
 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 
 
 Ink. And think you that I 
 
 Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
 The Muses? 
 
 Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 
 
 To the Nine; though the number who make some pre- 
 tence 
 
 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 had just got such 
 
 a threshing. 
 
 That is, as the phrase goes, extremely "refreshing." 
 What a beautiful word! 
 
 / n fe. Very true; 'tis so soft 
 
 And so cooling they use it a little too oft ; 
 And the papers have got it at last but no matter. 
 So they've cut up our friend then? 
 
 yy^ Not left him a tatter 
 
 ot 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 no r friend! but I thought it would terminate so 
 
 Out friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 
 
 Vou don't happen to have the Review in your pocket? 
 
 7V. No; I left a i mnd dozen of authors and others 
 
 Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother'? 
 All scrambling and jostling, like so many hn)w 
 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 hear 
 
 Quite enough; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
 Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 
 Tra. I have had no great loss (lien ? 
 Ink. Loss! such a palaver 
 
 I'd inoculate sooner my wife with' the slaver 
 Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
 To the torrent of trash which around nim he pours, 
 Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labour 
 
 That come do not make me speak ill of one's 
 
 neighbour. 
 Tra. I make you! 
 Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
 
 You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 
 
 Tra. To speak iUJ 
 
 Is that your deduction ? 
 
 Ink. When speaking of Scamp, ill, 
 
 I certainly follow, not set an example. 
 The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 
 
 Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one rbol 
 
 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 hotbed. 
 
 Tra. I own it 'tis true 
 
 A fair lady 
 
 Ink. A spinster? 
 
 Tra. Miss Lilact 
 
 Ink. The Blue 1 
 
 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. I 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 tha ethei. 
 
 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 witk 
 
 science. 
 
 She's so learned in all things, and fond of conceiv- 
 ing 
 Herself in all matters connected with learning. 
 
 That 
 
 Tra. What? 
 
 Ink. I perhaps may as well hold mjrtonfMi 
 
 Rut there's five hundred people can tell vou 
 wrong.
 
 736 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 TVa. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 
 
 Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue? 
 
 TVa. Why, Jack, I '11 be frank with you something 
 
 of both. 
 Hie girl 's a fine girl. 
 
 Ink. And you feel nothing loth 
 
 To her good lady-mother's reversion; and yet 
 Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 
 
 TVa. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I de- 
 mand 
 
 Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 
 hand. 
 
 jjtft. Why, that heart's in the inkstand that hand 
 on the pen. 
 
 TVa. Apropos Will you write me a song now and 
 then? 
 
 Ink. To what purpose? 
 
 TVa. 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. 
 
 TVa. 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 ? 
 
 TVa. In my name. I will copy Ihem out, 
 
 To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 
 
 Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? 
 
 TVa. Why, 
 
 Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
 Bo 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. 
 
 TVa. 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. 
 
 TVa. Nay, staj, my I'ear fellow consider I 'm 
 wrong: 
 
 own it; but prithee, compose me the song. 
 
 Ink. As sublime! ! 
 
 TVa. I but used the expression in haste. 
 
 Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
 bad taste. 
 
 TVs. I own it I know it acknowledge it what 
 r?an 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. 
 
 TVa. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 
 
 Ink. Why that 
 
 To be sure makes a difference. 
 
 TVa. I know what is what; 
 
 And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less 
 Than a poet of t'other, may easily guess 
 That I never could mean by a word to offend 
 A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 
 
 Ink. No doubt; you by this time should know what 
 
 is due 
 \o a man of but come let us shake hands. 
 
 TV . You knew, 
 
 And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
 Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 
 
 Ink. That's my bookseller's business; I care not for 
 
 gale; 
 
 indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
 There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
 And my own grand romance 
 
 TVa Had its full share of praise. 
 
 I myself saw it pufTd in the "Old Girl's Review." 
 
 Ink. What Review? 
 
 TVa. 'Tis the Englisn " Journal de TrevouxJ* 
 
 A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
 Have you never yet seen it ? 
 
 Ink.. That pleasure's to cme 
 
 TVa. Make haste then. 
 
 Ink. Why so 7 
 
 TVa. I have beard people say 
 
 That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t'other day. 
 
 Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 
 
 TVa. No doubt 
 
 Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? 
 
 Ink. I've a card, and shall go; but at present, ai 
 
 soon 
 As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 
 
 the moon, 
 
 (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
 And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
 I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
 To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
 'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
 Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. 
 And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not unpleasant. 
 Will you go? There's Miss Lilac will also be present. 
 
 TVa. That " metal 's attractive." 
 
 Ink. No doubt to the pocket. 
 
 TVa. You should rather encourage my passion than 
 
 shock it. 
 But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum 
 
 Ink. Yery true; let us go, then, before they can 
 
 come, 
 
 Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their levy, 
 On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
 Hark! Zounds, they'll be on us; I know by the drone 
 Of old Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone. 
 Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join 
 Your friends, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 
 
 TV<z. All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 
 
 Ink. That's clear. 
 
 But for God's sake let's go, or the bore vill be here. 
 Come, come; nay, I'm off. [Ezit INKEL. 
 
 TVa. You are right, and I '1! follow; 
 
 'Tis high time for a " Sic me servavit Apollo" 
 And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes. 
 Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes. 
 All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
 With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 
 
 [Exit TRACT. 
 
 ECLOGUE SECOND. 
 
 Jin Apartment in the House O/LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 
 A Table prepared. 
 
 SIR RICHARD BLUEBOTTLE, solus. 
 WAS there ever a man who was married so sorry? 
 Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in n hurry. 
 My life is reversed, and my quiet dpstroy'd ; 
 My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
 Must now, every hour of the twelve, he employ'd i 
 The twelve, do I say? of the whole twenty -foul, 
 Is there one which I dare call my ow any morel 
 What with driving, and visiting, dspc.ng aiid dining 
 What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, am 
 
 shining, * 
 
 In science and art, I'll be curst if I know 
 Myself from my wife; for rlthough we re two. 
 Yet she somehow contrives that all things 'ia I ka 
 
 done 
 In a stv e that proclaims us eternal!) one-
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 737 
 
 But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
 Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me 
 
 sore) 
 
 '" the numerous, humorous, 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 smaller 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'll be dumb. 
 
 Enter LADY BLUEBOTTLE, Miss LILAC, LADY BLUE- 
 
 MODHT, MR. BOTHERBY, IjiKEL, TRACY, MlSS MAZA- 
 RINE, and others, with SCAMP the Lecturer, SfC. SfC. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir kichard, good morning; I've 
 
 brought you some friends. 
 Sir Rich, (boics, 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 
 
 place ye ; 
 And you, Mr. Bolherby 
 
 Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 
 
 I obey. 
 
 Led} Blueb. Mr. Inkcl, I ought to upbraid ye ; 
 Vou were not at the lecture. 
 
 Ink. Excuse me, 1 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 such a lecture! 
 Bjtfi. The best of the ten. 
 
 Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 
 Both. Because 
 
 t defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
 The very walls shook. 
 
 Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 
 
 t allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best 
 Miss Li'iic, permit me to help you ; a wing? 
 Mia Lit. No more. Sir, I thank you. Who lectures 
 
 next spring? 
 Both. Dick Dander. 
 
 Ink. That is, if he lives. 
 
 Miss Lil. And why not ? 
 
 Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 'a a sot. 
 iady Bluemount! a glass of Madeira? 
 * Lady Bluem. With pleasure 
 
 Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Winder 
 
 mere treasure ? 
 
 Ooes he stick to his lakes, likes the leeches he sings 
 \nd their gatherers, as Homer sung warriois and 
 
 kings? 
 
 Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 
 Ink, As a footman ? 
 
 Lady Bluen. For shame 
 
 Vor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 
 Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but p : tied his mas 
 
 ter; 
 
 For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no disaster 
 To wear a new livery; the more, as 'tis not 
 Tbc first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat 
 
 98 
 
 Lady Blucm. For shame! I repeat. If Sir Georg* 
 
 could but hear 
 
 Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend lake); we aU 
 
 know, my dear, 
 Tis his way. 
 
 Sir Rich. But this place 
 
 Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 
 
 A lecturer's. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Excuse me 'tis one in "the Stamps:' 
 ie is made a collector. 
 Tra. Collector! 
 
 Sir Rich. How? 
 
 Miss Lil. What ? 
 
 Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new bat: 
 
 There his works will appear 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 
 
 Ink. I shan't go so far I can have them at Granges.* 
 Lady Blueb. Oh fie I 
 JUiss Lil. And for shame ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 
 
 Both. Very good 
 
 Lady Bluem. How good ? 
 
 Lady Blueb. He means naught 'I is'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 contenl with your portion of praise- 
 'T was in your defence. 
 
 Both. If you please, with submission. 
 
 I can make out my own. 
 
 Ink. It would be your perditioa 
 
 While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
 Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend. 
 Apropos Is your play then accepted at last ? 
 Both. At last? 
 
 Ink. Why I thought that's to say there had past 
 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,' 1 as the Greek says : for " purging the mind," 
 I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. 
 Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to havt 
 
 pray'd 
 
 For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 
 Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the pUy's to b 
 
 play'd. 
 Is it cast yet? 
 
 Bath. The actor* are fighting for parti, 
 
 As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
 Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and go the Jfr 
 
 night. 
 
 Tra. And you promised the epilogue. Inkel. 
 Ink. Not quite 
 
 However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
 I 'II do what I can, though my pai.is must be double 
 Tra. Why so? 
 
 Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 
 
 Both. Sir, I 'm happy to say, I 've no fears on that 
 
 score. 
 Your parts, Mr, Inkel, are 
 
 Ink. Never mind n.in, 
 
 Stick to thoseof your play, which is quite yoj-r own Hue 
 
 * Grange it or wal a famous p utry-cook and fruiterer in Ficoddl*
 
 T35 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 L*Jf Blucm. You're z fugitive writer, I think, sir, 
 of rhymes ? 
 
 Ink. V "s, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
 On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, 
 Or en Mouthy, his friend, without taking to flight. 
 
 Lady Blu'.m. Sir, your taste is too common ; but time 
 
 and posterity 
 
 Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
 Become its reproach. 
 
 Ink. I've no sort of objection, 
 
 80 I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever 
 will take 1 
 
 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 Blucm. Well, sir, the time's coming. 
 
 Ink. Scamp! do n'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 my 
 strictures. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness : the joy 
 
 of my heart 
 
 la to 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 Lady 
 
 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 pedlars and asses, 
 Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
 
 Tra. And you, Scamp! 
 
 Scamp. 1 needs must confess I 'm embarrass'd. 
 
 Ink. Do n't call upon Scamp, who 's already so 
 
 harass'd 
 
 SVith old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and 
 all schools. 
 
 Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be 
 
 fools. 
 I should like to know who. 
 
 Ink. And I should not be sorry 
 
 To know who are not: it would save us some worry. 
 
 Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing 
 
 control 
 
 This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
 Oh, my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathize!! 
 Now feel such a rapture, I'm reaily to fly, 
 I feel so elastic "so 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 
 This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
 Upor/ earth. Give it way ; 't is an impulse which lifts 
 Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; 
 Fear which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
 tain. 
 
 T ' the source of all sentiment feeling's true foun- 
 tain: 
 
 T in the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 't is the pas 
 Of the soul : 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, 
 Ana making them substance: 'tis something divine : 
 
 Ink. ShaH I help you, my friend, to a little more wine ? 
 
 rt from 1'fe. with the wordi. 
 
 Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
 Ink. Apropos Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to 
 
 day ? 
 Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was moi 
 
 in your way. 
 
 Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now look 
 To the knight, as a landlord, much more than UM 
 
 Duke. 
 
 The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
 And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases. 
 But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
 Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 't ii 
 
 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. Then at two hours past midnight we'll all meet 
 
 again, 
 
 For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne! 
 Tra. And the sweet lobster salad I 
 Both. I honour that mea 
 
 For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely feel. 
 Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, far beyond ques- 
 tion : 
 
 I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion 1 
 Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! never mind that ; for one mo- 
 ment of feeling 
 Is worth God knows what. 
 Ink. 'T is at least worth concealing 
 
 For itself, or what follows But here comes ^-our 
 
 carriage. 
 
 Sir Rich, (aside.) I wish all these people were d t 
 with my marriage! r Exeunt 
 
 THE 
 
 THIRD ACT OF MANFRED, 
 
 IN ITS ORIGINAL SHAPE, 
 
 AS FIRST SENT TO THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 9 Hall in the Castle cfManfrtd. 
 MANFRED and HERMAN. 
 
 Man. What is the hour? 
 
 Her. It wants but one till sunset 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Man. Say, 
 
 Are all things so disposed of in the toner 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Her. All, my lord, are ready : 
 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 .Van. It is well ; 
 
 Thou mayst retire. [Exit HER MA* 
 
 Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me 
 
 Inexplicable stillness! which till now 
 Did not belong to what T knuw ol life. 
 If that 1 did not know philjsophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the eat 
 From out the schoolman's jargon I shoii.Vl 
 The golden secret, the sought " Kalon" found 
 And seated in my soul. It will not las'.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 739 
 
 Bjt it is well to have known it, though but once: 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
 And 1 within my tablets would note down 
 Diat there is such a feeling. Who is there? 
 
 Re-enter HERMAN. 
 
 Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Enter the ABBOT or ST. MAURICE. 
 Abbot. Peace bo with Count Manfred! 
 
 Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
 Thy presence honours them, and blesses those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Abbot. Would it were so, Count; 
 
 But I would fain confei with thee alone. 
 Man. Herman retire. What would my reverend 
 guest? [Exit HERMAN. 
 
 Abbot. Thus, without prelude; Age and zeal, my 
 
 office. 
 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege; 
 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 
 For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd! 
 Man. Proceed, I listen. 
 
 Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the 
 
 things 
 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
 That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
 TliR 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 
 ExcMnge thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 
 Man. And what are they who 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. 
 
 Man. I hear thee. This is my reply: whate'er 
 I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself. I shall not choose a mortal 
 To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
 Against your ordinances? prove and punish!* 
 Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! For the headstrong 
 
 wretch 
 
 Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
 Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
 There is the slake on earth, and beyond earth eter 
 
 nal 
 
 Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
 Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
 That 1 would call thee back to it ; but say, 
 What wouldst thou with me? 
 
 Abbot. It may be there are 
 
 rhine^ that would shake thee but I keep them back, 
 Ano give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
 Hien if thou dost not all devote thyself 
 
 It w : l! be perceived tint, it fa.- u Ihit, the original milter of the 
 Tbml Act bu been retained. 
 
 To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
 To the monastery 
 
 Man. I understand thee, well. 
 
 Abbot. Expect no mercy ; I have warned thee. 
 
 Man. (opening the casket.) Stop- 
 
 There is a gift for thee within this casket. 
 
 [MANFRED opens the casket, strikes a ligif 
 and burns some incense. 
 
 Ho ! Ashtaroth ! 
 
 The DEMON ASHTAROTH appears, singing as follow* 
 The raven sits 
 
 On the raven stone. 
 And his black wing flits 
 
 O'er the milk-white bone; 
 To and fro, as the night winds blow, 
 
 The carcass of the assassin swings, 
 And there alone, on the raven-stone.t 
 
 The raven flap? his dusky wings. 
 The fetters creak and his ebon beak 
 
 Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
 And this is the tune by the light of the moon 
 
 To which the witches dance their round, 
 Merrily, meirily, cheerily, cheerily, 
 
 Merrily, merrily, speeds the ball : 
 The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in cloudi, 
 
 Flock to the witches' carnival. 
 
 Abbot. I fear thee not hence hence 
 A vaunt thee, evil one! help, ho! without there 1 
 
 Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn to itp 
 
 peak- 
 To its extremes! peak watch with him there 
 From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know 
 He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
 But harm him not; and, when the moirow breaks, 
 Set him down safe in his cell away with him! 
 
 Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
 Convent and all, to bear him company? 
 
 Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take him 
 up. 
 
 Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two, 
 And we shall fly therlighter. 
 
 ASUTAROTH disappears tcith the ABBOT, ringing M 
 
 follow* : 
 A prodigal son and a maid undone. 
 
 And a widow re-wedded within the year; 
 And a worldly monk and a pregnant nan, 
 Are things which every day appear. 
 MANFRED afone. 
 
 Man. Why would this fool break in on me, an* 
 
 force 
 
 My art to pranks fantastical? no matter. 
 It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
 And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul; 
 But it is calm calm as a sullen sea 
 After the hurricane: the winds are still, 
 But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
 And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
 Is no repose. My life hath been a combat. 
 And every thought a wound, till I am Ecarrd 
 In the immortal part of me. What now? 
 Re-enter HERMAN. 
 
 Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at luniM 
 He sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Man. Doth he so? 
 
 I will look on him. 
 
 the gibbet, which'in Germany and Switzerland U ;ennanent usd !
 
 74C 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 [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, thn hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till th(.-y pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons! thou material God! 
 And representative of the Unknown 
 Who chose thee for his shadow! thou chief stai I 
 Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 Bire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes, 
 And those who 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 
 Or" a more fatal nature. He is gone: 
 I follow. [Exit MANFRED. 
 
 BCENP K.. The Mountains The Castle o/ Manfred at 
 tome distance A Terrace before a Tower. Time, Twi- 
 light. 
 
 HERMAN, MANUEL, and other Dependants of MANFRED. 
 Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for 
 
 years, 
 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
 Without a witness. I have been within it, 
 Bo 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 cnamber where none enter; I would give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Manuel. 'T were dangerous : 
 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 
 
 Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
 And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the 
 
 castle 
 How many years is't? 
 
 Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 
 I served his lather, whom he naught resembles. 
 Her. There he more sons in like predicament. 
 But wherein do they differ ? 
 
 Manuel. I speak not 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits: 
 Count Sigisrr.und was proud, but gay and free 
 A warrior and a reveler ; 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 wo f, nor turn aside 
 Prom men and their delights. 
 
 Her. Beshrew the hour, 
 
 flut those were jocund times! I would tha. such 
 Would visit the old walls again; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 This Kililoquy, nd eret put of the subsequent Kene ba beta re- 
 nt Md ilk lie Drocot form of the drama. 
 
 Manuel. Thesn walla 
 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen 
 Some strange things in these few years. t 
 
 Her. Come, be friendly 
 
 Relate me some, to while away our watch: 
 I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tcarer. 
 
 Manuel. That was a night 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 then, 
 So like it that it might be the same; the wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, 
 How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings her, whom of all earthly thirgf 
 That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love. 
 As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
 The Lady Astarte, his 
 
 Her. Look look the tower 
 
 The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth! whal 
 
 sound, 
 What dreadful sound is that? [A crash like thunder 
 
 Manuel. Help, help, there! to the rescue of tha 
 
 Count 
 
 The Count's in danger, what ho! there! approach! 
 [The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach 
 
 stupificd with terror. 
 
 If there be any of you who have heart 
 And love of human kind, and will to aid 
 Those in distress pause not but follow me 
 The portal 's open, follow. [MANUEL goes in 
 
 Her. Come who follows ? 
 
 What, none of ye? ye recreants! shiver then 
 Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
 His few remaining years unaided. [HERMAN goes in 
 
 Vassal. Hark ! 
 
 No all is silent not a breath the flame 
 Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone : 
 What may this mean? let's enter! 
 
 Peasant. Faith, not I, 
 
 Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
 I then will stay behind; but, for my part, 
 I do not see precisely to what end. 
 
 Vassal. Cease your vain prating come. 
 
 Manuel, (speaking within.) 'Tis all in vain- 
 
 He 's dead. 
 
 Her. (within.) Not so even now mcthought he moved 
 But it is dark so bear him gently out 
 Softly how cold he is ! take care of his tempies 
 In winding down the staircase. 
 Re-enter MANUEL and HERMAN, bearing MANFRED in 
 their arms. 
 
 Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
 What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
 For the leech to the city quick ! some water there I 
 
 Her. His cheek is black but there is a faint beat 
 Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 
 
 f They sprinkle MANFRED with water ; after a pauit 
 he gives some signs of life. 
 
 Manuel. He seems to strive to speak come eheerly 
 
 Count! 
 
 He moves his lips canst hear him? I am old 
 And cannot catch faint sounds. 
 
 [HERMAN inclining his head and listening, 
 
 Her I hear a woru 
 
 t Altered, in the present form, to " Some rtranjtt thingi in thf Herman'
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 "41 
 
 Or two but indistinctly what is next? 
 What's to be done? let's bear him to the castle. 
 
 [MANFRED motions with his hand not to remove him. 
 Manuel. He disapproves and 't were of no avail 
 Ue changes rapidly. 
 
 Her. 'Twill soon be over. 
 
 Manuel Oh! what a death is this! that I should live 
 To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
 Of the house of Sigisraund And such a death 1 
 Alone we know not how unshrived untended 
 With strange accompaniments and fearful signs 
 [ shudder at the sight but must not leave him. 
 Manfred, (speaking faintly and slowly.) Old man 1 
 'Tis not FO difficult to die. 
 
 [MANFRED, having said this, expires. 
 Her. His eyes are fix'd and lifeless. He is gone. 
 Manuel. Close them. My old hand quivers. He de- 
 parts 
 Whither? I dread to think But he is gone! 
 
 TO MY DEAR MAR? ANNE. 
 
 mt FOLLOWING LINES ARK THE EARLIEST WRITTEN BY 
 LORD BYRON. THEY WERE ADDRESSED TO MISS CBA 
 WORTH, AFTERWARDS MRS. MUSTERS, IN 1804, ABOUT 
 A TEAR BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.] 
 
 ADI EC to sweet Mary for ever! 
 
 From her I must quickly depart : 
 Though the fates us from each other sever, 
 
 Still her image will dwell in my heart. 
 
 The flame that within my heart burns 
 If unlike what in lovers' hearts glows; 
 
 The love which for Mary I feel 
 Is far purer than Cupid bestows. 
 
 I wish not your peace to disturb, 
 
 I wish not your joys to molest; 
 Mistake not my passion for love, 
 
 'T is your friendship alone I request. 
 
 Not ten thousand lovers could feel 
 
 The friendship my bosom contains; 
 It will ever within my heart dwell, 
 " While the warm blood flows through my veins. 
 
 May the Ruler of Heaven look down, 
 And my Mary from evil defend ! 
 
 May she ne'er know adversity's frown, 
 May her happiness ne'er have an end I 
 
 Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu 1 
 Farewell! I with anguish repeat, 
 
 For ever I'll think upon you, 
 While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 
 
 TO MISS CHAWORTH. 
 OH Memory, torture me no more, 
 
 The present's all o'ercast; 
 My hopes of future bliss are o'er, 
 
 In mercy veil the past. 
 Why bring those images to view 
 
 I henceforth must resign? 
 Ah! why those happy hours renew, 
 
 That never can be mine? 
 Past pleasure doubles present pain, 
 
 To sorrow adds regret. 
 Regret and hope are both in vain. 
 
 I ask but to forget. 
 
 3Q 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 1. 
 HILLS of Annesley, bleak and barren, 
 
 Where my thoughtless childhood strry'd, 
 How the northern tempests warring, 
 Kowl above thy tufted shade 1 
 
 2. 
 Now no more, the hours beguiling. 
 
 Former favourite haunts I see; 
 Now no more my Mary smiling 
 Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 
 
 180* 
 
 THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 
 
 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 see'st my soul is dark within ; 
 Thou who can's! mark the sparrow'i fall. 
 
 Avert from me the death of sin. 
 No shrine I seek to sects unknown; 
 
 Oh point to me the path of truth I 
 Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 
 
 Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 
 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 
 
 Let superstition hail the pile, 
 Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 
 
 With tales of mystic rites beguile. 
 Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
 
 To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 
 Thy temple is the face of day ; 
 
 Earth, ocean, heaven thy bourn/less thron* 
 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 different hope supplies, 
 
 Or doctrines less severe inspire? 
 Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 
 
 Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 
 Shall reptiles, grovelling 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 ether's space i 
 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, can take me bflM 
 Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere. 
 
 Extend to me thy wide defence. 
 To Thee, my God, to Thee I cal! 
 
 Whatever weal or woe betide, 
 By thy command I rise or fall. 
 
 In thy protection 1 confide. 
 If, when this dust to dust restored 
 
 My *oul shall float on airv inf.
 
 '42 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Haw shall thy glorious name adored 
 
 Inspire her feeble voice to singl 
 But, if this fleeting spirit share 
 
 With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
 While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 
 
 Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
 To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
 
 Grateful for all thy mercies past, 
 And hope, my God, to thee again 
 
 This erring life may fly at last. 
 
 29iA Dec. 1806. 
 
 ON REVISITING HARROW. 
 
 [Seme yean ago, when at Harrow, a friend of (he author engraved on a 
 Mrticular spot the namei of both, with a few additional worth, is a me 
 Borul Afterward!, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the au 
 hor destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the 
 lace in 1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas.) 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 2. 
 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. 
 
 3. 
 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 
 
 4. 
 
 Tins might the Record now have been ; 
 Hut, ah, in spite of Hone's endeavour, 
 Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 
 And blotted out the line for ever ! 
 
 AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 
 
 I. 
 WHT should my anxious breast repine, 
 
 Because my youth is fled ? 
 Days of delight may still be mine ; 
 
 Affection is not dead. 
 In tracing back the years of youth, 
 One firm record, one lasting truth 
 
 Celestial consolation brings: 
 Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
 Where first my heart responsive beat, 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 
 
 2. 
 Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 
 
 What moments have been mine ! 
 Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 
 
 Now, brigh* in rays divine ; 
 Howe'er my future doom be cast, 
 My soul, enraptured with the past, 
 
 To one idea findly clings; 
 Friendship! tla thought is all thine own. 
 Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 
 
 Friendship is Love without his wings'' 
 
 3. 
 iVhere yonacr yew-trees lightly wave 
 
 Their branches on the gale, 
 Cnhet-ded heaves a single prave, 
 
 Which teii* the common tale ; 
 
 Round this unconcious schoolboys stray 
 Till the dull knell of childish play 
 
 From yonder studious mansion rings; 
 But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
 My silent tears too plainly prove 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wingg!" 
 
 4. 
 Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine 
 
 My early vows were paid; 
 My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thin* 
 
 But these are now decay'd ; 
 For thine are pinions like the wind, 
 No trace of thee remains behind. 
 
 Except, alas! thy jealous stings. 
 Away, away ! delusive power, 
 Thou shall not haunt my coming hour; 
 
 "Unless, indeed, without thy wings 1" 
 
 5. 
 Seat of my youth! thy distant spire 
 
 Recalls each scene of joy; 
 My bosom glows with former fire, 
 
 In mind again a boy. 
 Thy grove of elms, thy verdant bill, 
 Thy every path delights me still, 
 
 Each flower a double fragrance flings; 
 Again, as once, in converse gay, 
 Each dear associate seems to say 
 
 " Friendship is love without his wing* 1" 
 
 6. 
 My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep 1 
 
 Thy falling tears restrain; 
 Affection for a time may sleep, 
 
 But, oh, 't will wake again. 
 Think, think, my friend, when next we meet 
 Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet! 
 
 From this my hope of rapture springs; 
 While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
 Absence, my friend, can only tell, 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his winggl" 
 
 7. 
 In one, and one alone deceived, 
 
 Did I my error mourn ? 
 No from oppressive bonds relieved, 
 
 I left the wretch to scorn. 
 I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 
 With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 
 
 Twined with my heart's according string*) 
 And till those vital chords shall break, 
 For none but these my breast shall wake, 
 
 "Friendship, the power deprived of wings f 
 
 8. 
 Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, 
 
 My memory, and my hope ; 
 Your worth a lasting love insures, 
 
 Unfetter'd in its scope; 
 From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
 With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 
 
 Let Adulation wait on kings. 
 With joy elate, by snares beset, 
 We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wing* ," 
 
 9. 
 Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 
 
 Who rolls the epic song; 
 Friendship and Truth be my reward, 
 
 To me no bays belong; 
 If laurell'd Fame but dwells with li<M 
 Me the enchantrp* ever flie,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 743 
 
 Whose heart and not whose fancy sings: 
 Simple and young, I dare not feign, 
 Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 
 
 "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 
 
 December, 1806. 
 
 TO MY SON. 
 L 
 
 THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue. 
 Bright as thy mother's in their hue; 
 ThoKu rosy lips, whose dimples play 
 And smile to steal the heart away, 
 Recall a scene of former joy, 
 And touch thy Father's heart, my Boyl 
 
 2. 
 
 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. 
 
 3. 
 
 Her lowly grave the turf has prest. 
 And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
 Derision sneers upon thy birth. 
 And yields thee scarce a name on earth; 
 Yet shall not these one hope destroy, 
 A Father's heart is thine my Boy ! 
 
 4. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 5. 
 
 Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace 
 Ero 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! 
 
 6. 
 
 Although so young thy heedless sire, 
 Youth will not damp parental fire; 
 And, weit 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! 
 
 I?07. 
 
 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 carry no more so was carried at last ; 
 For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
 He could not carry off, so he 's now earn-on. 
 
 Sept. 1807. 
 
 [~n fanirwlng tines form the cm 
 -*B under the melancholy impressio 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 >n of a poen 
 
 written by Lord By. 
 ndie.] 
 
 FORGET this world, my restless sprite, 
 Turn t'irc thy thoughts to heaven: 
 
 There must thou soon direct thy flight, 
 
 If errors are forgiven. 
 To bigots and to sects unknown, 
 Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne, 
 
 To him address thy trembling prayer: 
 He, who is merciful and just, 
 Will not reject a child of dut, 
 
 Although his meanest care. 
 
 Father of Light ! to thee I call, 
 
 My soul is dark within; 
 Thou, who canst mats the sparrow 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 ceise to live, 
 
 Instruct me how to die. 
 
 1W7 
 
 TO MRS. ***, 
 
 ON BEINO ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENG1AKI 
 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 sigh to other times, 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 Thus, Mary, will it be with me, 
 And I must view thy charms no more; 
 
 For, while 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. 
 
 Dee. 2, 180H 
 
 A LOVE-SONG. 
 
 REMIND me not, remind me not, 
 Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
 When ull my soul was givon to thee 
 Hours that may never be forgot. 
 Till time unnei^es our vital powers, 
 And thou and I shall cease to be. 
 
 Can I forget canst thou forget, 
 When playing with thy golden hair, 
 
 How quick thy fluttering h';ar> did mo 
 Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet, 
 With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
 And lips, though silent, breathing love. 
 
 When thus reclining on -ny breasi. 
 Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet 
 
 As half reproach'd yet raised desinj. 
 And still we near and nearer prest, 
 And still our glowing lips would meei 
 As if in kisses to expire. 
 
 And then those pensive eyes would clotw 
 And bid their lids each othi *ek 
 Ceiling the azure orbs below
 
 744 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 While their long lashes' darkening gloss 
 Seem'd stealing o'er tliy brilliant cheek, 
 Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 
 
 I dreamt last night our love return'd, 
 And, sooth to say, that very dream 
 
 Was sweeter in its phanta-jy 
 Than if for other hearts 1 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, tnough 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 sSall be no more. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 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 unfelt 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 ips declare, 
 
 In accents once imagined true, 
 Remembrance of the days that were. 
 
 Ves! 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 shall be, 
 Thou hast been dearly, solely mine I 
 
 TO ****. 
 
 AND wilt thou weep when I am low? 
 
 Sweet ladyl speak those words again: 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 My neart 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 metninks a gleam of peace 
 l'ioth through my cloud of anguish shine; 
 
 nd for awhile my sorrows cease, 
 To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 
 
 Oh lady 1 blessed be that tear- 
 It falls for one who cannot weep: 
 
 Buf n prwioua drops are doubly dear 
 i\) those whose eyes no tear can steep. 
 
 Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
 With every feeling soft as thine; 
 
 But beauty's self hath ceased Vo 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. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FILL the goblet again, for I never before 
 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to itf 
 
 core; 
 Let us drink! who would not ? since, through life'i 
 
 varied round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark-rolling eye; 
 I have loved! who has not? but what heart can de- 
 clare 
 That pleasure existed while pasaion was there? 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart's in iti 
 
 spring, 
 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 I had friends! who has not? but what tongue will 
 
 avow? 
 That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam thou never canst 
 
 change: 
 Thou grow'st old who does not? but on earth what 
 
 appears, 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its yean? 
 
 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 a! 
 
 loy ; 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; 
 There we find do we not? in the flow of the soul. 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
 And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
 Hope was left, was she not ? but the goblet we kiwi, 
 And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 
 
 Long life to the grape! for when summer is floi n 
 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden ur own : 
 
 We must die who shall not ? May our sins br ** 
 
 given, 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 
 
 'Tis done and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast. 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast) 
 And I must from this land be gone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But could I be what I have been. 
 And could I see what I have
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 746 
 
 Could I repose upon the breast 
 Which once mv warmest wishes oleat 
 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 wheresoe'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. 
 
 \nd 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 the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one. 
 
 I 've tried another's fetters too, 
 With charms perchance as fair to view; 
 And I would fain have loved as /well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'T would soothe to take one lingering view, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu; 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep; 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
 Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 
 
 LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 FjUmouth Roadi, June 30th, 1909. 
 1. 
 
 HUZZA ! Hodgson, we are going, 
 
 Our embargo's off" at last, 
 Favourable breezes blowing 
 
 Heml the canvas oVr the mast 
 
 3 4* 99 
 
 From aloft the signal 's streaming, 
 Hark! the farewell gun is fired: 
 Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
 Tell us that our time 's expired. 
 Here 's a rascal 
 Come to task all, 
 Prying from the custom-house ; 
 Trunks unpacking, 
 Cases cracking, 
 Not a corner for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
 Ere we sail on board the Packet. 
 
 2. 
 Now our boatmen quit their mooring. 
 
 And all hands must ply the oar; 
 Baggage from the quay is lowering, 
 
 We're impatient push from shore. 
 "Have a care! that case holds liquor- 
 Stop the boat I 'm sick oh Lord P 
 "Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker 
 Ere you've been an hour on board" 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, . 
 Cerumen, 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. 
 
 3. 
 
 Now we've reach'd her, lol the capUim, 
 
 Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; 
 Passengers their berths are clapt in, 
 Some to grumble, some to spew. 
 "Heyday! call you that a cabin? 
 
 Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; 
 Not enough to stow Queen Mab in 
 Who the deuce can harbour there?" 
 " Who, sir ? plentv 
 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." 
 
 4. 
 Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are yo? 
 
 Stretch'd along the deck like logs 
 Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you I 
 
 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 rccket 
 Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Now at length we 're off for Turk*) 
 Lord knows when we snail come I 
 
 Breezes foul and tempests murky 
 May unship us p n a crack.
 
 710 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 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, 
 *Jreat 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 winel and who would lack it, 
 Even on board the Lisbon Packet? 
 
 LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT OR- 
 CHOMENUS. 
 
 Ill THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : 
 
 "PAIR Albion smiling, sees her son depart 
 To '.race the birth and nursery of art: 
 Nobl his object, glorious is his aim: 
 He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 
 
 IENCATH WHICH LORD, BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING 
 REPLY : 
 
 TBS modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
 
 ymes on our nr/nes, but wisely hides his own: 
 But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
 Bis name would bring more credit than his verse. 
 
 ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. 
 
 A FARCICAL EPIGRAM. 
 
 Sept. 14, 1811. 
 
 GOOD plays are scarce, 
 
 So Moore writes farce : 
 The poet's fame grows brittle 
 
 We knew before 
 
 That Little's Moore, 
 Bat now 'tis Moore that's little. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 
 
 IN AVSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE 
 CHEERFUL AND TO " BANISH CARE." 
 
 Newstad Abbey, Oct II, 1811. 
 
 " OH i banish care" such ever be 
 The motto of thy revelry ! 
 Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
 Renew those riotous delights, 
 Wherewith the children of Despair 
 Lull the lone heart, and "banish care." 
 . But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
 When present, pgst, and future lower, 
 When all I loved is changed or gone. 
 Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
 Whose every thought but let them pass 
 Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
 But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
 Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
 ^y all the powers that men revere, 
 By all unto tny bosom dear, 
 Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
 Bpeak spek of anything but love. 
 
 Tverr Dng to tell, and vain to hear, 
 The t*.a of one who scorns a tear ; 
 And there is little in that tale 
 Which better bosoms would bewail. 
 But mine has suffer'd more than 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 wort 
 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 ought to have been mine, 
 And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
 Time had not made me love the less. 
 
 But let this pass I '11 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," 
 Thou hear'st of one, whose deep'ning crime I 
 Suit with the sablest of the times. 
 Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
 Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise 
 One, who in stern ambition's pr.de. 
 Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
 One rank'd in some recording page 
 With the worst anarchs of the age, 
 Him wilt thou know and knotting- pause, 
 Nor will the effect forget the cause. 
 
 ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 May, 131) 
 
 1. 
 
 WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 
 (I hope I am not violent,) 
 Nor men nor gods knew what be meant. 
 
 2. 
 
 And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
 To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
 Why would they let him print his lays 7 
 
 3. 
 
 To me, divine Apollo, grant Ol 
 Hermilda's first and second canto, 
 I'm fitting up a new portmanteau; 
 
 6. 
 
 And thus to furnish decent lining, 
 My own and others' bay* I'm twining* 
 So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOW. 
 
 " I lay my branch of lanrel down. 
 Then thus to form Apollo* crown 
 Let e?ery other bring bis own." 
 
 Lord Tfiialoufi Una ttH 
 1. 
 
 " / lay my branch of laurel dam." 
 Thou "lay thy branch of Iturel downP 
 Why, what t^u 'st stole is n enow
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 747 
 
 And, were il lawfully thine own, 
 
 Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
 Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 
 
 Or send i back to Doctor Donne 
 Were justice done to both, I trow, 
 
 He 'd have but little, and thou none. 
 2. * 
 
 " Then thus to form Apollo's crotcn." 
 A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
 Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
 When next you visit Delphi's town, 
 
 Inquire among your fellow-lodgers, 
 They '11 tell you Phoebus gave his crown, 
 
 Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
 
 3. 
 
 " 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 shall have plenty to spare. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COMPANY 
 WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIOH HUNT IN COLD BATH 
 FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 1813. 
 
 OH you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
 Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, 
 For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
 Four Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 
 
 But now to my letter to yours 't is an answer 
 To-morrow be with me. as soon as you can, sir, 
 AH 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 t 
 I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some 
 
 codgers, 
 
 And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sara Rogers, 
 \nd I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
 Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. 
 But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
 And you '11 be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
 MOORE. 
 
 Junt, 1814. 
 1. 
 
 WHAT say /?" not a syllable further in prose; 
 "m your man " of all measures," dear Tom, so, here 
 
 goes! 
 
 Here goes, for a swim on the stream o* old Time, 
 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 Southey's last Prean has pillow'd his sleep; 
 Tint " Felo do se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
 Wa'k'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, 
 
 Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanca 
 The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) nevi 
 
 man saw. 
 
 2_ 
 
 The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusee*. 
 The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, 
 Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het 
 
 man, 
 And what dignity decks the flat face tf the gresJ 
 
 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 UK 
 
 Jersey, 
 
 Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
 With majesty's presence as those she invited. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 
 
 [Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and Iftf 
 lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he praentMl 
 to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, II 
 is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and con- 
 densation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, iJop* 
 ing a notion long prevalent, his attributed to Professor Person. There an, 
 however, some of the itanzai of " The Devil's Drive" well wsrti sub- 
 serving.] Moon. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE Devil return'd to hell by two, 
 
 And he staid at home till five ; 
 Where he dined on some homicides done in ragtut, 
 
 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 'II 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. 
 
 2. 
 M And what shall I ride in V quoth Lucifer, then 
 
 "If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
 I should mount in a wagon of wounded men. 
 
 And smile to see them bleed. 
 But these will be furnish'd again and again, 
 
 And at present my purpose is speed ; 
 To see my manor as much as I may, 
 And watch that no souls shall be poach'd awty. 
 
 3. 
 " I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 
 
 A chariot in Seymour-place ; 
 But they're lent to two friends, who make EM 
 amends 
 
 By driving my favourite pace: 
 And they handle th> ir reins with such a grace, 
 I have something for both at the end of their taw 
 
 4. 
 " So now for the earth to take my chance." 
 
 Then up to the earth sprung he; 
 And making a jump from Moscow to Franca 
 
 He stepp'd across the sea. 
 And rested his hoof on a turnpike road 
 No very great way from a bishop'* aboda
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 5. 
 
 But flni ai K flew, I forgot to say, 
 That he hovtr'd a moment upon his way 
 
 To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
 Ami BO sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare. 
 And so soft to his car was .tie cry of despair. 
 
 That he perch'd on a mountain of slain : 
 And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
 Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 
 
 Nor his work done half so well : 
 For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 
 
 That it blush'd like the waves of hell! 
 Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: 
 " Methinks they have here little need of me /" 
 
 ***** 
 
 8. 
 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 1 
 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 I 
 
 ***** * 
 
 10. 
 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! 
 
 11. 
 Tke 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 staunch to his rein, 
 
 Hii brothel, and his beer; 
 "Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
 
 I would rather see him here." 
 
 17. 
 The Devil gat next to Westminster. 
 
 And he turn'd " to the room" of the Commons ; 
 But he heard, as he proposed 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 Aear them 
 
 i were flat ; 
 And he walk'd up the house so like one of our 
 
 own, 
 Yhd( they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 
 
 18. 
 He aw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 
 
 The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
 And Johnnv of Norfolk a man of some size 
 And Chatham, so like bis friend Billy; 
 
 And he saw the tear- in Lord F.ldon's eye*. 
 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 ntur 
 
 ing. 
 And.the Devil was shock'd and quoth be, " 
 
 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 Moloak to call him to order. 
 December, 1813. 
 
 ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 17. 
 
 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'g name 
 
 And gilded thy decline. 
 Through the long twilight of all time 
 Despite some passing clouds of crime 
 
 18. 
 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 child of empire! say. 
 Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? 
 
 lit. 
 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 beit 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
 
 To make man blush there was but one! 
 
 April, 1814 
 
 TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 
 
 AND say'st thou that I have not felt, 
 
 Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me* 
 Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 
 
 On one unbroken dream of thee? 
 But love like ours must never be, 
 
 And I will learn to prize thee less; 
 As thou hast fled, so let me flee, 
 
 And change the heart thou may'st not bleu 
 
 They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd, 
 
 Of late, another's charms to woo, 
 Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd 
 
 That thou wert banish'd from my view. 
 Clara! this struggle to undo 
 
 What thou hast done too well, for 
 This mask before the kibbling crew 
 
 This treachery was truth to
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 749 
 
 I have not wept while thou wert gone, 
 
 Nor worn one look of sullen woe ; . 
 But sought, in many, all that one 
 
 (Ah! need I name her?) could bestow. 
 It is a duty which I owe 
 
 To thine to thee to man to God, 
 To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 
 
 Ere yet the path of crime be trod 
 
 But since my breast is not so pure, 
 
 Since still the vulture tears my heart. 
 Let me this agony endure. 
 
 Not thee oh! dearest as thou art! 
 In mercy, Clara I let us part. 
 
 And I will seek, yet know not how. 
 To shun, in time, the threatening dart; 
 
 Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 
 
 But thou must ait! me in the task, 
 
 And nobly thus exert thy power; 
 Then spurn me hence 'tis all I ask 
 
 Ere time n.ature a guiltier hour; 
 Ere wrath's impending vials shower 
 
 Remorse redoubled on my bead ; 
 Ere fires unquenchably devour 
 
 A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 
 
 Deceive no more thyself and me, 
 
 Deceive not better hearts than mine; 
 Ah I shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, 
 
 From woe like ours from shame like thine ? 
 And, if there be a wrath divine, 
 
 A pang beyond this fleeting breath. 
 E'en now all future hopes resign. 
 
 Such thoughts are guilt such guilt is death. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 I. 
 
 I mux not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, 
 There is grief in the sound, there is guih in the fame ; 
 But the tear which now burns on my cheek may im- 
 part 
 The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 
 
 2. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
 Were those hours can their joy or their bitterness 
 
 cease? 
 We repent we abjure we will break from our 
 
 chain, 
 We will part, we will fly to unite it again 1 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt I 
 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 mayest. 
 
 4. 
 
 And stein to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
 
 THU soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be; 
 
 And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 
 
 sweet, 
 With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 
 
 5. 
 
 One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy Jove, 
 Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; 
 And the heartless may wonder at all I resign 
 Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE EECITED AT Til* 
 
 CALEDONIAN MEETING. 
 WHO bath not glow'd above the page where fam 
 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 hardihood 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 'tis 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 't is all their fate allows 
 The sireless offspring 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 chants the solitary song, 
 The soft lament for him who tarries long 
 For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
 The Coronach'* wild requiem to the brave. 
 
 'Tis Heaven not man must charm away the wo 
 
 Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow 
 
 Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
 
 Of half ils 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. 
 
 ON THE PRINCE REGENTS RETURNING THH 
 PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY 
 TO MRS. MEE. 
 
 WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial tord. 
 Whom servile Rome obey"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 scrutinizing eye 
 Of all that deck'd that pas&ing pageantry? 
 What spread from face to face that wondering air 7 
 The thought of Brutus for his was not there! 
 That absence proved his worth, that absence flx\j 
 His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd; 
 And more decreed his glory to ndure, 
 Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
 
 If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
 Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
 Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
 Bright though they be. thine own had render'd !OM 
 If he. that vain old man, whom truth admits 
 Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd win. 
 If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
 Could with thy penile image bear depart, 
 That tasteless shame be At*, and ours the fiit 
 To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief :
 
 750 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 fet coufort stil! cue selfii-h thought imparts, 
 We los the portrai*., but preserve our hearts. 
 
 What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? 
 A garden with ill flowrrs except the rose; 
 A fount that only wants its living stream; 
 And night, with every star save Dian's beam. 
 Lost to our eyes the p.-esen forms shall be, 
 That turn from tracing them !o dream of thee ; 
 And more on that recull'd resemblance pause, 
 Than all he skall 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 se r ene; 
 The glossy darkness of that clustering hat', 
 Which shades, yet shows that forehead mor than fairl 
 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 these 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 of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 
 
 July, 1814. 
 
 TO BELSHAZZAR, 
 1. 
 
 BELSHAZZAR ! from the banquet turn, 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fullness fall: 
 Behold! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall. 
 Many a despot men miscall, 
 
 Crown'd and anointed from on high; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of all 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die ? 
 
 2. 
 Go I dash the roses from thy brow 
 
 Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 
 
 More than thy very diadem, 
 Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem : 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
 Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die. 
 
 3. 
 Oh' early in the balance weigh'd, 
 
 And ever light of word and worth, 
 Whose soul expired ere youtk decay'd, 
 
 And left thee but a mass of earth, 
 i'o see thee moves a scorner's mirth : 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth 
 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 W tne valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
 WTien the host of the stranger made Salem his prey; 
 And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
 Ard our hearts were so full of the land far away. 
 
 The King they demanded in vain it lay still 
 B our louls as the wind that hath died on the hill, 
 
 They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill, 
 Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of theirskilL 
 
 All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree 
 As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must ht< 
 Our hands may be fetter'd, our tears still are free, 
 For our God and our glory, and Sion ! for thee. 
 
 October, 1814. 
 
 THEY say that Hope is happiness, 
 But genuine Love must prize the pait; 
 
 And Memory wakes the thoughts that bletfr- 
 They rose the first, they set the last 
 
 And all that Memory loves the most 
 
 Was once our only hope to be ; 
 And all that hope adored and lost 
 
 Hath melted into memory. 
 
 Alas! it is delusion all, 
 
 The future cheats us from afar, 
 Nor can we be what we recall, 
 
 Nor dare we think on what we are. 
 
 October, 1814. 
 
 LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF "THI 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH." 
 IN the year since Jesus died for men. 
 Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
 We wre a gallant company. 
 Riding j'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
 Oh ! but we went merrily I 
 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 ; 
 Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, 
 On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 
 Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles srretd 
 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 rrow. 
 We were of all tongues a/ I creeds ; 
 Some were those who coun ,.;d beads, 
 Some of mosque, and some of church, 
 
 And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
 Yet through the wide world might ye search. 
 
 Nor find a 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. 
 And pays in blood oppression's ills; 
 
 And some are in a far country, 
 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 the mall 
 
 And bear my spirit back again 
 
 Over the earth, and through the air. 
 
 A wild bird, and a wanderer. 
 
 The last tidino recently heard of Dervish (one nf tht Amiooti l0t 
 liwed me) stale him to be in revolt upon the mountains, it the hoj H torn 
 of the bands common in thai country in times of r. ubl*
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 751 
 
 "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 Aero-Corinth's brow? 
 
 December, 1815. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 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 death ? a quiet of the heart ? 
 The whole of that of which we are a part J 
 For life is but a vision what I see 
 Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
 And being so the absent are the dead. 
 Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
 A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
 With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 
 
 The absent are the dead for they are cold, 
 And ne'er can be what once we did behold; 
 And they are changed, and cheerless, or if yet 
 The unforgotten do not all forget, 
 Since thus divided equal must it be 
 If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
 It may be both but one day end it must 
 In the dark union of insensate dust. 
 
 The under-earth inhabitants are they 
 But mingled millions decomposed to clay 7 
 The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
 Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
 Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
 Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
 Or have they their own language? and a sense 
 Of breathless being? darken'd and intense 
 ,> midnight in her solitude? Oh Earth) 
 Where are the past ? and wherefore had they birth? 
 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. 
 
 October, 1816. 
 
 TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 MY sister! my sweet sister 1 if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine. 
 Go where I will, to me thou art the same 
 A lov>;d regret which I would not resign. 
 There yet are two things in my destiny, 
 world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
 
 it. 
 
 Th 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 nm the wish to make them less. 
 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and paal 
 
 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. 
 HI. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 
 Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
 
 The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
 The careful pilot of my proper woe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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'a 
 The gift, a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; 
 And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
 And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay i 
 But now I fain would for a time survive, 
 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
 v. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old; 
 And when I look on this the petty spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
 Something I know not what does still uphoif 
 A spirit of slight patience ; not in vain, 
 
 Even for, its own sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brook* 
 
 Which do remember me cf 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 BC 
 
 Some living thing to love but none like thee. 
 
 via. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
 A fund for contemplation; to admire 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; 
 But something worthier do such scenes inqnrai 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
 For much I view which I could most desile, 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 iz. 
 
 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 rtgret ; 
 
 Admiral Byron w remarkable for nevsr makinr a vorage witkmr 
 tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetioui name at "tent 
 wealher Jack." 
 
 " But though it were tempest-tost, 
 
 St",l his bark could not be lost." 
 
 He returned safely from the wreck of the Wapr, (in Atison'i Yoytg*,) u* 
 subsequently circumnavigated the world, many rears af'er > >* 
 of a similar expedition.
 
 752 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Tiere 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. 
 
 x. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
 By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
 Leman's is f;iir; but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
 Ere that or than can fade these eyes before; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
 
 Resign 'd for ever, or divided far. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The world is all before me ; I but ask 
 Of Nature that with 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 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; 
 T had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 fill'd a century, 
 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
 
 xv. 
 
 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 
 
 %nd worship Nature with a thought profound. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
 ( 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, 
 HIP lie which bound the first endures the last I 
 October , 1816. 
 
 TV, Uk. if Nemtod ASber 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 1. 
 
 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 I 
 
 2. 
 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. 
 
 3. 
 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. 
 
 4. 
 Were 't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 5. 
 With that water as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be peace with thine and mine. 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
 July, 1817 
 
 STANZAS TO THE RIVEH PO. 
 
 I. 
 RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls 
 
 Where dwells the lady of my love, when aha 
 Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recall* 
 A faint and fleeting memory of me; 
 
 2. 
 What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
 
 A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
 The thousand thoughts I new betray to thee 
 Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed) 
 
 3. 
 What do I say ? a mirror of my heart 1 
 
 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? 
 Such as my feelings were and are, thou art, 
 And such as thou art were my passions long. 
 
 4. 
 Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for BY* 
 
 Thou overflow's! thy banks, and not for aye 
 Thy bosom overboils, congenial river I 
 Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away. 
 
 5. 
 But left long wrecks behind, and now again. 
 
 Borne in our old unchanged career, we move; 
 Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 
 And I to loving one I should not lore. 
 
 6. 
 The current I behold will sweep beneath 
 
 fHer native walla, and murmur a' her feet; 
 Her eyes will look on thee, when she sh< brctibe 
 The twilight air, unharm'd by summer'* heat. 
 
 7. 
 She will look on thee, I have look'd on thee, 
 
 Full of that thought ; and, from that moment. n'i 
 Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see. 
 Without the inseparable sigh for her I 
 
 t The CouDteu GuiecWi

 
 
 * , 

 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 753 
 
 His bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, 
 
 Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now: 
 Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 
 
 That happy wave repass me in its flow I 
 
 9. 
 The wave that bears my tears returns no more: 
 
 Will she return bv whom that wave shall sweep? 
 DJth tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
 
 I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
 
 10. 
 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. 
 
 11. 
 
 A stranger loves the lady of the land, 
 Born far beyond tne mountains, but his blood 
 
 Is al! meridian, as if never fann'd 
 By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 
 12. 
 
 My blood is all meridian; were it not, 
 I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 
 
 in spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
 A slave again of love, at least of thee. 
 13. 
 
 Tin vain to struggle let me perish young- 
 Live as I lived, and love as I hrve loved ; 
 
 To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
 And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 
 
 June, 1819. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH 
 
 ON THE REPEAL > ''RD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FOR. 
 VITURE. 
 
 To be tm> father of the fatherless. 
 
 To stretch the band from the throne's height, and 
 raise 
 
 His offspring, who expired in other days 
 
 o make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, 
 ~%is is to be a monarch, and repress 
 
 Envy into unutterable praise. 
 
 dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
 for who would lift a hand, except to bless? 
 
 Were it not easy, sire? and is't not sweet 
 
 * o make thyself beloved ? and to be 
 Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus 
 
 Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; 
 despot thou, and yet thy people free. 
 
 And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 
 
 August, 1819. 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE, 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 THE land where I was born sits by the seas, 
 Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
 With all his followars, in search of peace. 
 
 "*ovc, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
 'k'ized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
 From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 
 
 Vive, who to none beloved to love again 
 Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
 That is thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
 
 Love to one death conducted us along, 
 3R 100 
 
 But Caina waits for him our life who cndeJ:" 
 
 These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. 
 Since first I listen'd to these souls offended, 
 
 I bow'd my visige and so kept it till 
 
 ( then >, 
 
 "What think'st thou?" said the bard; j when j 
 
 unbended, 
 And recommenced: " Alas! unto such ill 
 
 How many sweet thoughts, what strange ecstaciel 
 
 Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 
 And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 
 
 And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
 
 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
 But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
 
 By what and how thy lovu to passion rose, 
 
 So as his dim desires to recognize?" 
 Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 
 
 {recall to mind j 
 remind us of j our happy days 
 
 ( this | 
 
 In misery, and j that j thy teacher knows. 
 But if to learn our passion's first root preyi 
 Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
 
 ( relate ) 
 
 I will | do* even j 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 discolour'd by that reading were; 
 
 ! overthrew i 
 us overthrew; j 
 , ( desired ) 
 
 When we read the j long-sigh'd for j smile of her, 
 
 j a fervent ) 
 
 To be thus kiss'd by such j devoted j lover, 
 He who from me ca be divided ne'er 
 Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all ovex 
 Accursed was the book and he who wrote I 
 
 That day we did no further leaf 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 ev as a dead body falls." 
 
 .your March, 182*. 
 
 sue for 1 x 
 mle ' 
 
 ANZAS, 
 
 TO HER WHO BEST CAN UNDERSTAND Til E it 
 
 BE it sot we part for evert 
 Let the past as Mining be ; 
 
 Had I only lojed thee, never 
 Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 
 
 Had I loved and thus been slighted. 
 That I better could have borne ;- 
 
 Love is quell'd, when unrequited. 
 By the rising pulse of scorn. 
 
 Pride may cool what passion heated, 
 Time will tame the wayward will; 
 
 But the heart in friendship cheated 
 Throbs with woe's most maddening turiH. 
 
 Had I loved, I now might hate thee. 
 
 In tlii 1 hatred solace seek, 
 Might xult to execrate thee, 
 
 And, in words, my vengeance WTWIK. 
 
 * In tome oftheeditions.it ii "dire," in others " too ;"- _ 
 ference twlween " raying" and " doing," wh.ch I know 4 bcw * tatt 
 Ask Foicolo. The d -J editions driv me aud
 
 954 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 But there is a silent sorrow, 
 Which can find no vent in speech, 
 
 Which disdains relief to borrow 
 Frou, tl^ heights that song can reach. 
 
 Like a ciankless chain enthralling, 
 Like- the sleepless dreams that mock, 
 
 Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
 From the surf-surrounded rock. 
 
 Such the cold and sickening feeling 
 Thou hast caused this heart to know, 
 
 Stabb'd the deeper by concealing 
 From the world its bitter woe. 
 
 Oace it fondly, proudly, deemed thee 
 AH that fancy's self could paint, 
 
 Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee, 
 As its idol and its saint 1 
 
 More than woman thou wast to me; 
 
 Not as man I look'd on tbee; 
 Why like woman then undo me! 
 
 Why " heap man's worst curse on me." 
 
 Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 
 friendship's smile, and woman's art, 
 
 And in borrow'd beauty blooming, 
 Trifling with 'a trusted heart 1 
 
 By that eye which once could glisten 
 
 With opposing glance to me ; 
 By that ear which once could listen 
 
 To each tale I told to thee: 
 
 By that lip, its smile bestowing, 
 Which could soften sorrow's gush; 
 
 By that eheek, once brightly glowing 
 With pure friendship's well-feigned blush; 
 
 By all those false charms united, 
 Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 
 
 And, without compunction, blighted 
 What " thou wouldst not kindly kill." 
 
 Yet I curse thee not in sadness, 
 Still, I feel how dear thou wert; 
 
 Oh I t could not e'en in ji.ndness 
 Doom thee to thy j^t^e-'crt ! 
 
 Live I and when my *i.ff*\f o^er, 
 Should thine own he le^gttien'd long, 
 
 Thou raay'st then, too fate, discover 
 By thy feelings, all my wrong. 
 
 When thy beauties all are faded, 
 When thy flatterers fawn no more, 
 
 Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
 Some regardless reptile's store, 
 
 Ere that hour, false syren, hear me I 
 Thou may'st feel what I do now, 
 
 While my spirit, hovering near thee, 
 Whispers friendship's broken vow. 
 
 But 'tis useless to upbraid thee 
 With thy past or present state; 
 
 What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 
 What thou art. I know too late. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 1. 
 
 Too have ask'd for a verse : the request 
 !>. a rhymer 'twere strange to deny; 
 
 Rut my Hippoc.ene was but my breast, 
 And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 
 
 2. 
 Were I now as I was, I had sung 
 
 What Lawrence has painted so we.l; 
 But the strain would expire on my tongue. 
 
 And the theme is too soft for my shell. 
 
 3. 
 
 I am ashes where once I was fire. 
 
 And the bard in my bosom is dead; 
 What I loved I now merely admire, 
 
 And my heart is as gray as my head. 
 
 4. 
 My life is not dated by years 
 
 There are moments which act as a plough. 
 And there is not a furrow appear* 
 
 But is deep in my soul as my brow. 
 
 5. 
 
 Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
 To sing what I gaze on in vain : 
 
 For sorrow has torn from my lyre 
 The string which was worthy the strain. 
 April, 1833. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AXB PU4 
 1. 
 
 OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentjr 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty 
 
 2. 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that u 
 
 wrinkled? 
 
 'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! 
 What care I for the wreaths that can only give gloryt 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'Twas less for thf? sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 4. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that surround theei 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 December, 1821. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 ON LADT BLESSISGTON EXPRESSING HER INTENTION 
 
 TAKING THE VILLA CALLED "It PARADISC," 
 
 NEAR GENOA. 
 
 BENEATH Blessington's eyes 
 
 The reclaim'd Paradise 
 Should be free as the former from evil J 
 
 But if the new Eve 
 
 For an apple should grieve, 
 Wh.it mortal would not play the Devil?* 
 
 J3pril, 1893. 
 
 The Genoese win had alread 
 Takins it into their heaiU that this 
 dence, they laid, " II Dimvolo e an 
 
 threadbare jest to I to 
 fixed on for h ^n I 
 Paradisu." -A to
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 766 
 
 TO A VAIN LADY. 
 
 AH, heedless girl! why thus disclose 
 A'liat ne'er was meant fcr 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 ling'ring woes are nigh, 
 If thou believ'st what striplings say: 
 
 Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
 Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 
 
 Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
 The words man utters to deceive? 
 
 Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, 
 If thou can'st 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 the laughing boy despise 
 Her who relates each fond conceit 
 
 Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
 Yet cannot see the slight deceit? 
 
 For she who takes a soft delight 
 These amorous nothings in revealing, 
 
 Must credit all we say or write. 
 While vanity prevents concealing. 
 
 Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign I 
 
 No jealousy bids me reprove: 
 One, who is thus from nature vain, 
 
 I pity, but I cannot love. 
 
 January 15, 1807. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
 
 root? Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
 days, 
 
 Young offspring of Fancy, 't is time we should part ; 
 ITien rise on the pale this the 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 beams the eyes which my dream could in- 
 spire, 
 My visions are flown, to return, alas, never I 
 
 When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
 How vain is the effort delight to prolong! 
 
 When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
 Whaf. magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 
 
 f.an 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 ale flown? 
 Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 
 
 | Can they speak of the friends that I ii\d but to love) 
 
 ! Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain 1 
 
 I But how can my numbers in sympathy move 
 
 I When I scarcely can hope to behold them again T 
 
 Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done 
 And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sirea 
 
 For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tonel 
 For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires I 
 
 Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast 
 'T is hush'd ; and my feeble endeavours are o'er ; 
 
 And those who have heard it will pardon the past, 
 When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate DC 
 more. 
 
 And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
 Since early affection and love is o'ercast: 
 
 Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
 Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 
 
 Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'ei 
 
 meet ; 
 
 If our songs have been languid, they surely are fewi 
 Let us hope that the present at least will be tweet 
 The present which seals our eternal Adieu. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO ANNE. 
 
 On! Anne, your offences to me have been grievous; 
 
 I thought from my wrath no atonement could save 
 
 you; 
 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 r..oment respect you. 
 Yet thought that a day's separation was long: 
 
 When we met, I determin'd 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 yon 
 
 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 yon 
 January 16, 1807. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 OH say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decree* 
 The heart which adores you should 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 the Fates which alone 
 Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; 
 
 By these, every hope, every wish were ft'erthiown. 
 Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 
 
 As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 
 
 The rage of the tempest united must A'eathej, 
 My love and my life were by nature design'd 
 
 To flourish alike, or to perish togetlier. 
 
 Then say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have ev 
 
 creed, 
 
 Your lover should bid you a lasting adifu, 
 
 Ti'.l Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed. 
 
 His soul, his existence, are centred in you 
 
 '*>
 
 766 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OP A SONNET BEGINNING, 
 
 '<U.D U MY VERSE,' YOO SAY, 'AND YET HO TEAR.'" 
 
 THY verge is "sad" enough, no doubt: 
 A devilish deal more sad than witty! 
 
 Why we should weep I can't find out, 
 Unless for thet we weep in pity. 
 
 TTet there is one I pity more ; 
 
 And much, alas! I think he needs it: 
 For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore. 
 
 Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 
 
 Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
 May once be read but never after: 
 
 Yet their effect's by no means tragic. 
 Although by far too dull for laughter. 
 
 But would you make our bosoms bleed, 
 And of no common pang complain 
 
 tf you would make us weep indeed, 
 Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 
 
 March 8, 1807. 
 
 ON FINDING A FAN. 
 
 In one who felt as once he felt. 
 
 This 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 fiercer glow, 
 Now quenches all their blaze in night. 
 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires 
 As many a boy and girl remembers 
 
 While every hope of love expires. 
 Extinguished with the dying embers. 
 
 The first, though nos 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. 
 
 TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 
 
 ak! when 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. 
 
 Buch, sucn was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
 On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: 
 
 1 ney are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 
 
 Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newtead, in 1798, planted in oak 
 Hi UK unlr'n. and nouriihed the fancy, that u the tree flourished so should 
 M. On revisiting the abbey, durin? Lnrd Grey Je Ruthven's residence there, 
 k* founJ fit oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ; hence these 
 tun. Shortly af'-tr Colonel Wildman. the present proprietor, took posses- 
 HOB, h* one day noticed it ami said to the servant who was with him, " Here 
 a a fine younjr oak ; but it must be cut down as it ^rnwt in an improper 
 place ' u I hope not, sir," replied the man ; " for it *s the one that my 
 ord was w fond of, because he set it himself.'' The Colonel has, of course, 
 jkf every possible ere of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, ss 
 "Thi B^ran Oak," tni promises to uliare, in after times, the celebrity ol 
 tiuknvtm mulnerrt. and Pope's w How. Moon 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
 A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire: 
 
 Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is tha powi 
 But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expiit 
 
 Oh! hardy thou wert even now little care 
 Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds genv 
 heal: 
 
 But thou wert not fated affection to share 
 For who could suppose that a stranger would feei 
 
 Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile; 
 
 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 ! tow'r aloft from the weed*, 
 That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decaj 
 
 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 thine. 
 Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 
 
 On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine 
 Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 
 
 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 grava 
 The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 
 
 And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot. 
 He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread 
 
 Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: 
 Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 
 
 And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime 
 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 
 
 DEDICATION TO DON JUAN.f 
 l. 
 
 BOB SODTHEY ! you 're a poet Poet-laureate, 
 
 And representative of all the race. 
 Although 'tis true that you lurn'd out a Tory at 
 
 Last, yours has lately been a common case, 
 And now, my Epic Renegade! what are y. at? 
 
 With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
 A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 
 
 ii. 
 " 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," 
 
 Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ; 
 And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 
 
 But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, 
 Explaining metaphysics to the nation 
 I wish he would explain his explanation. 
 
 in. 
 You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know, 
 
 At being disappointed in your wish 
 To supersede all warblers here below, 
 
 And he the only Blackbird in the dish; 
 
 t This " Dedication" was suppressed, in 1SI9. with T/ir 1 Byron's i octu 
 consent ; but, shortly after his death, its existence bettn.* notorious jn r*f) 
 sequence of an article in the Westminster Review, <euerally ascribed k 
 Sir John Hobhouse ; and, for several years 'he verse* /wye been wllim; 
 dreets as a broadside. It could, thcreWt, terv no purpose- to exciUM 
 them on the present occasion. Moort,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 75 
 
 And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
 
 And tumble downward 'like the flying fish 
 Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, 
 And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion," 
 
 (1 think the quarto holds five hundred pages,) 
 Has given a sample from the vasty version 
 
 Of his new system to perplex the sages; 
 T is 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. 
 
 v. 
 You Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion 
 
 Prom better company, have kept your own 
 At Kesvvick, 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I would not imitate the petty thought, 
 Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
 
 For all the glory your conversion brought, 
 Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
 
 You have your 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. 
 
 TO. 
 
 Your bays may hide the boKlness 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
 Contend not with you on the winged steed, 
 
 I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
 The fame you envy, anJ 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 
 
 la not the certain path to future praise. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
 
 (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 
 Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
 
 Being only injured by his own assertion ; 
 And although here and there some glorious rarity 
 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 To God knows where for no one else can know. 
 
 x. 
 If, faMen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 
 MiUon appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
 
 And makes the word " Miltonic" mean "uWim," 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songi, 
 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime, 
 He did not lothe the Sire to laud the Eon 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Think'st thou, could he the blind Old MB n arise 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze ones mon. 
 
 The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
 Or be alive again again all hoar 
 
 With time and trials, and those helpless eye* 
 And heartless daughters worn and pale- tM 
 poor; 
 
 Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ?J 
 
 XII. 
 
 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant I 
 Dabbling its sle<.-k 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 offer poison long already mix'd. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 An orator of such set trash of phrase 
 
 Ineffably legitimately vile, 
 That even its grossest flatterers dare not prais*, 
 
 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 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 
 
 And botching, patching, leaving still behind 
 Something of which its masters are afraid, 
 
 States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined 
 Conspiracy or Congress to be made 
 
 Cobbling at manacles for all mankind 
 A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chain*. 
 With God and man's abhorrence for its gain*. 
 
 xv. 
 If we may judge of matter by the mind. 
 
 Emasculated to the marrow It 
 Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, 
 
 Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, 
 
 For I will never feel 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. 
 
 t " Pale, but not cadaverous ;" Milton's two elder daughters are lam % 
 have robbed him of his books, besides cheating and plaguing b jn m tM 
 economy of his house, &c. IK. His feelings on such an outrage, both M 
 parent and a scholar, must have been singularly painful. Hayley xnira.n* 
 him to Lear. See part third, Life of Milton, by W. Havlev (or Hailcr 
 spelt in the edition before me.) 
 JOr, 
 
 "Would ht subside Into a hackr,ey Laureate 
 
 A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scorn 'd Iseariotr* 
 
 I doubt if " Laureate" and " Iwariol" be good rhymes, but must Hi, Ms> 
 on did to Sylvester, who challenged him to rhyme with 
 " I, John Sylvester, 
 
 Lay with your sisrer." 
 
 Jonson answered, " I, Ben Jonson. lay with vour /ife." Sylvertn u 
 ed, ' That is uot rhrnw -" No " said B<n Jonsco; lw i>iu>
 
 758 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Meantime Sir Laureate I proceed to dedicate, 
 In honest simple verse, this song to you, 
 
 And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
 Tit 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 ; 
 
 ; it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?* 
 Venice, September 16, 1818. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 OH TH BACK OF THE POET'S MS. OF CANTO I. 
 OF DON JUAN. 
 
 . WOULD to heaven that I were so much clay, 
 Ai I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling 
 
 Because at least the past were pass'd away 
 And for the future (but I write this reeling, 
 
 Having got drunk exceedingly to-day. 
 So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 
 
 i say the future is a serious matter 
 
 And so for God's sake hock and soda-water ! 
 
 PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS.f 
 
 BY DR. PLAGIARY. 
 
 Half (total, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice 
 by Muter P. t the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parti mirlc- 
 ed with the inverted commas of quotation thus " ". 
 
 " WHEN energising objects men pursue," 
 
 Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. 
 
 * A modest monologue you here survey," 
 
 Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day," 
 
 As if Sir Fretful wrote " the slumberous" verse. 
 
 And gave his son " the rubbish" to rehearse. 
 
 "Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," 
 
 Knew you the rumpus which the author raised; 
 
 "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," 
 
 Knew you these lines the badness of the best. 
 
 "Flame I fire! and flame!!" (words borrowed from 
 
 Lucretius,) 
 
 "Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues! 
 And sleeping pangs awake and but away" 
 (Confound me if I know what next to say.) 
 "Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
 And Master G recites what Doctor Busby sings ! 
 " If mighty things with small we may compare," 
 (Translated from the grammar for the fair !) 
 Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car," 
 And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 
 This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain." 
 To furnish melodramea for Drury Lane 
 "Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," 
 And George and I will dramatize it for ye. 
 
 ' In arts and sciences our isle hath shown" 
 (This deep discovery is mine alone.) 
 "Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" 
 My verse or I'm a fool and Fame's a liar, 
 " Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" 
 With "smiles," and " lyres," and " pencils," and much 
 more. 
 
 I Allude not to our friend Landor'i hero, the traitor Count Julian, but to 
 Ubliooi hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 
 
 Among the addresses tent in to the Drury Lane Committee, was one by 
 > Riwfcf euUtled "A Monologue," of which the above it a parody. 
 
 These, if we win the Graces, too, we gaii 
 
 Disgraces, too! "inseparable train!" 
 
 " Three who have stolen their witching airt> from 
 
 Cupid" 
 
 (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid > 
 "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, 
 Now to produce in a "divine sestetto"!/ 
 " While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
 "Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes I 
 "Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
 Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 
 " Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" 
 (For this last line George had a holiday.) 
 " Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
 So says the manager, and so says I. 
 "But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" 
 Is this the poem which the public lost ? 4 
 "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 advertise! 
 " A double blessing your rewards impart" 
 I wish I had them, then, with all my heart 
 "Our twofold feeling 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 much you give ' 
 
 October, 1812. 
 
 [Instead of the lines to Inez, which now stand in the First Canto of ( illd* 
 Harold, Lord Byron had originally written the following'] 
 
 1. 
 
 OH never talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies; 
 It has not been your lot to see. 
 
 Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
 Although her eye be not of blue. 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
 How far its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses! 
 
 2. 
 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 feo^ 
 
 And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
 
 3. 
 Our English maids are long to woo. 
 
 And frigid even in possession ; 
 And if their charms be fair to view. 
 
 Their lips are clow a Love's iv>t.fcw'o 
 But born beneath a brighter sun. 
 
 For love ordain'd the Spanish mam is, 
 And who, when fondly, fairly won, 
 
 Enchants you like the Girl of Cadizf 
 
 4. 
 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 dis~emnle 
 Her heart can ne'er be bought 01 s>I. 
 
 Howe'er it beats, it beats sinci rely ; 
 And, though it will not bend to old, 
 
 'Twill love you long ana love you dearly
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 75U 
 
 5. 
 The Spanish girl t it 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, 
 
 !-he dares the deed and shares the danger; 
 And should her lover press the plain, 
 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
 6. 
 And when, beneath the evening star, 
 
 She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
 Or sings to her attuned guitar 
 
 Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
 Or counts her beads with fairy hand 
 
 Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
 Or join devotion's choral band, 
 
 To cliaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper; 
 
 7. 
 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 'tis mine 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. 
 
 FAREWELL TO MALTA. 
 
 ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette! 
 
 Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! 
 
 Adieu, the palace rarely entered! 
 
 Adieu, ye mansions where I 've ventur'd! 
 
 Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 
 
 (How suieiy he who mounts you swears !) 
 
 Adieu, ye merchants often failing! 
 
 Adieu, thou mob forever 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, Sin, 
 
 Adieu his Excellency's dancers! 
 
 Adieu to Peter whom no fault 'a 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 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 "gratia." 
 
 And now I 've got to Mrs. Fraser, 
 Ferhaps you think I mean to praise her 
 Atitl were I vain qnough to think 
 My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
 A line or two were no hard matter, 
 A* here indeed, I neeil not flitfpr- 
 
 But she must be content tc shine 
 In better praises than in mine, 
 With lively air, and open !)ut, 
 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 M, 
 Thou little military hothouse! 
 I'll not offend with words uncivil, 
 And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
 But only staie from out my casement, 
 And ask, for what is such a place meant? 
 Then, in my solitary nook, 
 Return to scribbling, or a hook, 
 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 feverl 
 May 26, 1811. 
 
 Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, in tit 
 April o/ 1816. 
 
 A YEAR ago you swore, fond she ! 
 
 'To love, to honour,' and so forth : 
 Such was the vow you pledged to m. 
 
 And here 's exactly what 'tis worth. 
 
 To Penelope, January 2, 1821 
 
 This day, of all our days, has done 
 
 The worst for me and you. 
 *Ti just six years since we were one, 
 
 And Jive since we were two. 
 
 WHO kill'd John Keats? 
 I,' says the Quarterly, 
 So savage and Tartarly; 
 
 ' 'T was one of my feats.' 
 
 Who shot the arrow? 
 'The poet-priest Milman 
 (So ready to kill man,) 
 
 Or Southey or Barrow. 
 
 SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 
 i. 
 
 As the Liberty lads o'er the eea 
 Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blooo. 
 
 So we, boys, we 
 Will die righting, or line free 
 And down with all kings but King Luddl 
 
 n. 
 
 When the web that we weave in complete 
 And the shuttle exchanged for the sword 
 
 We will fling the winding-sheet 
 
 O'er the despot at our feet, 
 And dye it deep in the gore he has 
 
 Though black as his heart its hue. 
 
 Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 
 Yet this is the dew 
 Which the tree shall r<*now 
 
 Ol liberty, planted t>y Lutfd 1
 
 700 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 THE CHAIN I GAVE. 
 
 (From the Turkish.) 
 
 THB 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. 
 Those 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 graup, 
 Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
 
 Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; 
 
 The chain is broke, the music mute. 
 ;Tis past to them and thee adieu- 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute, 
 
 SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 
 Riin Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh; 
 Here HAROLD lies but Where's his Epitaph? 
 If such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
 Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 
 
 Athens. 
 
 "PTTAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET 
 
 AND SHOEMAKER. 
 STRANOBR! behold, interr'd together, 
 The soulii of learning and of leather. 
 Poor Joe is gone, but left his all: 
 You '11 find his relics in a stall. 
 His works were neat, and often found 
 Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound. 
 Tread lightly where the bard is laid 
 He cannot mend the shoe he made ; 
 Yet is he happy in his hole, 
 With verse immortal as his srie. 
 But Btill to business he held fast, 
 And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 
 Then who shall say so good a fellow 
 Was only "leather and prunella?" 
 For character he did not lack it ; 
 And if he did, 't were shame to " Black-it." 
 Malta, JUay 16, 1811. 
 
 t*0 WE 'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING. 
 
 I. 
 So we'll go no more a roving 
 
 So late into the night. 
 Though the heart be still as loving, 
 
 And the moon be still as bright. 
 
 n. 
 for the sword outwears its sheath, 
 
 And the soul wears out the breast, 
 A ad the heart must pause to breathe. 
 
 And love itself have rest. 
 
 in. 
 ntough the night was made for loving 
 
 And the day returns too soon, 
 Yet we'll go no more a roving 
 
 9v the light of the moon 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL 
 
 AND thou wert sad yet I was not with thea ; 
 
 And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; 
 Methought th.it joy and health alone could be 
 
 Where I was not and pain and sorrow herel 
 And is it thus? it is as I foretold. 
 
 And shall be more so; for the mind recoils 
 Upon itself, and the wreck'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; 
 
 Whale'er my sins might be, thou 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, 't will be accorded now. 
 Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep V 
 
 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 naught 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- 
 Ami 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 I 
 
 The moral Clytemnestra 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 others' grief at any price. 
 And thus once enter'd into crooked way*, 
 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 tliu thoughts which dwell 
 
 In Janus-spirits- -tlie significant eye 
 Which learns to lie with silence the pretez* 
 Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd 
 The acquiescence in all things which tend. 
 No natter how, to the desired end 
 
 All found a place in thy philosophy. 
 Phe means were worthy, and the end it won- 
 I would not do by thee as thou hast done I 
 
 September 18J8.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 761 
 
 TO * * *. 
 BOT onee I dared to lift my eyes 
 
 To lift my eyes to thee; 
 And since that day, beneath the skies 
 
 No other sights they see. 
 
 In vain sleep shuts them in the night 
 
 The nfght grows day to me; 
 Presenting idly to my sight 
 
 What still a dream must be. 
 A fatal dream for many a bar 
 
 Divides thy fate from mine; 
 And still my passions wake and war. 
 
 But peace be still with thine. 
 
 MARTIAL, LIB. I. Eno. L 
 
 Hie at, qutm legi% ille, quemre quirii, 
 Tola notus in orb* Martiilis, fee. 
 
 HE unto whom thou art so partial, 
 Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial. 
 The Epigrammatist: while living, 
 Give him the fame thou wouhlst be giving; 
 So shall he bear, and feel, and know it 
 Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine 
 Will. Cobbet has done well: 
 
 You visit him on earth again, 
 He'll visit you in hell. 
 
 TO DIVEa 
 
 A. FRAGMENT. 
 
 I T !HAPPY DIVES: in an evil hour 
 'Gainst Nature's voiec seduced to deeds accurst) 
 Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power; 
 Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 
 In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the fust, 
 How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn arose 1 
 But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst 
 Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close 
 In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 
 
 1811. 
 
 VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT 
 HALES-OWEN. 
 
 WHKH Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," 
 
 His hours in whistling spent. " for want of thought," 
 
 This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
 
 Supplied, and amply too, by innocence; 
 
 Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, 
 
 In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 
 
 Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see 
 
 These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 
 
 Severe the fate of modern fools, alas t 
 
 When vice and folly mark them as they pas*. 
 
 Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, 
 
 Fhe filth they leave still points out where they crawl. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 iE, beauty and poet, has two little crime*; 
 irakos her own face.-, and does not make her 
 rhymes. 
 
 101 
 
 NEW DUET. 
 
 To the tone of " Why, how BOW, uncy Jtdtr" 
 
 WHY, how now, saucy Tom? 
 
 If you thus must ramble, 
 I will publish some 
 
 Remarks on Mister Campbell. 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 Why, how now. Parson Bowles? 
 
 Sure the priest is maudlin I 
 (To the public) How can you, d n your souls 
 
 Listen to his twaddling 7 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 OB, Castlereaghl thou art a patriot now; 
 Cato died for his country, so didst thou: 
 He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, 
 Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be ured 
 
 So Castlereagh has cut his throat 1 The 
 Of this is, that his own was not the first. 
 
 So He has cut his throat at last I Re I Wbof 
 The man who cut his country's long ago. 
 
 THE CONQUEST. 
 
 i. 
 THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 
 
 Him who made 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'ri his bold and brilliant throne on hi|bj 
 The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, 
 And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 
 
 March 8-, 1833. 
 
 VERSICLES. f 
 
 I READ the " Christabel ;" 
 
 Very well: 
 I read the "Missionary;" 
 
 Pretty very : 
 I tried at " Ilderim;" 
 
 Ahem! 
 I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of Jtnjenf 
 
 Can you ? 
 I turn'd a page of Scott's " Waterloo ;" 
 
 Pooh! pooh 
 I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white " Ry Istont DM f 
 
 Hillo! 
 
 &.C. &c. &C. 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF KBLHTEKES. 
 
 IT, for silver or for gold. 
 
 You could melt ten thousand pimplts 
 
 Into half a dozen dimples. 
 Then your face we might behold, 
 
 Looking, doubtless, much more snugly- 
 
 Yet even then 't would b d d Uf hr
 
 702 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 TO MR. MUHRAY. 
 
 To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
 
 Have publisb'd " Anjou's Margaret," 
 
 Which won't be sold otf in a hurry, 
 
 (At least, it has not been as yet;) 
 
 Am 1 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 bait 
 
 And mind you do not let escape 
 These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
 Which would be vtry treacherous very, 
 
 And get me into such a scrape 1 
 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 tbe female knight. 
 March 25, 1817. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLI- 
 DORI. 
 
 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 plays'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. 
 ! 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, 
 H. sort of it's no more a drama 
 Than Darnley, Ivan, or Keharua; 
 Bo aiter'd since last year his pen is, 
 I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
 "> short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
 I dare not venture on another. 
 I write in haste; excuse each blunder; 
 Th coaches fnrougl> the streets so thunder, 
 Mjr room's so full we've Gifford here 
 Reading MS., with Hookman Frcre, 
 
 Pronouncing on the ntxins and particle* 
 Of some of our forthcoming Article*. 
 
 The Quarterly Ah, sir, if you 
 Had but the gen (us to review I 
 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, tbe room 
 The room 's so full of wus and bard, 
 Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, a* Wr4i 
 And others, neither bards nor wits: 
 My humble tenement admits 
 All persons in tbe dress of gent., 
 From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
 
 A party dines with me to-day, 
 All clever men, who make their way; 
 Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey 
 Are all partakers of my pantry. 
 They're at this moment in discussion 
 On poor De StaeTs 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 cannot deal, 
 Unless 't were acted by O'Neil. 
 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 MURRA.T 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 MY dear Mr. Murray, 
 You're in a damn'd hurry 
 
 To set up this ultimate Canto; 
 But (if they don't rob us) 
 You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 
 
 Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 
 
 For the Journal you hint of, 
 As ready to print off, 
 
 No doubt you do right to commend It; 
 But as yet I have writ off 
 The devil a bit of 
 
 Our " Beppo :" when copied, 1 11 send it. 
 
 Then you 've * * * 's Tour, 
 No great things, to be sure, 
 
 You could hardly begin with a leM work; 
 FOP the pompous rascallion, 
 Who don't speak Italian 
 
 Nor French, must have scribbled by gueM-woffc 
 
 You can make any loss op 
 With "Spence" and his gossip, 
 
 A work which must surely succeed; 
 Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
 With the new " Fytte" of " Whistleeraft," 
 
 Must make people purchase and read. 
 
 Then you 've General Gordon, 
 Who girded his sword on. 
 
 To serve with a Muscovite master 
 And help him ta polish 
 A nation so owlish, 
 
 They thought shaving their bgorda a 4inMM
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 763 
 
 for the man, "poor ami shrewd," 
 With whom you 'd conclude 
 
 A compact without more delay, 
 Perhaps some such pen it 
 full extant in Venice; 
 
 But please, sir, to mention your pay 
 
 Knc, January 8, 1818. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes, 
 For thee the bard up Pindua 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 book-shelves shine 
 The work* tbou deemest most divine- 
 The M Art of Cookery," and mine, 
 My Murray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
 And Sermons to thy mill bring grist; 
 And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
 Without " the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would, 
 My Murray! 
 
 reniee, March 25, 1818. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE 
 WHAT are you doing now, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore? 
 What are you doing now, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore? 
 Sighing or suing now, 
 Rhyming or wooing now, 
 Billing or cooing now. 
 
 Which, Thomas Moore? 
 
 But the Carnival's coming, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore I 
 The Carnival's coming. 
 
 Ob Thomas Moore I 
 Masking and humming, 
 Fifing and drumming, 
 Guitarring and strumming, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 n 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 bead 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, vou'll get knighted. 
 
 EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 
 
 WITH death doom'd to grapple 
 
 Beneath this cold slab, he 
 Who lied in the Chapel 
 
 Now lies in the Abbey. 
 
 ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 HERB'S a happy new year! but with rtason 
 
 I beg you Ml permit me to say- 
 Wish me many returns of the tcatm, 
 But as Jew as you please of the day 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 THE world is a bundle of hay. 
 Mankind are the asses who pull; 
 
 Each tugs in a different way. 
 And the greatest of all is John Bull. 
 
 THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 [On heariof that tidy Byron hid been Fatrone of B*n a U of tarn* 
 charity at Hincklejr.] 
 
 WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and fa the,' 
 If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. 
 
 So the Pharisee's glories around ber she gather, 
 And the saint patronizes her "charity ball I" 
 
 What matters a heart which, though faulty, wu 
 feeling, 
 
 Be driven to excesses which once eou.ti appal- 
 That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing. 
 
 As the saint keeps her charity back for " the ball f 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 ON THE BRASIERS 1 COMPANY HA. VINO RESOLVED TO PRE- 
 SENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. 
 
 THE brasiers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
 An address, and present it themselves all in bra*} 
 A superfluous pageant for, by the Lord Harry! 
 They'll find where they are going much more t&M 
 they carry. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 FOR Orford and for Waldegrare 
 
 You give much more than me you gate i 
 
 Which is not fairly to behave, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 Because if a live dog, 'tis said, 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 A live lord must be worth taw dead. 
 My Murray. 
 
 And if, as the opinion goes, 
 Verse hath a better sale than prow- 
 Certes, I should have more than those. 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd. 
 So, if yo* mil, I shan't be shamm'd 
 And if you tcon't, you may be damn t 
 My Murray.
 
 7C4 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 OX THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO 
 HOPPNER. 
 
 ilii father's tense, his mother's grace, 
 In him, I hope, will always fit so; 
 
 With still to keep him in good case 
 The health and appetite of Rizzio. 
 
 STANZAS, TO A HINDOO AIR. 
 
 [TbcM Tenet were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for 
 Greece. They wen meant to suit the Hindoitanee air" Alia Malla Pun- 
 ea,* which the Counter Guiccioli was fond of tinging.] 
 
 OH I 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 mast 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 oreaking, 
 
 la 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 I 
 
 Ob! my lone bosom! oh! my lonely Pillow' 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [" CODLD LOVB TOR VKR."J 
 t 
 
 COCLD 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 sighing 
 Ends not in dying, 
 And form'd for flying, 
 
 Love plumes his wing; 
 Then for this reason 
 Let's love a season; 
 But let that season be only Spring. 
 
 n. 
 
 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'll stay for ever, 
 But sadly shiver 
 Vithou* his plumage, when past the 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 with disdain. 
 Still, still advancing. 
 With banners glancing. 
 His power enhancing, 
 
 He must move on 
 Repose but cloys him. 
 Retreat destroys him. 
 Love brooks not a degraded throne. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wait not, fond lover! 
 Till years are over. 
 And then recover, 
 
 As from a dream. 
 While each, bewailing 
 The other's failing, 
 With wrath and railing, 
 
 AH 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 friendship, and bid good oiffafc 
 
 v. 
 
 So shall Affection 
 To recollection 
 The dear connexion 
 
 Bring back with joy: 
 You had not waited 
 Till, tired or hated, 
 Your passions sated 
 
 Began to cloy. 
 Your last embrace* 
 Leave no cold traces 
 The same fond faces 
 
 As through the past; 
 And eyes, the mirrors 
 Of your sweet errors. 
 Reflect butVapture not least, though IM 
 
 True, separations 
 
 Ask more than patience; 
 
 What desperations 
 
 From such have risen! 
 But yet remaining. 
 What is't but chaining 
 Hearts which, once waning. 
 
 Beat 'gainst their prison? 
 Time can but cloy love. 
 And use destroy love: 
 The winged boy. Love, 
 
 Is but for boys 
 You'll find it torture 
 Though sharper, shorter, 
 To wean, and not wear out, your joyi 
 
 THE END.
 
 A 000112767 
 
 or,, ,T U .- Univ ersity of California 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 Return this material to the library 
 from which it was borrowed.
 
 764 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 (Ot THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO 
 HOPPNER. 
 
 Ill* father's sense, his mother's grace, 
 In him, I hope, will always fit so; 
 
 With still to keep him in good case 
 The health and appetite of Rizzio. 
 
 STANZAS, TO A HINDOO AIR. 
 
 [These Tern were written by Lord Byron * little before he left Italy for 
 Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air" Alia Malla Pun- 
 a,* which the Counted Guiccioli wit food of tinging. 1 
 
 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 awayl 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 oreaking, 
 
 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 I 
 
 Oh! my lone bosom! oh! my lonely Pillow) 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [" COULD LOV FOR EVKR."J 
 
 I. 
 
 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 sighing 
 Ends not in dying. 
 And form'd for flying, 
 
 Love plumes his wing; 
 Then for this reason 
 Let 's love a season ; 
 But let that season be only Spring. 
 
 II. 
 
 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 wdljr shiver 
 
 his plumage, when past the 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 with -disdain. 
 Still, still advancing. 
 With banners glancing. 
 His power enhancing. 
 
 He must move on 
 Repose but cloys him. 
 Retreat destroys him. 
 Love brooks not a degraded throw*. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wait not, fond lover! 
 Till years are over. 
 And then recover. 
 
 As from a dream. 
 While each, bewailing 
 The other's failing, 
 With wrath and railing. 
 
 All hideous seem 
 While first decreasing, 
 Yet not quite ceasing, 
 Wait not till teasing 
 
 All passion blight : 
 If once diminish'd, 
 Love's reign is flnish'd 
 Then part in friendship, and bid food-oiftti 
 
 v. 
 
 So shall Affection 
 To recollection 
 The dear connexion 
 
 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 butrapture not least, though IMI 
 
 True, separations 
 
 Ask more than patience; 
 
 What desperations 
 
 From such have risen ! 
 But yet remaining. 
 What is't but chaining 
 Hearts which, once waning, 
 
 Beat 'gainst their prison f 
 Time can but cloy love, 
 And use destroy love: 
 The winged boy, Love, 
 
 Is but for boys 
 You'll find it torture 
 Though sharper, shorter, 
 To wean, and not wear out, your Joyi 
 
 THE END.
 
 000 112 767 
 
 SC' i 
 
 MAR 
 
 Ml 
 1 
 
 [Written, for tiie Crescent City Courier,] 
 
 By Miss'E.'A. DOOUTTLE. 
 
 OLD LETTERS. ' 
 
 Old letters! ah, how dear they are, 
 
 Yet different though they bo, 
 They each alone, in easy tone, ' 
 
 Hold some sweet charm for me; 
 While looking o'er an old worn tr'unk 
 
 Uutouched, unseen for years, 
 I ramo across these relics hid, ' 
 . That brought the scalding tears. 
 
 And woke a thousand happy thoughts, 
 
 With sun and 'shade" o'ercast, 
 Ho turned again, with joy and pain, 
 
 Old pictures of tiie past; 
 In bunches tied with cord am] thread, 
 
 And soma with ribbons old. 
 Were bound around their bordera black 
 
 That some sad story told. 
 
 With here and there a tear-stained word, 
 
 Blurred almost out of sight, 
 And many ending with these words, 
 
 "God bless and guide you right;" 
 And lochs of hair now hid between, ' 
 
 Theiv pages' yellow rim, '' 
 
 'ith name and age, birth and death, 
 
 P;iu:e 1 wn so light within. 
 
 And where "is one* who dow not hold, 
 
 Within their inmost heart, 
 - A Jpeasuf cl^, .sorqe sacred gift, 
 
 Yet of their Jives a part;' 
 So, while the years roll on the same, 
 
 And lifejfefelij earthly fettera, 
 I cling witlflovo to this old buncfi 
 
 Of worn and faded letters.