(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Children's Library | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "The poetical works of Lord Byron"

^^j^^-;«rifo^ 



'^ ;.^i*:: 






<i t 



*: (. 



UNIVERSITY 

OF PITTSBURGH 

LIBRARY 



Dar.Rm. 
PR4350 
E58 



THIS BOOK PRESENTED BY 



Elizabeth Moorhead Vermorck-n 




'PHILP & SOLOMONS N' 

' msHiNeTONj).r 



<^/^4 ^- ^^'^ 









BYHONS 



POETICAL WORKS 




&re lies the AiilioT of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."- 



LIPPINOOTT GRjatBO 3c CO PHILADELPHIA 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OP 



LORD BYRON. 



COMPLETE 



IN ONE VOLUME 



PHILADELPHIA: 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

!i isr, s. 



CONTENTS OF BYRON'S POETICAL WORKS. 



MOGRAPHICA.L SKETCH. 



MURRAY'S LONDON 



Dcdicalion 7 

Frefare 6 

On Ihe Death of a young Ladjr, Cousin to the Author, 

and very dear to him 8 

To E 8 

ToD 9 

Epitaph on a Friend 9 

A Fragment 9 

Co leaving Newstead Abbey 9 

Linea written in •■ Letters of an Italian Nun and 
an Rngligh Gentleman ; by J. J. Rousseau : founded 

ooFacts" 9 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed lo Miss . 10 

Adrian's Address lo his Soul when dying 10 

Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam 10 

Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil andXibullus, by 

Domitius Marsus 10 

Imiialion of Tibullus. •■ Sulpicia ad Cerinlhum". 10 
Translation from Catullus. '• Lugete Veneres, Cu- 

pidinesque,"&c 10 

Imitated from Catnllns, To Ellen 10 

Translation from Horace. "Justum et tenacem," 



tec. 



L'Amitie est I'Amour sans Ailcs • M 

The Prayer of Nature 85 

To Hklward Noel I/)ng, Esq 36 

Oh', had my fate been join'd with thine! tS 

I would I were a careless Child W 

When I roved a young Highlander 38 

To George, Earl Delawarr 88 

To the Earl of Clare 88 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard 

of Harrow 89 

Article on the •• Hours of Idleness," from the Edin- 
burgh Review 39 

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS: 

A Satire *1 

Preface «1 

HINTS FROM HORACE: being an Allusion in Eng- 
lish Verse lo Ihe Epistle "Ad Pisonea, de Arte 

Poetica" 63 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA 64 

THE WALTZ; An Apostrophic Hymn lo the Pub- 



lisher 



From Anacreon 

Fr-.m Anacreon 

From the Prometheus Vinctua of Aeschylus .. .. 

T.I Emma 

To M. 8. G 

T} Carcline 

To the Same 

To the Same 

Stanias to a Lady, wilh the Poems of Camoens.. 

The First Kiss of I,ove 

On a Change of Masters at a great Public School .. 13 

To the Duke of Dorset 1* 

Fraijment, written shortly after Ihe Marriage of Miss 
Chaworth U 

Gran!a. A Medley U 

On a distant View of the Village and School of Har- 
row on the Hill 15 

ToM 15 

To Woman 16 

ToM. SO 16 

To Mary, on receiving her P 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ^0 

HEBREW MELODIES W 

She walks in Beauty .. W 

The Harp Ihe Monarih Minstrel swept W 

If that high World ••• « 

The wild Gazelle 72 

Oh I weep for I hose •• 72 

On Jordan's Banks J* 

Jephtha's Daughter " 

Oh : snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 73 

My Soul is dark '8 

I saw thee weep 73 

Thy Days are done 78 

Song of Saul before his last Baltic 73 

Saul '* 

"All is Vanity, saith the Preacher" 4 

When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay 74 

Vision of Belshatzar J* 

Sun of the Sleepless <5 

Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be.. 75 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne 76 

On the Day of the De.-truclion of Jerusalem by Titus 76 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept... To 

The Destruction of Sennacherib »* 

A Spirit passed before me. From Job 76 



ToLesbi'a 1 18 THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PUI.CI. 



Lines addressed to a young Lady, who was alarmed 

the Sound of a Bullet hissing near her 17 

Love's last Adieu 17 

Damaetas 17 

To Marion « 

To a Lady who presented to the Author a Lock of 

Hair braided with his own 18 

OscarofAlva. A Tale 19 

The Episode of Ni-s>>and Euryalus 21 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides 29 

Thoughts suggested by a College Examination M 

To a beautiful Quaker 3* 

The Cornelian 

An Occasional Prologue to " The Wheel of Fortune " 

On the Death of Mr. Fox 

The Tear 

Reply to some verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., on Ihe 

Cruelty of bis Mistress 

To Ihe sighing Strephon 

T) Eliia 

Lachiny Gair 

To Romance 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a Friend to 
the Author, complaining that one of his Descrip- 
tions was rather too warmly drawn 28 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey - 

Childish Recollections 

Answerloa beautiful Poem, entitledxThe Common 



I Advertisement. 

THE GIAOUR 87 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS • M 

THE CORSAIR -• ^^ 

LARA IM 

SIEGE OF CORINTH ^^ 

PARISINA '*! 

PRISONER OF CHILLON "6 

BEPPO 1*" 

M AZEPPA *^ 

THE PROPHECY OF DANTE I«» 

Dedication J" 

Preface '^ 

Canto I }^ 

Ciuito II 1^ 

Canio III j5! 

Canto IV '"^ 

THE BLUES; A Literary Eclogue 168 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 1" 

Preface "■* 



: Author with the Velvet 



Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his ad- 
vising the Author to mix more with Society 

The Death of Calmar and Orla. An Imitation of Mac- 
pherson'B Ossiaa 



Annus baud Mirabilia . 
32 THE ISLAND.. 



The Adieu. Written under Ihe Impression that the 

Author would soon die 

To a vain Lady 

To Anne 

To the Same 



19t| 

i 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
To the Author of the Sonnet, " Sad is niT Verse,"&c. 198 

On finding a Fan 19« 

Farewell to the Muse 198 

To an Oak at Jfewjlead Id9 

On revisiting Harrow 169 

Kpitaph on John Adams, of Southwell 169 

To my Son 139 

Farewell! if ever fc.ndest Praver 200 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul 200 

When we two parted 200 

To a youthful Friend 200 

Ijines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull... 201 

Well! thou art happy! 201 

InsiTiption on the Monnment of a favourite Dog .. 201 
To a Lady, on being asked my Reason for quitting 

KnglacdiD the Spring 202 

Remind me not, remind me not 20-2 

There was a Time, I need not name 202 

And wilt thou weep when I am low? 203 

Fill IheGublet ag.in. A S 'ng 203 

Slauzas to a Ladv, on leaving England 203 

Lines to Mr. H<H)gson !404 

Lines written in an Album at Malta 204 

To Florence 201 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder Storm 205 

Stanzas written in parsing the Ambracian Gulf .... 206 

The Spell is broke, the Charm is flown ! 206 

Written after swimming from Seslos tn Abydos.... 206 

Lines in the Travellers' Bonk at Arch..meni:8 206 

Madof Athens! ere we part 206 

Translation of the Nurses' Dole in the Medea 207 

Mv Epitaph 207 

Substiluie for an Epitaph 207 

Lines written beneath a Pictare 207 

Translation of Greek War Song 207 

Translation of Romaic Song 207 

On Parting 208 

F.pitaph for Joseph Blai kelt 208 

Farewell to Malta 208 

To Dives. A Frasment 209 

On Moure's last operatic Farce, or farcical Opera .. 209 
Epistle lo a Friend, in answer to some Lines exhort- 
ing the Author to becheerful. and to" b;nishcare" 209 

To Thyrza. '• Without a Stone," ic 209 

Stanzas. "Away, away ! ye Notes of Woe " ....210 
Stanzas. "One mropgle more, and lam free".... 2J0 

Euthanasia. "When Time," tc 210 

Stanzas. •' And thou ait dead, as youn? as fair" .. 211 
Slauzas. " If sometimes in the Ha.;nts of Men " . Sit 

On a Carnelian Heart, which was broken 211 

Line's from the French .... 211 

Lines to a Lady weeping 211 

" The Chain I gave." &c. From the Turkish .... 212 
Lines written on a blank Leaf of "The Pleasures of 

Memory" 212 

Address, on the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, 1612 212 

Parenthetical Address, by Dr. Plagiary 213 

Veries found in a Summer House at Hales-Owen.. 213 

Remember thee ; remember thee ! 2!3 

To Time 213 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song 214 

Stanzas, "Thou art not f;ilse, but thou ait fickle" 214 
On being asked, what was the "Origin of Love ".. 214 
Stanzas. "Remember him, whom Passion's Power" 214 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems 2.5 

To Lord Thurlow 216 

To Thomas Moore. Written the Evening before 

his visit to Mr. Leigh Hunt, May 19, 1813 215 

Impromptu. "When from the Heart" Sec. 215 

Sonnet, to Genevra 215 

S.nnet. to the Same 215 

From ihe Portuguese. " Tu mi Chamas." 

The Devil's Drive; an unfinished Rhapsrxly 216 

"Windsor Poetics 

Stanzas for Music. " I speak not," ikc 216 

Address for the Caledonian Meeting "'" 

Fragm.nt of an Epistle to Thomas Moore 

Condolatory Addrets to Saiah, Countess of Jersey, 

on the Regent's returning her Pi.ture 217 

ToBel»hazzar 2lt 

Elegiac Siaiizas on Sir Peler Parker, Bart 

Stanzas for Music. " There's not a Joy," 4:c 218 

Stanzas f<.r Music. "There be none of Biauiy'f 

Daughters," &p 

On Napoleon's Escape from Elba 

Ode from the French. " We do not curse thee, 

Waterloo." 219 

From the French. •' Must thou go, my glorious 

Chief 2 " 

On the Star of "the Legion of Honour." From the 

French 



DOMESTIC PIECES: 1816: 

Fare thee Well 221 

A Sketch 222 I 

Stanzas to Augusta. " When all around," &e. ...232: 
Stanzas to Ihe Same. "Though the Day of my | 



MONODY ON THE DKATH OF THE RIGHT 
H0.\. R. B. SHERIDAN, spoken at Drnry Lane 
Theatre 22a 

THE DREAM 228 



D.^.RKNESS 223 

Churchill's Grave; a Fact literally rendered 228 

Prometheus 228 

A Fragment. " Could I remount," Stc 329 

Sonnet lo Lake Leman 229 

Romance muy Doloroso del Sitio yToma deAlhama.. 230 

Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama 230 

Sonetto di Vitlorelli. Per Mouaca 232 

Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun 2:i9 

Stanzas for Music. "Bright he the Flare," Ac 2S2 

Stanzas for Music. "They say that H"pe," &c 232 

ToThomaa Moore. "MyBnat is on the Shore," ic... 232 

On Ihe Bust of Helen by Canova 233 

Song for the Luddites 233 

So we 'II go no more a roving 233 

To Thomas Moore. " Whst are you doing now," dec... 233 

Vcrsides 233 

ToMr.Murray. "To hook the Reader," &:c 233 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO 233 

Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori 335 

Epistle to Mr. Murray. " My dear.Mr. MHrray,"&c... 336 
To Mr. Murrav. " Strahan, Tonaon. Lintot," ic... 236 

On the Birth of John Wiiliam Rizzo Hoppner 236 

ODE ON VENICE 236 

Stanzas lo the Fo 237 

Sonnet to George IV. on the Repeal of Lord Edward 

Fitzaerald's Forfeiture 238 

Epigram, from the French of Rulhieres 23S 

Stanzas. "Could Love for ever," Sic 238 

On my Wedding Day 239 

Epitaph for William Pitt 239 

Epig.'am. "In digging up your Bones," &c 239 

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 239 

Stanzas. " When a Man hath no Freedom." Sec... 240 
Epigram. "The World is a Bundle of Hny," &c..,. 240 

The Charily Ball WO 

Kpigram on my Wedding Day. To Penelope 240 

On my Thirty-third Birth Day 240 

Epigram on the Braziers' Oimp=ny having resolved 

to present an Address to Qneen Caroline 240 

Martial, Lib. I. Epist. 1 240 

Bowles aiidCamphell 240 

Epigrams on Casllereagh 240 

J,.hn Reals 241 

The Conqii 
To Mr. M 

&c 

The Irish Avatar 

Stanzas written betwet 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 242 

Impromptu 243 

To the Countess of Blessington 343 

Stanzas inscribed — " On this Dyl complete my 

Thirty-sixth Year" 21? 

Appendix 2" 

MANFRED 250 

MARINO FALIERO -< 261 

HEAVEN AND EARTH 294 

SABDANAPALUS 303 

THE TWO FOSCARI 329 



CAIN. 



345 



WERNER S61 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFOR.MED SS9 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 402 

Appendix :— Notes to Childe HatoM 447 

DON JUAN ■«'« 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON. 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON, Lord Byron, was 
born at Dover, on the 22d January', 178S. He was 
the grandson r.f the celebrated Admiral Byron, and 
succeeded his great-uncle William Lord Byron, while 
at school, in 1798. His father was the admiral's only 
•on. Captain John Byron of the guards, eo notorious 
for his gallantries and reckless dissipation, by his 
second wife Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire 
heiress, and a lineal descendant from the house of 
HuDiley. By the eccentricity and misconduct of the 
old Lord Byron, and of the c ptain his nephew, the 
reputation of the family of Byron, so ancient and 
honourable in English history, had been considerab y 
tarnished, whan it was fated to give birth to the first 
poet of his aje. The former «as tried by his peers 
for killing his relation, Mr. Chaworth, in a combat 
with swords, afier a tavern dispute, under circum- 
stances so equivocal, that he was indicted for murder, 
and Only saved from the penalty attendant on man- 
slaughter by pleading his peerage, an escape which 
did not prevent him from being consigned b)' public 
opinion to a life of seclusion and obscurity. Captain 
Byron, on the other hand, was so dissipated, that he 
obtained the name of the "mad Jack Byron." He 
was one of the handsomest men of his day, but so 
immersed in all the fashionable vces, that at lensrth 
to be seen in his company was deemed discreditable. 
In his tweiity-vever.th year he se luceJ Amelia, mar- 
chioness of Carmar hen, daughter of the earl of 
Holdernesse, to whom, on a liivorce following, he 
was united in marriije. This ceremony the ill- 
fated lady did not survive more than two years, when 
he took for a second wife Miss Gordon, whose fortune 
he quickly dissipated, leaving her a destitute widow 
in 1791, with a son, the celebrated subject of this 
article, then only three years of a<8. Previously to 
the death of her husband, having been deserted by 
him, Mrs. Byron prudently re i red with her infant 
son to Aberdeen, where she lived in narrow circum- 
stances and great seclusion. It Is necessay to be thus 
particular in these preparatory details, in the present 
instance, because the singularity of the circumstances 
attendant upon the early childhiod :( Lord Byron, 
seems to have operated very materially in the forma- 
tion of his very striking character. Until seven 
years of age the care of his education rested solely on 
nis mother, to whose excusable, but injudicious in- 
dulgence, some of the waywardness by which it was 
subsequently marked, was even by himself attributed. 
Being then'of a weakly constitution, that dis,advan- 
tage, added to a slight malconformation in one of his 
feet, naturally rendered him an object of peculiar 
solicitude, and to invigorate his cons'itution, he w.as 
not sent to school, but alio» ed to brace his limbs upon 
(he mountains in the neighbourhood ; where he early 
acquired associations, and encountered a mass of 
legendary lore which indisputably nurtured his poeti- 
cal tendencies. At the age of seven he was sent to 
the grammar-school at Aberdeen. In I79S, the death 
of his great-uncle, without issue, gave Byron the 
titles and estates of the family, on which, being then 
ten years of age, he was removed from the immediate 
care of his mother, and placed under Hje guardian- 
ship of the earl of Carlisle. On this change the 
youthful lord was placed at Harrow, where he dis- 
tingulsheJ himself more by his Jove of manly sports 
and by his undaunted spirit, than by his attention to 
his studies. 

While yet at school, he fell deeply in love with 
Miss Chawor h, the daughter and heiress of ihe gen- 
tleman who had fa'lea by the hand of his great-uncle, 
whom he met with on his occasional visits to New- 
stead. This lady, uhimately, married another and 
more mature suitor. 

Lord Byron was deeply wounded by this disap- 
pointment, and to the latest period of his life regard- 
ed it with the most melancholy feelings. 



When between sixteen and seventeen, he was 
entered of Trinity College, Cambridge ; and here, as 
at Harrow, his dislike of discipline drew upon him 
I much unavoidable rebuke, which he repaid with 
f sarcasm and satire; and among other practical jokes 
; kept a bear, which he observed lie was training up 
j for a degree. At nineteen he quitted the university, 
1 and took np his residence at the family seat of New- 
, stead Abbey, where he indulged himself chiefly in 
I amnsf>m«n and especially in aquatic sports and 
■ ■'"" while' still at Newstead, he ar- 



amusemen , 
swimming 



j ranged his early productions, which he caused to be 
printed at Newark, under the tiiie of "Hours of 
' Idleness," by George Gordon Lord Byron, a Alinor. 
These poems, although exhibiting some indication of 
j the future poet, also betrayed several marks of juve- 
I nility and imitation, which induced the Edinburgh 
I reviewers to indulge in a celebrated attack much 
I less distinguished for wit or acumen than for unrea- 
; sonable causticity and ill-nature. The ridicule and 
; neglect produced by this critique, roused the anserof 
: the rising poet, who took his revenge in his cele- 
j brated satire of '• English Bards a d Scotch Review- 
I ers." It is unpleasan't to relate th.at about this time 
> Lord Byron gave into a career of dissipation, loo pre- 
I valeut among the youihful possessors of rank and 
I fortune, when altoaetht-r uncontrolled. 1 hus his 
I fortune was deeply involved before he had attained 
j leea' maturity, and his constitution much impaired 
by the excesses in which he spent it. '1 his however 
was not a course to last ; and in the year 1809, he 
1 deter-mined to travel, and accordingly, in company 
j with his fellow-collegian. John Cam Hobhouse, Esq., 
I he embarked at Falmouth, for Lisbon, anJ prrceeded 
i by the southern provinces of Sprin to the Mediter- 
I ranean. His subsequent peregrii ation in Greece, 
Turkey, &c., need not le detailed here, having been 
I rendered so famous by his fine poem of "thilde 
Harold's Pilgrimage." He returned home in June, 
181 1, after an absence of two years, and had not long 
arrived before he was surr.momed to Newstead, by 
the dangeious illness of his mother, who breathed 
her last before he could reach her. 

The publication of Childe Harold, which now took 
place, at ciice placed its author on the l< fliest pin- 
nacle of poetic fame. T he splendour and originality 
of the poem astonished and dazzled his contempora- 
ries. Fanegjric flowed in upon him from almost 
every quarter, and his acquaintance became univer- 
sally courted. His manners, person, and c nversa- 
tion, were wtll calcu ated to I.eighteii the attraction 
at first created by his genius ; ai d it is to be regretted 
that, aniidst the allurements and excitement presented 
in the glittering world of fashion. Lord Byron be- 
came involved fn intrigues w hich were scarcely cal- 
I culated to enhance his feputaion for morality. 
I The quick and sv;ruiii.ising glance which Lord 
Byron lad cast on Eastern character and manners, 
were now manifested in ''The Giaour;" "The 
Bride of Abydos;" "The Coi-sair," (the copy light 
of which, as well as that of Childe Harold, he gave 
to Mr. Dallas;) "Lara;" and " T he Siege of Co- 
rinth ; " which follow ed one another in quick succes- 
sion. For parliamentary duties, he seems to have 
had a decidid distaste; and it was not until his re- 
turn from the Continent that he ventured to speak. 
He made his maiden speech in February, ISI2, from 
the opposition bench, against the frame-work bill, 
and was argumentative and lively, if not very 
original. Having now become a character whose 
support might be cf considerable consequence, he 
was c-^ngralulated accordingly. Andher time he 
addressed the he use in support of Catholic emancipa- 
tion, rnd a third and last time on presenting a peti- 
lion from Major Cartwright. 

On the 2d of Januarv, l?13, he married Anna Isa 
bella, only daughter o'f Sir Ralph Milbauke Noel, 

(5) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



Bart., to whom he had proposed himself a year be- 
fore, and been rejected. The fortune received with 
his lady was not large, and his own having been pre- 
viously much enthralled, the reckless system of 
»plendour which succeeded the mariiage, could not 
be long maintained, and after endurinsf considerable 
embarrassments, it was finally settled that LaJy 
Byron, who had presented his U rdship with a daugh- 
ter on the lOth of December, should pay her father a 
visit until better arrangements could be made. From 
this visit. Lady Byron ultimately refused to return, 
and a formal separation ensued, the exact merits of 
which will most likely never be ascertained. This 
rupture produced a considerable- sensitiou in the 
world of fashion, and the most contradictory rumours 
prevailed, in the midst of which Lord Byron left 
England, with an expressed resolution i.ever to 
return. He crossed over to France, through which 
he passed rapidly to Brussels, taking on his way a 
survey of the field of Waterloo. He then visited the 
banks' of the Rhine, Switzerland, and the nr rth of 
Italy, and for some time took up his abode at Venice. 
Here he was joined by Mr. Hobhouse, who accom- 
panied him on a visit to Rome, where he completed 
his third canto of "Childe Harold," %vhich showed 
that his wounded mind had in no degree chilled his 
poetic fire. Not long after appeared •' The Prisoner 
of Chillon, a Dream, and other poems ; " and in 1817, 
" Manfred," a tragedy, and the " Lament of Tasso." 
In one of his excursions from Italy, he resided for 
•ome time at Abydos, and thence proceeded to Tene- 
d03 and the island of Scio, where he likewise staid 
three months, during which time he visited every 
classical scene, and frequently slept in the peasants' 
cottages, to whom his liberality made him a welcome 
guest. He also visited several other islands, and at 
length repaired to Athens, where he sketched many 
of the scenes of the fourth and last Canto of Childe 
Harold, which poem was published in ISIS. In the 
same year appeared the playful jeu desprit of 
"Beppo." In 1819. was published the romantic tale 
of " Mazeppa," and the same yeir was marked with 
the commencement of his " Don Juan." In 1820, 
was published " Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice." 
In the same year appeared the noble dr.ima of 
"Sardanapalus; " "The Two Foscari," a tragedy; 
and " Cain," a mystery. 

When Lord Byron quitted Venice, after visiting 
several parts of the Italian dominions of Austria, he 
settled at Pisa ; where he became connected with the 
Gamba family, in whose behalf he endured some in- 
convenience, which ended in the banishment of the 
Counts Gamba, and the open residence of the Coun- 
tess with Lord Byron. In 1822, in conjunction with 
Mr. Leigh Hunt, who on invitation had become his 
guest, and Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley, the periodical 
publication called "The Liberal."' was commenced, 
which, principally owing to the unhappy fate of Mr! 
Shelley, (who perished by the upsetting of a boat in 
the Mediterranean,) extended only to four numbers. 
In this work first appeared the celebrated " Vision of 
Judgment." ' Heaven and Earth," a mystery, also 
first appeared in the Liberal. The later Cantos of 
Don Juan, with " Werner," a tragedy, and the "De- 
formed Transformed," a fragment, bring up the rear 
of Lord Byron's performances. 

In the autumn of 1S22, he quitted Pisa and winter- 
ed at Genoa, and now began to indulge those feelings 
in regard to the eflforts of'the Greeks to throw ofl the 
Mahometan yoke, which determined him to lend 
them the aid of his person, purse, and influence. In 
August, 1823, he embarked, accompanied by five or 
lix friends, in an English vessel which he had hired 



for the purpose, and arrived at the commenceiceDt o( 
the third campaign. He established himself some 
time in Cephalonia, and generously advanced 12,000 
pounds sterling in aid of the cause which he had 
espoused. After due preparation, he sailed from 
Argos'oli with two Ionian vessels, and taijin» con- 
siderable specie on board, he proceeded to Misso- 
longhi ; w here, afer considerable hazard and danger, 
and the loss of one of his vessels, he finally arrived, 
and was received » ith every possible mark of hon- 
our that Grecian gratitude could devise. His influence 
was very salutary in the mitigation of the ferocity 
with which the war was waged on the part of the 
Greeks; but it was much more difficult to produce 
union among their leaders. He immediately began 
to form a brigade of Suliotes. five hundred of whom 
were taken into his pay, with a view to an expedition 
against Lepanto ; but such was the disorderly and 
unsettled temper of these troops, he was obliged to 
postpone it. This unexpected disappointment prey- 
ed on his spirits, and on the 15th February, he wai 
attacked w iih a severe fit of the epilepsy. He bad 
subsequently other attacks, but at length the violence 
of the disorder began to yield to the i'kill of his phy- 
sician, and he was recommended to remove for a 
while from the flat, marshy, and uuhealthful site of 
Missolonghi to Z.ante. This step, \7ilh his usual 
tenacity, he refused to take: " I cannot quit Greece, 
(he wrote to a f iendj while there is a chance tf my 
being even of (supposed) utility. There is a stake 
worth m.llions; such as I am, and while I can stand 
at all, I must stand by the cause. While I say this, I 
am aware of the difficulties, dissensions, and defects 
of the Greeks themselves, but allowance must be 
made for them by all reasonable people." On the 
expedition against I.epanto being given up, other pro- 
jects were proposed with reference both to military 
operations and to congresses for uniting eastern and 
western Greece ; but, unhappily, the fatal moment 
was at hand, w h;ch was to deprive the Greek cause 
of its firm and energetic friend. 

On the 9th of April, Lord Byron, while riding out, 
got extremely wet ; and, scarcely recovered from the 
effects of his former disorder, a fever ensued, which 
it is thought might have yielded to copious bleeding 
in the first instance, but w hich, owing either to bis 
own objection, or the inadequate opinion of the phy- 
sician of the nature of the disease, was destined to 
prove fatal on the evening of the 19th April, 1824. 
1 he body of Lord Byron was brought to England, 
and laid in state in London, but was subsequently 
escorted out of town by a funeral procession, of which 
several distingU'sbed characters, and a number of the 
carriages of the nobility and geniiy formed a part. 
It was received at Nottingham by the corporation, 
and attended to the place of interment at Hucknell, 
near his own seat of Newstead Abbey, where a plain 
marble slab merely records his name and title, date 
of death, and age. Besides his only legitimate child 
and heiress, Lord Byron left another daughter In 
Italy, to whom he left 3,000i. on the condition of not 
marrying an Englishman. The successor to hi* 
estate and title was his cousin, Capt. George AnsOB 
Byron, of the royal navy. 

This is not the place to enter into an analysis of the 
merits of Lord Byron, nor to characterize ix»ri 
fically his various productions. But of one thing we 
may speak with a probability amounting almost to 



poetical reputation. Whilst the English 

shall endure. Lord Byron's poems will be road w]iar- 

ever it prevails. 



THE 

WORKS 

OF 

LORD BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO MURRAY'S LONDON EDITION. 

At tlie distance of eight years from Lord Byron's death, in arranging his poetical works for this the first 
complete and uniform edition of them, it has been resolved, after much consideration, to follow, as closely as 
possible, the order of chronology. With a writer whose pieces do not prominently connect themselves with 
the actual sequence of his private history, another course might hive seemed more advisable; but, in tlie case 
of one whose compositions reflect constantly the incidents of his own career, the developement of his senti- 
ments, and the growth of his character — in the case of a Petrarch, a Burns, a Schiller, or a Byron, — Itie 
advantages of the plan here adopted appear unquestionable. 

The poetical works of Lord Byron, thus arranged, and illustrated from his own diaries and letters — (to 
many of which, as yet in MS., the Editor has had access), — and from the information of his surviving 
friends, who have in general answered every enquiry wiih prompt kindness, — will now present the clearest 
picture of the his'ory of the man, as they must ever form ihe noblest monument of his genius. 

Besides rtie juvenile miscellany of 1807, entitled " Hours of Idleness," and the satire of " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," first published in 1809, the present volume embraces a variety of Occasional I'ieces, many 
of them now first printed, written between lf^07 and the summer of 1810. Its contents bring down, theretbre, 
the poetical autobiography of Lord Byron, from the early days of Southwell and Harrow, to the time when he 
had seriously entered on the great work which fixed his place in the highest rank of English literature. 

Here the reader is enabled to take " the river of his life" at its sources, and trace it gradually from Ihe boyish 
regions of passionately tender friendships, innocent balf-fancifui loves, and that vague melancholy which hangs 
over the first stirrings of ambition, unlil, widening and strengthening as it flows, it begins to appear discoloured 
with the bitter waters of thwarted atiection and outraged pride. No person, it is hoped, will hesitate to confess 
that new light is thrown on such of these pieces as had been published previously, by the arrangement and 
annotation which they have at length received — any more than that, among the minor poems now for Ihe first 
time printed, there are several which claim a higher place, as productions of Lord Byron's genius, than any 
of those with which, in justice to him and to his reader, they are thus interwoven. 

Composed entireiy of verses written between the ages of fifteen and twenty three, this volume,'— even con- 
sidered in a mere literary point of view, — must be allowed to stand alone in the history of Juvenile Poetry. 
But every page of it is in fact, when rightly understood, a chapter of the author's " confessions ;" and it is by 
contemplating these faithful records of the progress of his mind and feelings, in conjunction with those alrndy 
presented in the prose notices of his life, — which mutually illustrate and confirm each other throughout,— 
(hat the reader can alone prepare himself for entering with full advantage on the first canto of Childe Harold. 

The Editor's notes are indicated by the addition of the letter E. 
London, June, 1832. 



HOURS OF idleness; 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 



Virginibus puerisque canto. Horace, lib. 3. Ode 1. 

MiJT* ^p fit ftdX' dives lirJTt rt vtCicft. Homer, Iliad, z. 249. 

He whistled as he went, for want of thought. Dryden. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOUR.\BLE 

FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC., 

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, BV IiIS 

OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,' 

THE AUTHOR. 

1 The (!r9t of the Ixindnn edition. 2 First published In 1807. 

3 Isabel, dangtiter of William, fourth Lord Brron (great-great unde of the Poet), became. In 1743, the wifc el 
Henry, fourth Earl of Carlisle, and was ttie mother of the fifth Earl, to whom this dedication was addressed. Ttik 
laiy was a poetess in her way. The Fairy's answer to Mrs. Grcville's "Prayer of Indifference," in PearchiCe* 
le.:tloii, ie usually ascribed to her. — E. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

In submitting to the public eye the foHowing collec- 
tion, I have not only to coni'bal the ditficulties that 
writers of vene generally er.counter, but nny incur 
the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the 
world, when, without doubt, 1 might be, at my age, 
more usefully enijiloyed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours 
of a young man who has lately completed his nine- 
teenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a 
boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
Some few were wiitten during the di^advantiges of 
illness and depression of spirits: under the former in- 
fluence, " Childish HuolUctiuns," in particular, were 
composed. This coiisidera'inn, though it cannot excite 
the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of cen- 
sure. A considerable portion of these poems has been 
privately printed, at the request and for ttie perusal of 
my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre- 
quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not 
the criterion by which poetical genius is to be esti- 
mated, yet, " to do greatly," we must " dare greatly ;" 
and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in pub- 
lishing this volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and 
must stand or fall by the " cast of the die." In the 
latter event, 1 shall submit without a murmur ; for, 
though not without solicitude for the fate of these effu- 
sions, mv expectations are by no, means sanguine. It 
is probable that I may have dared much and do- e lit- 
♦)»: for, in the words of Cowper, " it is one thing to 
VTite what may please our friends, who, because they 
are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, 
and another to write what naay please every body ; be- 
cause they who have no connection, or even know- 
ledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they 
can." To the truth of ibis, however, I do not wholly 
subscribe : on the contrary. I feel convinced that these 
trifles will not be treated wi!h injustice. Their merit, 
if they possess any, will bo liberally allowed : their 
Qumerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that 
favour which has been denied to others of maturer 
years, decided character, and far greater ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive origiiialiiy, still less 
have I studied any particular model for imitation : 
some translations are given, of which many are para- 
phrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a 
casual coincidence with authors whose works I have 
been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty 
of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing en- 
tirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a 
Herculean task, as every subject has already been 
treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not 
my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged 
me "to this sin:" little can be expec'ed from so un- 
promising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, 
is a'l I shall derive from these productions; and I 
shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or 
pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I 
am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my 
younser d.ays, to rove a careless mountaineer on the 
Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of Lite years, had 
the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, 
as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine 
bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But 
they derive considerrible fame, and a few not less 
profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate 
my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the lat- 
ter, and in all probability with a very slight share of 
the former, I leue to others " virum voliiare per on." 
I look to the few who will hear with patience " dulce 
est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, 
without repining, the hope of immortality, and content 
myself with the not very majnihcent prospect of rank- 
ing amongst "the mob of gentlemen who write;"'— 
my readers must determine whether I dare say " with 
rase." oi the honour of a poshumous page in " The 
Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors."— a work to 
which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inas- 



much as many names of considerable length, sound, 
and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity 
which unluckily overshadows several volumiiious pro 
ductions of their illustrious beaiers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this 
first and l.^st attempt. To the dictates of young am- 
bition may be a.«cribed many actions more criminal 
and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the 
contents may aiford amusement : I trust they will, at 
least, be found haimless. It is highly improbible, 
from my situation and pursuits bereafteK that I should 
ever obtrude myself a second iinie on the public; nor 
even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, 
shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the 
same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the 
Poems of n noble relation of mine,' " That when a 
man of rank appeared in the character of an author, 
he deserved to have his merit handsomely alio '• ed," 
can have little weight with verbil, and still less with 
periodical censors; but were it otherwise, 1 should be 
loth to avail my.-elf of the privilege, and would rather 
incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, 
than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN 
TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO 
HIM.!* 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 

Not e'en a yephyr wanders through the grove, 
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, 

And scatter flowers on the dust 1 love. 
Within this narrow 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 redssffi'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! 
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 

Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 
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. 

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, 
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? 

Ah ! no. far iiy from me attempts so vain ; — 
I'll ne'er suljmission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear. 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO E . 3 

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. 



1 Ttie Karl cf Carlisle, whose works have long r«-;c-.»ed 
llie meed of public apflaiise. to wliich, by their intrinsic 
worth, Itiey were well entitled. 

2 Tlie author elaims the indulgenre of the reader more 
for tliis piece than, perhaps, any r.ther in the collection; 
but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest 
(be ng rompOKPd ai the age of rnurlei-n), :ind his first esmf, 
he preferred eubmitling it to the iiidulgemi- of his friends 
in its present state, to mailing either addition or al',era> 
tion. 

3 This little poem, and some others in the cnllectiiw, 
refer to n bojr of Lord Byron's own age, son of one of hit 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And thOQgb unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 

Tet envy not this gaudy state ; 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
Since worth of raiik supplies the place. 

November, 1802. 



TO D . 

In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom deith alone could sever; 
Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detich'd thee from my breast for ever. 

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. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is give 



Without thee, where i 



february, 1S03. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

" 'Ao-T^p nglv fikv tXaft.nts ivl Jwoto-iv i('oos.^' 
Laertivs. 
Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath. 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 
Could tears retard the tj/ant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert the dart's relentless force ; 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. 
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie. 
Here will thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptors art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep. 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thv youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, 
Yet other ofifspring soothe his anguish here : 
But, who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image, what new friendship can efface ? 
Ah, none ! — a father'.-, 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. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their clioice ; 
When, poised tjpon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or. dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; • 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculplur'd urns. 
To mark the spot where eirih to earth returns ! 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praiseencuniber'd stone; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 

tenants at NewsteaJ, for whom he liad formed a romantic 
attachment, of earliei date than anjr of bis school friend- 
•hlpa. — E. 



If that with honour fail to crown my day, 
Oh ! mav no other fame my deeds repav ' 
Thai, oiily :hal. shall timk out the ^pot ; 
By that rememberd, or wi;h lliat forgot. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

"Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged 
days? Thou lookest from Ihy lower today ^ yet a few 
years, and the blast of Ihe desert comes, it howls io Ihy 
empty court."— Ossiun. 

Through thy hattlenicnts, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 

Th^u. the hall of my fathers, art goni 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 mailcover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
The escutcheon and shield, v^•tich with every blast 
rattle, 

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers. 

Raise a tiame in the breast for the war-laurell'd 
wreath; 
Near .Ask;ilon's towers. John of Horistan » slumbers, 

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; » 

For the safety of Edward and England tliey fell : 
My fa'hers 1 the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can 
tell. 
On Marston,' with Rupert,-* 'gainst traitors contending. 

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak 
field; 
For Ihe rights of a monarch their country defending, 

lill 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 imjiartins 

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 

'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
That fai'je, and that memory still will he cherish; 

He vcivs that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: 
Like you he will live, or like you he will perish : 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with yoiir 
own 1 

1803. 



LINES WRITTEN IN « LETTERS OF AN ITA- 
LIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLE- 
MAN: BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON 
FACTS." 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believing. 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 



1 " In the park of Horseley, 
a castle, some of Ihe ruins of 
Horistan Ca^lle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de 
Buruii'n successors." 

2 Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serv- 
ing with di><tincIion in (he siege of Calais, under Kdward 
III., and as amm g the knights who fell on the glorious 
lieldof Cressy. — E. 

3 The battle of Marstnn Moor, where the adherents of 
Charles I. were defeated. 

4 Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. 
ommauded the fleet in (he rviga of 



{ Charles II. 



10 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRE3SE 
TO MISS . 

Dear, simpie girl, those flattering arts. 

From which tliou Mst guard frail female heirts, 

Exist but io imagination, — 

>U.e phantoms of thjne own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face. 

With eyes admiring, oh I believe me. 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Onoe 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 ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 't is truth. 

July, 1S04. 



[Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes. coraesque, corporia, 
Quae nunc abidis in Inca — 
Patlidulat rigida. uudula. 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocoB?] 

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region bornej 
Wilt Ihou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
AD LESBIAM. 

Kqual to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from Je.\lousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah I 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 irembling 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 fice 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 veiled in starless night ; 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a temporar}- death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL 
AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIOS MARSCS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roU'd, 

And he who s'ruck the softer lyre of love. 
By l)eatlfs2 unequal hand alike controll'd, 
'Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



I This and several little pieces that follow appear to be 
fragments of school exercises done at Harrow. — E. 

3 The hand of Death Is said to be unjiiRt or nnpqual, as 
Virgil was considerably older than Tibulliis at his decease. ' 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 
"Sulpicia ad Cerinlhura. " — X.iA. 4. 
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease 
Which racks iny breist your tickle bosom pie 
Alns ! 1 wish'd bu! to o'ercome the pain, 
'1 hat I might live for love and you again : 
But now I scaicely shall bewail my fate: 
By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &.:.} 
Ye Cupids, droop each little head. 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
For he was gentle, and so true. 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no w ild 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 gra'eful 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 thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; 
1 hou art the cause of all her woe, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 



Oh! 



TO ELLEN. 
ght I kiss those eyes of fire. 



A million scarce would quench desire : 
Still wou'l I steef 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 Ihee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever j 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavour : 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 
[Justum et tenacem propositi virum, Jkc] 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control. 
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent: 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent. 
To curb the Adriatic main. 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in fain. 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurllin? his lightnings from above. 
With all his terrors there unfuri'd, 

He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
The flames of an expiring world, 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd. 
In vast promiscuous ruin huil'd. 
Might light his glorious funeral pile: 
Still dauntless 'midst the wTeck of earth he'd •ai'to. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



11 



FROM ANACREON. 

[8tX(u Xtyttv Arpetdas, k. t. X.] 

I wish to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought ami nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renownd in arms ! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is struiig, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



FROM ANACREON. 

[Me<rovvKTiais Ttod' dipatj, k. t. A.]. 

'T was now the hour when Night had driven 

Her car hal f round yon sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the polej 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to n)y gate directs his course. 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My vision fled, alarm'd 1 rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" 

" Alas !" re])lies the wily child 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

"A hapless infant here 1 roam. 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 

No prowling robber lingers here. 

A wandering baby who can fear ?" 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's woe. 

I drew the bar. and by the light 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 

His bow across his shoulders flung, 

And thence his fatal quiver hung. 

(Ah ! Utile did I 'hink the dart 

Wou'id rankle soon within my heart). 

With care I tend m^ weary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast; 

His glossy curls, his azuie wing, 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm. 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 

Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, " if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 

Deetf 'n my tortured heart it lies ; 



Then loud the joyous urchm laugh'd : — 
" My bow can still impel the shaft : 
'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it f" 



FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF 
^SCHYLUS. 

[MijJa/i' 6 ndvTa vt/tiov, k. t. X.] 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 

Both gods and mortals homage pay, 

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sacied victim fall 
In sea girt Ocean's mossj; 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, 
Noryet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.* 
Harrow, Dec. 1, 1SC4. 



TO EMMA. 

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. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe. 

Which bids us part to meet no more; 

Which tears me far from or.e so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 

Well ! we have passed some happy hours, 
And joy will mingle with our tears; 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from this Gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell, 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
We lingering look a last farewell, 

0"er fields through which we used to run 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done. 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I. admiring, too remiss, 
Forgot to scare the hovering flies. 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes: 

See still the little painted bark. 
In which 1 row'd you o'er the lake ; 

See there, high waving o'er the park, 
The elm 1 clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone. 
You leave me, leave this happy vale; 

These scenes I must retrace alone : 
Without thee what will they avail ? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 



1 Lord Byron in one of his diaries says, ''My first Har- 
row verses, (ttiat is, English as Exercises), a traiislatiou 
of a chorus from the Prometheus of Aeschylus, were re- 
ceived by Dr. Drury, my grand rn'ron (our head maater) 
but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least DOtiao 
that I should subside -nto poesy. "--ii. 



12 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



This is the deepest of our woes. 
For tills these tears our cheeks bedew ; 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God 1 the fondest, last adieu 1 



Whene'er I view those lips of thine. 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss; 

^et, I foregT thni bliss divine, 
Alas 1 it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast. 
How could I dwell upon its snows I 

Yet is the daring wish represt, 

For thit, — would banisii its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-seirching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 

Yet 1 conceil my love. — and why ? 
1 would npt force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 

And shill I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 

No 1 for thou never canst be mine, 

United by Ihe pries's decree: 
By any ties but those divine, 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shall be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shall not know: 

With joy I court a certain doom. 
Bather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart, 

By driving dove eyed peace from thine ; 

Rather than such a sting impart. 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Tes '. yield those lips, for which I "d brave 
Alore than I here shall dare to tell; 

Tbv innocence and mine to save, — 
Ibid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
And hope no more thy soft embrace; 

Which to obtain my soiil would dare, 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shall thou be free, 
No matron shall thy shame reprove; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, in/plore to stay ; 

And heard unmoved Ihy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more"than words can say ? 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Tfet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 

Throbb'd' with deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish g!ow*d. 
When thy sweet lips were joiu'd lo mine. 

The tears that from my eyelids flow-d 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could'st not feel my burninj cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its iiame, 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak. 
In signs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 



Remembrance only can remain,— 
But that will make us weep the more. 

Again. Ihou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget 1 



TO CAROLINE. ■; 

When I bear you express an aflfection so warm. 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; |i 

For your lip would Ihe soul of suspicion disarm, ; \ 

And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
1 hat love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear ; 

That age will come on, when remembrance deploring. 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to Ihe 
breeze, 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my . 
featurf-s, I 

Though 1 ne'er shall presume to arraisn the decree, 
Which God has proclaim'd as ihe fate of his creatures, 

In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 

He worships each look with such falhful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake ns. 
And our breasts, w^hich alive with such sympathy 
glow, 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall a^jake us, 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low, — 

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. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? 

Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
clay? 
The present is hell, and the coming to morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no 
curves, 

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; 
For poor is the scnl which bewailing rehearses 

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
'bri'ght'ning. 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 
culd assuage. 
On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its 
lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing. 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 

Could they view us our sad separaiion bew.iiling, 
Iheir inerciless heart would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet 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 cousolatiou. I 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. i 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



13 



0^1 ! when, mv adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are tied ? 

J aga^'n in the niaiision (f death 1 embrace Ibee, 
I^cibaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

1S05. 



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 J.ove'.s enchantius; dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disippointid maid ; 

Or pupil of the prudish school, 
In siijgle sorrow doom'd to fade ? 

Then read, dear girl I with feeling read, 
For th^u wilt ne'er be one of ihose ; 

To thee in vam 1 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. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 

'A Bap/Jtroj It ;top5aJS 

"EpwTo iiovvov i]X^- — Anacreon. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; 

Those tissues of falsehood " hich folly has wove ! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phanta"^- glow, 
Whose pastoral ptissions are made for the grove ; 

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow. 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love. 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse. 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 

And tiy the effect of the first kiss ot love. 

I hale you, ye cold compositions of art : 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigols reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the ifeart. 

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 

Your shepherds, youi flocks, those fantastical themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, though they never can move: 

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth. 
From Adam till now, has with wrelchedness strove: 



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 kis."- of love. 



Where are those honours. Ida ! once your own, 
When Probiis 2 i.U'd your maJtislerial throne? 
As ancient Home, fist' falling to di-gi,ace, 
Haild a b irbariau 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 nirrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control j 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd. 
With tiorid jargon, and with vain parade; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules. 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedan ry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sarctioned but by self apjilause. 
With him the ^fame dire fa'e attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida '. soon must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'erthrown. for ever lost to fame. 
Ho irpce of science left you, but the name. 

July, 1805. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 3 

Dorset ! whose early steps wi'h mine have stray'd, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
Whom still afieclion taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tvrqnt than a friend. 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade thte obey, the gave me to command; * 
T hee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gift of rict.esarid the pride of power; 
E'en now a name illustrious is ihine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Vet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control. 
Though passive tutors, 5 fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare. " that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That bonks were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common i ules ;" 



1 Lord Strangford's translations of Camoene' Amatory 
Verses, ami Little's Foems, are mentioned by Mr. Moore 
aa having been at ttiis period a favourite stud; of Lord 
Byron. — E, 



plagned enfficienlly, yvaa the 
strict, too) friend I ever had; 
s a father." — Bi/ron Diar 
select a few addilii 



the summer of 



ler. — E. 

2 " Dr. Driiry, whom 
beat, thi; kindest (and y« 
and I louk upon him still 

3 In looking over my papers I 
poems for this swond edition, I found 
which I had totally f';rgolten, composed i 
1805, a short time previous to mydepnrtii 
They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, 
who had been my frequent companion in sime rambles 
through the neighbouiingroontry : however.he nfversaw 
the lines, and most probably never will. As, oa a re-pe- 
rusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in 
the collection, I have now pubti<hed them, lor the first 
time, after a sliuht revision. — [Georg'-John-Frcderirk, 
fourth Duke of l>orset, born November 16. 1793. This 
ami'dble nobleman was. kilhd by a fall from his hoi«e, 
while hunting near Dublin. Kebriary 22, 1IS15, being cu a 
visit at the liir.e to his molh>-r. the duihess-dowager. ncd 
hersecond hue';and, Charles Earl of Whitworth.then Lord 
Lieutenant of Ireland.] 

4 At every public school the junior l)oy^< are completely 
subservient to the upper forms till they attain ! 
the higher classes. From this state of pribalion. very 
properly, no class is exempt ; but afler a certain period, 
they command in turn those who succeed. 

5 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions. eTcn tlie 
most distant. I merely mention generally what i« too 
often the weakness of preceptors. 



u 



HOURS OF IDLEJNESS. 



Believe them not ; — they point the patli to shame, 

And »eek to blast the honours of thy name. 

Turn to the few in Ua's early throng, 

Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 

Or if, amidst the comrades of tliy you'.h, 

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 

Aslc thine own heart; 't will bid Ibee, boy, forbear; 

For lotll 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 I have mark'd within ihat generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to ble^s mankind. 
Ah ! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child ; 
Though ever)' error stamps me for her own, 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

' T is not enough, with other sons of power. 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
To swell some peerage pagj in feeble pride, 
With long-drawn names that grace no page besije ; 
Then share with tilled crowds the common lot — 
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
Exce|)t the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 
1 he mouldering 'scutcheon, or the her.ild's roll, 
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 
VVIiere lords, uuhonourd, in the tomb may find 
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread. 
In records destined never to be read. 
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
Eiaited more among the good and nise, 
A glorious and a long career pursue, 
As^fiist in rank, the first in Lilent too : 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day ; 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
One. though a courtier, lived a man of worth. 
And caird. proud boast I 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 pari ordain'd to shine : 
Far, far distmguish'd from the glittering throng. 
The piide of princes, and Ihfe boast of song. 
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 were 

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions .as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away. 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 
Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
'I'o these adieu 1 nor let me lineer o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore. 
Receding slowly through the dark -blue deep. 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Dorset, farewell I I will not ask one part 
(tf sad remembran.:e in so young :> heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perha()S, in some maturer year, 
Since" chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere. 
Since the same senate, nay. the s.ame debate, 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
We hence may meet, and pa«s e^ch other by 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend or foe, 
A strange.- to thyself, thy weal or woe, 
Wilh thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 



No more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 

Or hear, unless in cro«ds, thy well-known TOiee. 

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 I if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 

The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 

1806. 



FRAG.MENT. 
WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MAR- 
RIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. 

Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren. 
Where my Iho'ughtless childhood s"ray'd. 

How the northern 'tempests, warring, 
Howl above thy tufted shade ! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling. 
Former favourite haunts I see ; 

Now no more my Mary smiling 
Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 



GRANTA. — A MEDLEY. 
" 'Apyvpiois Ao'>'Ar<"<r' l^axov Kal ndvra Kp«- 
TTjcreus;" 
Oh '. could Le Sage's i demon's gift 

Be realised at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
Then would, unroopd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls. 
The price of venal votes to pay. 

TTien would I view each rival wight. 

Petty and P.almerston survey : 
Who canva-s there with all their might. 

Against the next elective day. 2 

Lo ! candidates and voters lie 

All luU'd in sleep, a goodly number: 
A race renown'd for piety, 

Whose conscience won't disturb their s' 
Lord H , 3 indeed, may not demur ; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, — now and then. 

They know the Chancellor his got 

Some pretty livings in disposal : 
Each hopes that one may be his lot. 

And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

Now from the soporific scene 

I '11 turn mine eye, as night grows later. 

To view, unheeded and unseen. 
The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits porine 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 : 



I Tlie Diable Bnileux of Le Sage, nhcre Aiiaindeiia,tbe 
demon, plareti Don Cleotaa on an elevdted etluaCioD, und 
unroofs llie tinuses for iiiHpfcliou. 

S On ttic deatli of .Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Hen- 
ry Petty and Lord Palmerston were canjidatee lo refire- 
»cDt ttie University of Cambridge in parliament. — E. 

3 F.dward-HarTey Hawke, third I.ord Hawke. Hia 
Lnntahipdied in 1M4. — E. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



15 



Who ncrifices hours of rest 

To Kan precisely metres Attic ; 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic: 

Who reads false quantities in Seale,i 

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 
Deprived of nimy a wholesome meal ; 

In barbarous Latin 2 doom'd to wrangle : 

Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use; 
FrefeiTing to the letler'd sage, 

Tb*- square of the hypothenuse.3 

Still, harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared with other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent ; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 

When vice and infamy combine, 
When drunkenness and dice invite. 

As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

Not 90 the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay : 
In humble attitude they sue, 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forffetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'T is morn : — from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,* 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'T is hush'd : — what sounds are these I hear? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning 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 hs 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. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 

By some inhuman tyrant's order. 
Were asked 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. 



1 Spale'K publication on Greek Metres displays consider- 
able talent and inRenuity, but. as might be expected in 80 
difficult a work, is not remarkable f<ir accuracy. 

2 The Latin of the schouls is of the canine species, and 
not very intelligible. 

3 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the Rquarc of the 
hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two aides 
of a right-angled triangle. 

4 On ■ raint'i day, the students wear surplices in chapel. 



Therefore, farewtll, old Granta's spires I 
No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 

No more thy theme my muse inspire* : 
The reader 's tired, and so am I. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 

SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 
Oh ! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos. — Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 

Where science first dawn'd on the posvers of reflection, 
And friendships were formed, too romantic to last ; 

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 ! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 
The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
we fought ; 

The school where, loud wam"d by the bell, we resorted, 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

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. 

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded. 
Where, as Zanga,6 I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 

While, to swell my young pride, such applauses re- 
sounded, 
I fancied that Mossop t himself was outshone : 



Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation. 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived j 

Till, fired by loud plaudits 8 and self adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ve 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 i 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me. 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me. 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul 1 

But, if through the course of the years which await me, 
Some new scene of ple.asure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 
" Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew." 
1806. 



TO M . 

Oh ! did those eye;;, instead of fire. 
With bright but mild affection shine, 

Though they migh' kindle less desire. 
Love, more than mortal, vi'ould be thine. 



5 They show a tomb in the churchyard at Harrow, com- 
manding a view over Windsor, which was so well known 
to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it 
'•Byron's Tomb;" and here, they say, he used to sit for 
hours, wrapt up in thought. — E. 

6 For the display uf his declamatory poweni on the 
speech-days, he selected always the most vehement pus- 
sages; such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alon- 
zo, and Lear's address to the storm. — E. 

7 Mossop, H cotemporary of Garrick, famous for his per- 
formance of Zauga. 

8 '• My grand patron. Dr. Drury, had a great notion that 
I should turn out an orator, from my flutncy, mjr fuibu- 
lence, my voice, my ccpiouyness of declamation, aad itjr 
action." — Bjiron Diary. 



/ 



16 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs n^y wildly beam, 

We lu; si admire, but -.till despair; 
That fatal glance forbids reieein. 

When Nature samp'd thy benuieous birth. 

So luuch perfeotion in 'liec slioie, 
She fcard t!ia , loo divine for earth, 

The skies might ciaini thee for their own : 

Therefore, to guird her dearest work, 
ijes\ angels mighl dispuie the prize, 

She bade a secret li'litniiig lurk 
Within those ouce celestial eyes. 

Thtae might the boldest sylph appal, 
When gleaming with meridian blaze; 

Thy beaiiiy must eniTxp:ure all ; 
But tvho'can bear thine ardent gaze? 

T is said that Berenice's hair 
I In stars adorns the vault of heaven; 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: 

E'en suns, which systeniS now control. 
Would twiukle dimly through their sphere.* 

1&06. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman '. experience might have told me 

That all must love thee who behold thee : 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are naught ; 

But, placed in all thy charms before me. 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh, memory 1 th^u choices' blessing 

When join"d with hope, when s:ill possessii 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion 's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are sriplings to believe her! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy b'ue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willin? hrolh ! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 

When, lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand,' 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand." 3 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive; 

Extend not y^ur anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to night biit resemble the last. 

What rapture celestial is mine ! 

TTiey tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mirta^ity's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign mv frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven ! 



Ah I frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 
I Nor deem me too happy in this ; 

If 1 sin in my dream, 1 aione for it now, 
I '1 hug doom'd but to gaze upon b.iss. 

Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile. 

Oh : Ihinh ii it iiiy penance delicieiil I 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguilf, 

To awake will be torture sufGrient. 



TO MART, 
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.3 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 

Though strong as niortal art could give. 
My cnnstaut heart of fear disarms. 

Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 
Here I can trace the bcks 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 tioa's in liquid fire, 
-Must all the painter's art defy. 

And bid him from the task retire. 
Here I behold its beauteous hue ; 

Biit where 's the beam so sweetly straying, 
Which gave a lustre lo its blue. 

Like Lun:" o"er the ocean playing ? 

Swe'tcopy! 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 thai her image' there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, t will cheer; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
In life's last coiitiict 't will appear. 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBIA. 

Lesbia ! since far from yon I Ve ranged, 
Our souls with fond aifection glow not ; 

Tou say 't is I, iiot you, have changed. 
I "d tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish "d brow no cares have crost ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older 
Since, trembling, first my heart 1 lost, 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was iTien our utmost age, 

T« years have lingering past away, love 1 
And now new thoughts our minds engage. 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'T is I that am alone to blame, 
I, thit am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast i> still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 

I do not, love ! suspect your tru'b. 

With jealous doubt niy bosom heave* not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not 



1 "Two of the fairest slarR i 
Havtne some busiiieKs. cl^ 
To twinkle in tlieir hphe 



3 orthi! 



I all the heaven, 
iutrcal her eyes 
ef nil they return." 

MaUpeare. ,,„i^^„, . 

literal trtfnalalion from ■ golden hair, 

Rhow a lock, 



' Mary," who JH not to be eonrounded with the 
nnesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen, all thai has 
ined is, that she was of an humble if Dot 
lation in life, — and that she bad long light 
"of which," save Mr. Moore, "he used to 
as well as herpicture.BironKbis rrieiids."-Si 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



17 



Ifo, BO, my flame was not preteoded ; 

For, oh ' I loved you most sincerely ; 
And — tho'jjb our di earn at lr»st is ended - 

My besom ill 1 1 esteems you dearly. 
No more we mret in yonder bowers ; 

Absence h is Tiade ine prone to roving j 
But older, iirroer bearts Ihan ours 

Have fouud nio..otony iu loving. 
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd. 

New bc:iuties still are daily bri'ht'ningj 
Tour eye for conquest beams prepare<l, 

'J he forge of love's resis less liihtning. 
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 

Many will throng to sizh like me, iove ! 
More constant they may prove, indeed ; 

Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 



UNES ADDRESSED TO A VOUNG LADY. 
[AB the autlior wae disrharging his pistols m a garden. 



two ladies pasMng near the ep'jl w 
snuod of a bullet hissing near them; 
)Wing stanzas were addressed the 



alarmed by the 
3 one of whom the 
ext moroing.]! 



Doubtless, sweet girl 1 the hissing lead, 

Waflins destruction o'er thy charms, 
And hurtling^ o'er thy lovely head, 

Has hird that breast with fond alarms. 
Surely some envious demon's force, 

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
ImpeH'i the bullet's viewless course, 

Diverted from its first career. 
Tes ! 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. 
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upn that thrilling bosom fell j 
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear. 

Extracted from its glistening cell ; 
Say, what dire penance can aloue 

For such an outrage done to thee ? 
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 

What punishment wilt thou decree? 
Might 1 perform the judge's part. 

The sentence I should searce deplore ; 
It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 
The least atonement I can make 

Is 10 become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou Shalt be all in all to me. 
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject 

Such expialion of my guilt ; 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be dea-h, or what thou wilt. 
Choose then, relentless I and I swear 

Nousht shall Ihv dread decree prevent , 
Yet hold — one little word forbear I 

Let it be aught but banishment. 



In vain with endearments we soothe Ihe sad heart, 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
i The chance of an hour may command us to nirt, 
I Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swolUn 
I breast, 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :' 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's repreit, 
Ncr taste v%e the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his fiow'rs at 
they grew ; 

They flourisii awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady '. why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 

Yet wh)' do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

Oh '. who is yon misanthrope, shuHning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his comphii.t to the wind ; 

The mountains revei berate love's last adieu 1 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 

Despair now infiames the dark lide of his veins j 
He ponders in frenry on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel 
! His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few. 

Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 
I And dreads not the angui^h of love's last adieu ! 

I Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 
i No more wi'h love's former devotion we sue . 
■ He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ; 
I The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 

I In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
i Astrea declares that s^me penance is due ; 
From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shriue, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 

Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew . , I 

His mvrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; | 

His cypress, the garland of loves last adieu ! I 



DAMiETAS. 

In law an infant,3 and in years a boy. 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd , 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child; 

Fickle as wind, of inclin,ali6ns wild : 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school ; 

Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin^ 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still confliding p,assions shake his soul, 

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain. 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIELT. 
Ati d' o« /It (btvyti. — Jtnacrton. 

rhe roses of love glad the earden of life, 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife. 
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu ! 



1 T.ie occurrence took place at Southwell, and the 
l)faiitirul Indy to whom the lines were addressed was 
Miss Houson — E. 

£ This word is used by Oriiy, in his poem to the Fatal 
Bislerj-.— 

"Iron sleet of arrnwT shower 
Hurtles ihrouRh the darken'd nir." 



TO MARION. 

Marion ; why that pensive brow ? 
What disgust to life hast thou ? 
Change that discon enled air j 
Frowns become not one so fair. 
Tis not love disuib> thy rest, 
I/ive's a stranger to ihy breast ; 
He in dimpling smiles ap|«ars, 
Gr mourns in sweetly timid tear«. 



! an infant who hM Dot t 



:^ii 



18 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



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 mdifierence 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 %vouldst say, 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — bi'» here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curfsies, frowns, — in shoit she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 

And liying off in search of reason. 

Brings prudence b:ick in proper season. 

All 1 shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here nor there) 

Is. that such lips, of looks endearing, 

Were fonn'd for better things than sneering : 

Of soothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least "s disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee. 

From all the flow of Battery free ; 

Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskiU'd to cozen, 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu I oh, pr'ythee slight not 
This wrming, though it may deli|ht not ; 
And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teazing, 
At once I '11 tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Ilowe'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to love : 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture ; 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble train, 
To hail you queens of all creation. 
Know, in a word, 't h Animation, 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK 
OP HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND 
APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO 
MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine. 
In firmer chains our hearts confine, 
Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
Which swell with nonsense love-oratioiB. 
Our love is fix'd, I think we 've proved it, 
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 
Then wherefore should we si^h and whine. 
With groundless jealousy repine. 
With silly whims and fancies frantic. 
Merely to' make our love romantic ? 
Why shculd you weep like Lydia Languish, 
Aud fret with self-created anguish ? 
Or doom the lover you have chosen. 
On winter nights to si^h half frozen ; 
In leafliss shades to sue for pardon, 
Only oecause the scene 's a gnrden ? 
Jor gjrdens seem, by one consent. 
Since Shakspeare sel'ihe precedent, 
Since Juliet first declared her passion. 
To form the place of assignation.* 



[ 1 la Ibe atwve little piere the author has been Rccnned 
j, V/ tome candid readert cf introducing the name of a kdy 



Oh I would some modern muse nspire, 
And seat her by a sea coal tire ; 
Or had the bard at Christmas vr itten. 
And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
He surely, in commiseration. 
Had changed the place of declaration. 
In Italy 1 "ve no objectim ; 
Warm nights are proper for refie(/.;.;n; 
But here our climate is so rigid, 
That love itself is rather frigid: 
Think on our chilly situation, 
And curb this rage for imitation ; 
Then let us meet, as ofl we've doLa^ 
Beneath the influence of the sun j 
Or, if al midnight I must meet you, 
Within your mansion let me greet yon ; 
There we can love for hours Uigelher, 
Much better, in such snowy weather, 
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
That ever witness'd rural loves ; 
Then, if my passion fail to please, 
Next night I 'II be content to freeze ; 
No more I '11 give a loose to laughter. 
But curse my fate for ever after.a 



OSCAR OF ALVA.» 



How swee'ly shines through a7tire skies. 

The lamp of Heaven oii 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 phy'd ; 
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon. 

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 
And on the crimson'd rocks beneath. 

Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 

She saw the gasping warrior low j 
While many an eye which ne'er again 

Could mark the' rising orb of day, 
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 

Beheld in death her fading ray. 
Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 

They blest her dear propitious light j 
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. 

ifrom whom he vae some hundred miles distant at the 
' time this was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so 
.long in "the tomb of all the Capulels," has been con- 
jTerted. with a trifling alteration of her name, into an 
I English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, 
; during the month ti( December, in a village where the 
: author never passed a winter Such has been the candour 
of some ingenious critics. We wouM advise these tiiieral 
rommentatnrs on taste and arbiters of decorum to read 
Shaitpeare. 

I 2 Having heard that a very severe and indelicate cen- 
sure has bieu passed on the above poem, I beg leave to 
reply in a quotation from an admired work, 'Carr's 
Stranger in France." — 'As we were contemplating a 
painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is 
the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-look- 
ing lady, who seemed to have touched the a/5e of despera- 
tion, after having attentively surveyed it through her 
glass, observed to her party, that there was a great da»\ 
that picture.' Madame S. threwdly wl;;*. 
in t 

I 9 The catastrophe or this tnle was suggested bv the story 
of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schil- 
ler's "Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also beara some 
resemblance to a scene in the tl jrd act of "Macbeth." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



19 



But, who was list of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her lowers 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 j 
It rises hoarsely through the sky. 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
But there no more his banners rise. 

No more his plumes of sable wave. 
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 

Wlien Angus haii'd his eldest born; 
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 

Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 
They feast upon the mountain deer, 

7 he pibroch raised its piercing note ; 
To gladden more their highlandcheer, 

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 du>ky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 
But ere their years of youih are o'er. 

They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 

And send the whistling arrow far. 
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 

Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 
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 j 
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 

But O-car'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 Soulhannon'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 foothed the father's feudal pride 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
Har'ii 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 h <ll ; 
Each youth his raried plaid assumes. 

Attending on their chieftain's call. 
It is not war 'heir aid demands. 

The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands. 

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
But where is Oscar ? sure 't is late : 

U this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 



While thronging guests and ladies wait, 

Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 
At length young Allan join'd the bride ; 

'' Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 
" Is he liot here ?" the youth rejjlied ; 

" 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 aroind : 

Allan, with these through Alva fly j 
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 Heav'n, 

Restore the prop of sinking age ! 
Or if that hoi e no more is given, 

Yield his assassin to my rage. 
" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 

My Oscar's whi:en'd bones must liej 
Then grant, thou God 1 I ask no more. 

With him his frantic sire may die ! 
" Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear! 

God ! my impious prayer forgive 
" What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 

Alas ! can pangs like these be just ?" 
Thus did the hapless parent mourn. 

Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 
Had bade serenity return. 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 
For still some latent hope survived 

Thai Oscar might once more appear : 
His hope now droop'd and now revived, 

Till Time had told a tedious year. 
Days roll'd along, (he orb of light 

Again had run his destined race; 
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight. 

And sorrow left a fainter trace. 
For youthful Allan still remain'd, 

And now his father's only joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd. 

For beauty crown'd the faif-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 failhlfss bosom's care. 
And Ansus said, if one year more 

In frui'less hope was pass'd auay. 
His fondest scruples should be o'er. 

And be wi.uld name their nuptial d»y. 
Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 

Arrived the dearly destined morn : 
The year of anxious trembling past. 

What smiles the lovers' cheeks adom I 



20 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Hark to the pibroch's pleising note ! 

Hark to the s«e lini nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices Hoat, 

And slill the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd, 

Throng through the sa'e of Alva's hall ; 
The sounds of mirth re'echo loud, 

And all their former joy recaH. 
But who is he, whose darken'd brow 

Glooms in the midsl of general mirth? 
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 

The blue liames curdle o'er the hearth. 
Dark is 'he robe which wTaps his form, 

And tall his plume of gory red ; 
His voice is like ihe rising storm, 

But light and trackless is his tread. 
'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round. 

The bridegrooms health is deeply quafi'dj 
With shouts the vaul ed roofs resound, 

And all combine to hail the draught. 
Sudden Ihe stranger chief arose, 

Aud ill the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Anjus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
" Old man 1 " he cried, •' tliis pledge is done; 

Thou saw'st 't was duly drank by me ; 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will 1 claim a pledge from thee. 
" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot. 
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 

Siy, why should Oscar be forgot?" 
'•Ahs ! " the hapless sire replied. 

The big (ear starting as he spoke, 
«' When Oscar left my hail, or died, 

This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource. 
Since mar'.ial Oscar's death or flight." 

" T is well," replied Ihe stranger s'em, 
And fiercely tiaih'd his rolling eye; 

*' Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die, 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 

Would call, thy Oscar might re urn ; 
Perchance the chief has only roved ; 

For him thy Bollane yet may burn.* 
" Fill high the bowl the table round, 

We will not claim Ihe 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 fiU'd his goblet to the brim : 

" Here 's lo my b'ly ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall'find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old m\n, this health has sped; 

But whv does Allan trembling stand? 
Come, drink remembrance of Ihe dead. 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 
The crimson glow of Allan's face 

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
The drop? of i ealh eich other chase 

Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the enblet high. 
And tJiiice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught Ihe stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 



1 Boltane Tree, b Highland feFlival on the fimt of May, 
h«W near lires lighted for the ocea-ion. — Beat-lain means 
the fire (if Baal, and the name eiill preserves the primeval 
srigio of this Celtic superstition. — E. 



" And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
If thus aJec ion's strength prevails, 

Whit might we not expect from fear?" 
Roused by the sneer, he nised the bowl, 

" Would Oscar now could share our mirth !" 
Internal fear appall d his soul ; 

He said, and dish'd the cup to earth. 
" 'T is he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 

Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form. 
" A murderer's voice . " Ihe roof replies, 

And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
The tapers wink, Ihe chieftains shrink. 

The stnnger 's gone. — amidst the ciew, 
A form was seen in laitan ireen. 

And tall the shade terrific grew. 
His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 

His plume of sable stream'd on hith ; 
But his breast was bare, wi'h the >ed wounds the)«, 

And fix'd was the glare of his gl issy eye. 
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild. 

On An;us bendins low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground. 

Whom shivering crowds wi!h horror see. 
The bolts bud roll from pole to pole, 

And thunders through the welkin ring, 
And the gleaming form Ihro' the mist of the storm 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 

Who lies upon Ihe stony floor? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast. 

At leng h his life-pulse throbs ci;ce more. 

"Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes:" 

His sand is done, — his rare is i iin : 
Oh ; never more shall Allan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are 1 fled 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 fiame, 

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 bis vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move. 

She bade his wounded pride rebel ; 
Alas 1 that eyes which beam'd with love 

Should urge the soul to deeds of heli. 

Lo I seest thou not a lonely tomb 

Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
It glimmers through the twilight gloom 

Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain'd wish kindred blood. 

What minslrel grey, what hoary bard, 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? 

The tons is glory's chief reward. 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 

Unstrung, unlouch'd, the harp must stand. 
No minstrel dare Ihe theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand. 
His harp in shuddering chords would brexk. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



21 



No lyre of fame, no hallow'd vene, 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 

A d) In^ father's bl'ter curse, 
A brother's death-zroan echoes there. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE -ENEID, LIB. IX. 

Nisus, the gu\rd';an of the portal, stood, 

Ei?er to !;ild his arms wi h hostile blood ; 

Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield. 

Or pour hi; arro.vs through th' embattled field : 

From Id* torn, he left his sylvan cave. 

And sou jht a foreign home, a c'istant grave. 

To watch the movements of the Dauuian host, 

With him Eury.ilus sustains the ynxt ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd ll.e ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet grac&l the gallant boy; 

Thouih few the seiso'ns of his youthful life, 

As yel a novice in the martial strife, 

'T was his, wilh beauty, valour's gifts to share — 

A s^iul heroic, ns his form was fair : 

These bum wi h one pure flame of generous love : 

In peace, in war, united still they movej 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 

And now combined they hold tlieir nightly guard. 

" What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire ? 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
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.t thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken slurhbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
Where contidcuce and ease the watch disdain, 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reigu ? 
Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief. 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easv p\th perchance were found ; 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls. 
And lead iEneas from Evan'der's halls." 

With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
His gl'iwing friend address'd the Darjan boy : — 
'• These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thuu dare alone ? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
Not ;hus mv sire in Argive combats fousht ; 
Not thus, when llion fell by heavenly hate, 
I Irack'd ^neis through the walks of fate : 
Thou kiiow'st mv 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 fieeting breath : 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus — "Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valour tinn my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
And clasp ajaiii the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall — and he who dare; advance 
Through hostile legions mvist abide by chance, — 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow. 
Should lay the fnend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou, sucii beaul es I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term desene. 
When humbled in the dust, let some cne 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 las' deny. 
If in tlie spoiler's i>ower my ashes lie, 



Thy pious cnre may raise a simple tomb, 
Tr> mark Ihy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doling wretched mother wssp 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Who, for thy sike, the tempest's furj- dared. 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what womnn never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 

" In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Kuiyalus ; " 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 exuMng wing. 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And luTd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardau 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 wilh easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
Wi'h anxious tremors, vet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear: 
lulus gi-eets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first addre^s'd the hoary baud. 

" With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced. 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, anci 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 ^Eneas in his pride return, 
While h'JStile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
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 ; 
AVhere yonder torrents devious waters stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

M\ture in veirs, for s-ber wisdom famed. 
Moved bv 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 raise, 
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 hedew'd, 
And. sobbing, thus his fir^t 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. 
W^hat poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth. 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
iEneas 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 ! 
Bv haary Ve.ta's sacred fane, I swear, 
My hopes are all in you. je genen us pair '. 
Restore my father to my grateful siaht. 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver gnblets aie thine own. 
Sa\ed from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
Mv »irc secured them on that fatal day. 
Nor left such bowls an Argive roboer's prey : 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Tv^o massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
Two talents polish 'd from the glittering mine; 
An ancient cup, which Tyriau Dido save, 
While yet our vessels pressM the Punic wave: 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great iEncis we irs Hesperia's crown. 
The casque, the buckler, and 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 past : 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames 
Tosooihe thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
The labours of to ni^ht shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tetjder years 
Are near my own, whose wor h my heart reveres, 
Henceforth atiection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our snuls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be miue ; 
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 Euryalus : — "No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, 
But valour, spite of fate, obtams renown. 
Yet, ere from henf-e 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, 
Not Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble .age from dangers of the main j 
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 ^lone no fond adieus 1 seek. 
No fainting mother's lips have prcss'd my cheek ; 
By gloomy night and thy right hand 1 vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: 
Do thou, my prince, her fniling age snsfaio, 
In thee her much loved child may live again; 
Her dying hours wi'h 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 witi) a filial care so deeply felt. 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
Faster than all, Inlus' eye^ o'erflow ! 
Such love was his. and such had been his woe. 
" All thou hast a.sk'il. receive," the prince replied ; 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's yea'rs shall be my aim, 
Creusd's > style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an .adverse wayward course may run. 
But blessd thy mother 'in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life ! — m.v sire's most s:<cred oath — 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 
All the reward- which once to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be besto.v'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 
Lycaon's utmost skill hid 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, 
Mneslheus to guard the elder yru'h bestows. 
And old Alethes' casque defends his trows. 
Armd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
More thin a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 
His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
Lost m the murn.urs of the sighing gale '. 

The trench is pass'd, and. favour'd by the night. 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 



I 1 The mother of lulun, lost on he night when Troy v 

taken. 
U ^ 



When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 
Alas : some slumber who sha'll wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between : 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the brst, " for deeds of blood prepare. 
With me the conquest and the labour share: 
Here lies our path , lest any hand ariee. 
Watch thmi, while many a dreaming chieftain dies; 
I '11 carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
And pierced proud Rhamnes thro' his panting breast: 
Stre'ch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had'closed : 
To '1 urnus 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 o%vn untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 



Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides; 

And, last, his lord is numher'd with the dead; 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head : 

From theswolTn veins the blackening torrents pour; 

Stiin'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 ; 

LuII'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 

Ah 1 happier far had he the morn survey'd. 

And till Aurora's dawn his skill display "d. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus .-nay steep ; 
'All"! 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 de,adly vengeance came. 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 
Yet wakeful Rhjesus 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 bent their way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined. behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 
Too flush 'd witli carnage, and with conquest warm 
" Hence let us haste, the d.angerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough tonight 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 1 yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gildea harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
The eems which stud the monarch's gnldeu beit : 
This from the paPid corse was quickly tore. 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 



To Turnus' cam] 



: their destined course : 



The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail clad men, by Volscens led. 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



23 



Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 

When, on the left, a light rertection (alls ; 

Tje plunderVl helmet, through the waning night, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 

Volscens with ■;uestiou loud the pair alarms : — 

'• Stand, stragglers ! stand 1 why early thus in arms? 

From whence ? to whom ?" — He meets with no reply. 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 

The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between. 
Dreary and dark appeai-s the sylvan scene : 
Eurya'lus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
But Nisus scours along ihe forest's maze 
To where Laliniis' 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 whit impendmg perils art tljou left !" 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tumultuous voices sivell the passing b'eeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of Ihe 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 lou'l shouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
Wh it can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
Ah 1 must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essny, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give. 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high. 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 
"Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian. here thou deign'st to rove j 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chise, 
Speed, speed my dirt 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 strctch'd him'on the clay : 
He sobs, he dies. — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale thej stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
Veil'd by Ihe 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' fie w. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals. 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love leveals ; 
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, n.y blood is all your oivn. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven 1 attest ! 
He could not — dur,-.t not — lo! the guile confest ! 
All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spire, 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 snouy 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 Ihe share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking iviih the shower, 
Declining gently,' falls a fading flower ; 



Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, ' 

And liugeriog beauty hovers round the dead. | 

But fiery Nisus stems Ihe battle's tide. 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost j 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; 
Kage nerves his arm, fe'e gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor de,\th, di<m-acted Nisus heeds; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his f.ilchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grjsp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep iu his throat its end the weipon found. 
The tyran's s jul fled, groaning through the wotaid. 
Thus Nisus all his fond afl'ec ion proved — 
Dying, revenged the f.ite 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 sec your names expire, 
While stands Ihe Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome! 



['EpojTtj iiKip fitv dyav, k. t. X.] 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
W^hat mind cm stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls the tide of human woe? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame. 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame. 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing' balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast . 
If thus thou comest in disguise. 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven. 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow. 

Awakes an .ill consuming fire : 
Te racking doubts ! yc jealous fears '. 

With others wage intern.il 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 jny. 

Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
Fair Venus I on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some f^ind lover si?h. 
Whose heart may mingle pure witli minc- 

With me to live, with me to die ! 

My na'ive soil I beloved before. 

Now dearer .is my peaceful home. 
Ne'er miy 1 quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour, 

M.iy I'resign this fleeting breath ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 

Hive I not h?ard the exile's sigh. 
And seen Ihe exile's silent te.ir. 

Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 
A pensive weary wanderer here? 



24 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Ah '. hapless dime '. i nn sire bewails, 

No fneiij !hy vvre'ched fate deplores, 
Jio kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a strauger's doors. 
Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

'I fair all'ectioDs truih unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved dep,->rt, 

Unpitied, helpless, and aloue ; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key 5 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May sucli a friend be far from me, 

Aud ocean's storms between us roll ! 



Ti OUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE I 

EXAMINATION. 
H ^h in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Mag)ui.';3 his ample front subl me uprears: 
Placed on his chair of sta'e, he seems a god. 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless ^loom. 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding domej 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plnj in niathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Thnugh'little versed in any art beside ; 
Who. scarcely skili'd an E'n'lish line to pen. 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil di<cord piled the fields w ith dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France, 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
C m tell what edicts sage Lvcurgus m.ade. 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathle-s fame. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; 
Or even, perhaps, the declama'ion prize. 
If to such glorious height he lifts bis eyes. 
But lo ' no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup wi'hin his scope. 
Not Ihtt our he.ads much eloquence require, 
Th',^(Ae7jia)rs * glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not trj- by speaking to convince. 
Pe other orators of plevsing 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 ; S 
Whilst ever}- staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imita e. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the pi-omised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne"er look up; 



' Ka9apav avollavTi icXiJpa 1 
literally "diailosing the bright key cf the 



1 Medea, who aTompanied Jason to Corinth, was de- 
serted liy hira for the daughter of Creon. king of that 
city. The chorus from which this is 'aken here ad- 
dreosf-s Mcdca: Ihnugh a cnsiderable liberty is taken 
with the original, by expnmling the idea, as also in some 
other parts of the translation. 

2 The orinnal 

0p£1) 

mind 

3 No reflertinn is here intended against the person men- 
tioned under the name of M.ajfnus. He is merely r.pre- 
sented as porrormiiig an unavoidable funriinn of hisnflice. 
Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon my."elf; as 
that gentleman in now as much distinguished by his elo- 
quence, and tliediRnified propriety with which he fills his 
situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and con- 
viviality. 

4 Di moslhenes. 



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 f.is'esls sure to speak the bert; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who. thus repaid, 
Linjer in case in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgj' banks supine they lie. 
Unknown, unhonnured. live, unwept for die: 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They think all learning fix'd within Iheir walls: 
In manners rude, in foidish forms precise, 
All modern arts all'ecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Benlley's, Brunck's, or Person's s note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
Vain as Iheir honours, heavy as their ale. 
Sad as Iheir w it, and tedious as their lale ; 
To friend-hip dead, thouih not untaught to feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste thev court the Iird of power, 
Whether t is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; t 
To him. with suppliant smiles, they bend the bead, 
While distant mitres to their eyes a'te spread. 
But should a storm o'erwhelm liim with disgrace, 
They 'd fiy to peek tlie next who filPd his place. 
Such are the men who lean ing's treasures guard ! 
Such is their practice, such is their rew.ard ! 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pav. 

1806. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I s-ball ne'er forget ; 
And though wc ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not ^ay, " 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 lo the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 
What though we rever silence broke, 
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
The longue in flatterin» falsehood deals, 
And tells a tale it never feels : 
Deceit the guilty lips impart. 
And hush the mandates of the heart ; 
But soul's interpreters, the eves, 
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
As thus our glances oft conversed. 
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 
No spirit, from within, reproved us, 
Say rather, '''t was the spirit moved us." 
Though what they u'ter'd 1 repress. 
Yet I conceive thou 'It jiartly guess ; 
For as on thee my memory ponders. 
Perchance to me thine al.so wanders. 
This for myself, at least, I '11 s.ay. 
Thy form appears through night, through daj ! 
Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting drdcas; 
The vision charms the hours awav. 
And bids me curse Aurora's ray 
, Foi breaking slumbers of delight 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or w oe my s'eps await, I 

G The pre.=ent Greek professor at Trinity College, Cam- , 
bridge; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, I 
perhaps, justify their preference. i 

" Since this wrs written. Lord Henry Petty has lost I 
his place, and xnbsequenlly (I hod almost paid conse- j 
quently) the honour of representing the University. A 
fact so glaring requires no comment. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



— ^1 

25 ;l 



Tempted by ove, by storms l)eset, 

Thine iiiia^e 1 can ne'er forget, 

Alas ! again m more we meet, 

.No more our fornier looks repeat ; 

Then let me brea he this parting prayer, 

The dictite of my bosmi's c ire : 

" May Heaven s) gu ird my lovely Quaker, 

Tliat aiii^ish nevei can o'erfake her ; 

That peace and vir ue ne'er forsake her, 

But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 

Oh ; may the bappy mor:al, fated 

Tc be, by dearest lies, related, 

For her each hour new joys discover, 

And lr.se the husband in the lover 1 

May that fair bosom never know 

What 't is to feel the restless woe 

Which stiugs the soul, with vain regret. 

Of him who never can forget ! " ' 



THE CORNELIAN 

No specious splendour of this stone 

Endears it to my memory ever j 
With lusire only once it shone. 

And blushes modest as the giver. 
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 

Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me ; 
Yet still the simple gift 1 prize,— 

For I am sure the giver loved me. 
He offer'd it with downcast look, 

A' fearful that I misht refuse it ; 
I told him, when the gift I took, 

My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge a'lentively I view'd, 

And sparkling as I held it near, 
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 

And ever since I 've loved a tear. 
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. 
•T is not the plant uprear"d in sloth, 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 
The flowers which yield the most of both. 

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 

For once forgetting to be blind, 
His would ha\e been nn ample share, 

If well proportion'd to his mind. 
But had the goddess clearly seen. 

His form bad fi.x'd her fickle breast ; 
Her countless hoards would his have been, 

And none remaiu'd to give the rest. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 
DELIVERED PREVIOOS TO THE PERFORM- 
ANCE OF " THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE," 
AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. 

Since the refinement of 'his polish'd age 
Has swept immor.il railler)- from the stage; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek. 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; 
Oh ! let the modest Muse sonr.e pity claim. 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Still, not for her .ilone we wish respect. 
Others appear more conscious of defect : 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold. 
In all the arts of scenic actiou old ; 

1 Theee verses were writtei; a! Harrowgale, \a KupuX. 



No Cooke, no Kemble, can snlute you here, 

No Siddons draw the >ympathe:ic tear ; 

To-night you throng to witness the dtbut 

Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 

Here, then, our almost unfledied wings we tiy ; 

Clip not nur j-inions ere the birds c-an'tiy : 

Failing in this our fiist attempt to soar, 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 

Who hopes, ye' almost dreads, to meet your prate; 

But all our dramatis |)ersoiix wait 

In fond sus;;ense this crisis of their fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. 

For these, each Hero all his power displays. 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None to the softer ssx can prove unkind : 

While Youth and Be:iuty firm 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 Fos's death, 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath J 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES 
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. 

Oh faclious viper '. whose envenom'd tooth 
Wou d mangle still the de.ad, perverting truth ; 
What th' ugh our " naiion's foes'' lament the fate. 
With generous feeling, of the g'Xid and great. 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name. 
Of him whose nited exists in endless fame ? 
! When Pitt expired in plenitude of jwwer, 
I Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
I rily her dewy wings before him spread, 
I For noble spirits "war not with the dead : " 
I His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
I As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
' He sunk, an Atlas bending 'iie^th the weight 
; Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 
: When, lo ! a Hercules in F x appear d, 
\ Who for a time^he ruin'd fabric ie;ir'd : 
I He, too, is fall'n, who Briain's loss supplied, 
With him our fast reviving hopes have died ; 
I Not one great people only r-?ise his urn, 
I All Europe's far^extended regions mourn. 

" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
I To give the palm where Jus' ice points its due;" 
1 Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 
Whose dear remains in hon'ur'd marble sleep ; 
For wli^m, at last, e'en hostile na'ions groan. 
While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
Fox shall in Brit:iin's future annals shine. 
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's plm resign ; 
Which Envv, wearing Candour's sacred majt. 
For Pitt, anil PUt alone, has dared to ask. 



THE TEAR. 



When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, 
When Truth in a glance should appear. 



26 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The lips may beguile villi a dimple or smile, 

Kit the test of atfec6on 's a Tear. 
Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, 

To mssk detestation or fear; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye 

Is dimm'd for a time wiih a Tear. 
Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 

Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Coiupassiou will melt where this virtue is felt. 

And its due is diffused in a Tear. 
The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the ,ple, 

Through billows Atl.'iDtic to steer. 
As he bends o'er the wave which mav soon be his grave, 

The green sparkles bright with a'Tear. 
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

In Glory's romantic career ; 
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, 

And bithei 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. 



Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
Loth to leave Ihee, I moum'd, for a lastlook I tum'd, 

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more. 

My Mary to Love once so dear ; 
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour 

She regarded those vows with a Tear. 
By another possest, may she live ever blest ! 

Her name still my heart must revere : 
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine. 

And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, 

This hope tr. my breast is most near : 
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, 

May we meet, as we part, with a 'I ear. 
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, 

And rfi'y corse shall recline on its bier, 
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume. 

Oh I moisten their dust with a Tear. 
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe 

VV'hich the children of vanity tear ; 
No fiction of fame shnll blazonmv name. 

All 1 ask — all 1 wish — is a Tear. 

October 26th, 1806. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSKS OF J. M. B. PIGOT, 
ESQ.., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Whv, 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. 
Would you teach her to love? fir a time seem to rove; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 
For such are the airs nf these fanciful fairs, 

They think all our homase a debt ; 
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect. 

And humbles the proudest coquette. 
Dissemble ynur pain, and lengthen your chain, 

And seem her hauteur to rejret ; 
If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny, 

That yours is the rosy coquette. 
If still, from false pride, your pangR she deride. 

This whimsical virgin forjet ; 
Some olher admire, who will melt with your fu-e. 

And laugh at the lillle coquet:e. 



For me, I adore some twentj- or more. 

And love them most deany ; but yet. 
Though my heart they enthral, I 'd abandon them sB, 

Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
No longer repine, adopt this design. 

And break through her slight-woven net; 
Away with despair, no longer forbear 

To fly from the captious coquefe. 
Then quit her, my friend 1 your bosom defend. 

Ere quite with her snares you 're beset : 
Lest your deep-«ounded heart, when incensed by he 
smart, 

Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 27th, ISOa 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend j 

Your pardon, a thousand tjn'ies o''er: 
From friendship 1 strove your pangs to remove, 

But I swear I will do so no more. 
Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, 

No more I your folly regret ; 
She 's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 

Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
Yet still, I roust own, I should never have known 

From your verses, what else she deserved ; 
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate 

As your fair was so devilish re erved. 
Since the balm-brea'hing kiss of this magical miss 

Cm such wonderful transpoits produce; 
Since the " world you forget, when your lips once have 
met," 

My counsel will get but abuse. 
You say, when '■ I rove, I know nothing of love ; " 

'T is true, I am given to ranze ; 
If I rightly remember, I "ve loved a gfx>d number, 

Yet there 's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
I will not advance, by the rules of romance. 

To humour a whimsical fair ; 
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't afifright, 

Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, 

To mix ia the Platonisis' school ; 
Of this I am sure, wa.s my passion so pure. 

Thy miitress would think me a fool. 
And if I should shun every woman for one, 

Whose image must fill my whole breast — 
Whom I must ••r'.fer, and sigh but for her — 

What an insuii 't would be to the rest ! 
Now, Strephon, good bye ; I cannot deny 

Your passion appe;ir-f most absurd ; 
Such love as you ple.ad is pure love indeed, 

For it only consists in the word. 



TO ELIZA. 2 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's future e.vistence; 
Could they see thee, Eliza, ihey 'd own their defect, 

And this doctrine would meet with a general reibt 
ance. 
Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 

He ne'er would have women from paradise driven 
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
Y'et still, to increase your calamities more. 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 
He allo's one poor husband to share amongst four! — 

With souls you 'd dispense ; but this last, who couU 
bear it ?' 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



27 



His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On hunbands 'I is liard, to the wives most uncivil ; 
Still I can 't contradict, whit so oft has been said, 

" Though women are angels, yet wedlock "s the 
devil." 



LACHIN Y GAIR.i 

Away, ye eay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In yo 1 let the minions ot luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedniii and love: 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smoolh-tiowing foun- 
tains, 

1 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 ; a 
On chieftain* long prrish'd my memory ponder'd, 

As daily I strode through the pine-cnver'd glade. 
I sought no; my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright jwlar 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 

Ri^e on the ni;ht-rolling breath of ihe gale ?" 
Surelv 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 rif my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Ill-starr'd,3 though brave, did no visions foreboding 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah '. were you destined to die at Culloden,'' 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 

You rest with your chn in the caves of firaemar j 5 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number. 

Your deeds on the echoes of daik Loch na Garr, 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere 1 tread you a-^ain : 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you. 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England '. thy beau'ies are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar: 
Oh for Ihe crags that are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 



1 Lnchin y Gnir. or, as it is prnnnunrpil in the Erse, 
Loch na Oarr, lowers proudly pre-eminent in the Nortli- 
ern Hiehlands, near liivercau'ld. One of our modern tour- 
ists mentions it aR tlie higliest mountain, perhaps, in 
Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is lertaiuly one of 
Ihe most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledo- 
nian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the 
summit is the seal of eternal snows. Near Lachiii y Gair 
I Npent some of the early part of my life, the reeollection 
of which has given birth to these stanzas. 

3 This word is erroneou.-<ly pronounced plad : the proper 
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the 
orthography. 

3 T allude here to my m-iternal anceBtors, " the Gor- 
dontV m mv of whom fouuht for the unforlniiate Prime 
Charles, bnUer known by the name of the Prelender, 
This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as ailach- 
nient. n the Sluarta. George, the second Earl of Hunt- 
ley, married the Tiincess Annabeila Stuart, daughter of 
James the First of Scotland. By her he left four sons 
Ihe third. Sir Willinm Gordon, I have the honour to clain 
OS one of my progenitors. 

4 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am 

used the name of the principal action, '-pnrj jiro toto." 

6 A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a 
Castle of Braemar. 



TO ROMANCE. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round. 

But leave thy realms' for those of Truth- 

And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul. 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

\Vh3se eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A PyladesS jn 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 feeling for — themselves ? 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No mo''e 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 j 
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 sillv tears can never flow 



To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, arra'y'd in weeds. 
Who heaves with thee her siniple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom b'ceds , 
And call thy sylvan female choir, 

To mourn a' swain for ever gone. 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

Oil all occasions swifllv flowj 
Whose bosoms he.ave with fancied fears. 

With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; 
Sav, will vou mor.rn my absent name, 

Apostat'e from your gentle train ? 
An infant bird at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view. 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 

Convulsed by giles you cmnol weather; 
Where vou, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas f must perish altogether. 



6 It is hardly necessary to add, that I'yI.ides wits the 
romp'inion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those frinnd- 
ships which, with those of Achilles and Palroclus N'isus 
and Enryalus, Damnn and Pythias, have been handed 
d.-wn to posterity as remarkable instances of altachments, 
which in all probability never existed beyond Ihe imagina- 
tion of the poet, or tlio page of an tistoiian. or modern 
novelist. 



28 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT ' Or gay assemble round the festive bmrd 



BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COM- 
PLAINING IHAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIP- 
TIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY 
DRAWN. 

• Bat if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should rnndL'mn me for printing a aecind e'lition; 
If good .Madam Squiutum my work should abuse. 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse 7 " 
Keu> Bath Guide. 
Candour compels me, Beclier ! to commend 
The verse which blends Ihe censir wi'h the friend. 
Your strong yet ju-t reproof extorls applnuse 
From nie, the heedles? and imprudent cause. 
For this wild error which perv.ides my strain, 
I sue for pard'in. — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise some'imes from Wisdom's ways depart: 
Can youth then hush the dictates of Ihe heart? 
Precep'5 of prudence curb, but can't control, 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mmd, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the do!ard mends her pru<lish pace, 
Out^tr;pl and vantjuish'd in the mental chise. 
The young, the old, hive worn the chains of love: 
Let thise they ne'er cr)nfined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contenm the pleasing power 
Their censures on Ihe hipless viciim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, f-igid song, 
Tne ceiseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
Whose labiur'd lines in chilling numbers flow. 
To piint a pang Ihe aulh^^ ne'er can know ! 
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 bre;ist is void nf guile. 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
Whose downcast eye disdains Ihe wanton leer, 
Firm 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 Ihe nymph whose pemature desires 
Torment her'bosom with unholy fires, 
No net to sn?.re her willing heart is spread : 
She would hive fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
Will spare 'he childish-verse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseles 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, 1S06. 



1 heir chiefs retainer , an immortal batid : 
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 

Re'iace their prr)gress through the lapse of tin 



I die. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 

" It is the voice of years that are gone 1 they roll before 
me with all their deeds." — Ouiizn. 
Newstead ! fast-fajlinj, once-resplendent dome! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's^ pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 
Hail to thy pile 1 more honour'd in Ihy fall 

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 

Scowling defiance on Ihe blasts of fate. 
No mail-clad serfs,' obedient to their lord. 

In grim array Ihe crimson cross < demand; 



Marking each ardent you'h, oidain'd I 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blazs of day. 

Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
I The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; 
I Or blood slain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern opi)ression Jiew. 

A mnnirch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to 
prowl ; 
1 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 pail of life-exlinguish'd clay, 
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
I Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend 
I Soon as the gloaming' spreads her wanins shade, 
I The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
i Or matin orisons to Mary « paid. 
Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield. 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreea. 
One holy Henry rear'd the gothic walls, 

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; 
Another Henry i Ihe kind gift recalls. 

And bids devotion's hnllow'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 niusic's novel din ! 
The lieralds of a warrioi's haughty reign, 

High crested banners wave thy walls within. 
Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd iitoa, 
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
An abbey once, a regal fortress » now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread machines o'erhang thy 'hreatenin? brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
Ah vain defence I the hostile traitor's siege. 

Though oft repulsed, ty guile o'erconies the brave; 
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 

Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
Not unavenged Ihe raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; 
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields. 

And diys of glory yet for him remain. 
Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew 

Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 
But Chirles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the mocarch's hope, to save. 



1 As onep<iem on Ibis subject is already printed, Ihe an- 
Iho.- had, orii!inally, no int<-nti >n of inserting the following. 
It is now added at Ihe particular request of some friends. 

2 Henry II. founded Newstead son after the murder of 
Thomas a Becket. 

8 Tliis word is used by Waller Scott, in his poem, "The 
Wild Huntsman;" synonymous with vassal. 
4 The re.l cross was the badge of the crusader*. 



5 As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight it tu 
more poetical, and has been recommended by many emi- 
nent literary m,-n, particularly by Dr. Moore in he Let- 
ters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of lU 

I harmony. 

6 The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

7 At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIIU 
bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

8 Newstead sustained a consider.iblc siege In Dm WIT 
between Charles I. and his parliament. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



29 



Tnmbliii;, she snitch'd him » from th' unequal strife, 

In oiher fields the torrent lo repel ; 
For n-ibler combats, here, reserved his life, 

To lead the band «hcre godlike Falkliud^ fell. 
From lliee, p'X)r pile ! to lawless plunder given, 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
Far diil'ereilt iiiceiise now ascends lo heaveu, 

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 hoise commix'd with horse, 

Corruption s heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeis o'crspread, 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; 
From ruflTian fangs escape not e"en the dead. 

Raked from repose in search for buried gold. 
Hush'd ii the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 

The minstrel's pil>ied hand reclines in death ; 
No more he strikes the quivering ch >rds wi;h fire, 

Or sings the gl?ries of the maitial wreath. 
A* length the sated murderers, enrged with prey, 

Retire ; the clamour of the fight' is o'er j 
Silence again resumes her awfulswiy. 

And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 

VVhat satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shrieking their dii^e, ill-onien'd birds resort, 

'Jo tilt their vigils in the hoary fane. 
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 

'i he 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; 
Earih shudders as her caves receive his bones, 

Loa!liiiig3 the oftering of so dark a death. 
The legal ruler 4 now resumes the helm. 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 
The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest 
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 
A thousand songs on tuneful echo f!oat, . 

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
And hark 1 the horns proclaim a mellow note, 

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 

What fears, what anxious hopes, atlend the chase I 
The dying stig seeks refuge in the Inke ; 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
Ah ! happy days I too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 



1 Lord Byron and his brottier Sir William held high 
eommands in the royal army. The former was general- 
In-chief in Ireland, lienteiuint of the Tower, and governor 
to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James 
II. ; the latter had a principal share in many actions. 

a Lucius Carey. Lrrd Viscount Falkland, the mist nc- 
romplished roan of hie age, was killed at the battle of 
Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment 
:f cavalry, 

3 This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred 
Immediately snlKeqtent »" the death or interment of 
Cromwell, which fH■*a^ione^I many dif«puteB between his 
partisans and the cavaliers : Imth interpreted the circum- 
ttiince into divine inlerpo-ition; but whether as approba- 
tion nr condemnation, we leave lo the casuists of that age 
to decide I liave made such use of the or«urieiicc aa 
suited the subject of my poem. 

4 Charles II. 



No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many. »s iheit cares were few. 
From these descending, sois lo sires succeed : 

'lime steils along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Anoher chief impels the foaming steed. 

Another crowd pur~ue Ihe panting hart. 
Newstead I what saddenins change of scene is thine ! 

1 hy yawning arch betokens slow decay j 
The last and youngest nf a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
DeF^erted now, he scans thv grey-worn towers ; 

Thy vaiil's, where dead of feudal agi's sleep ; 
Thy clojs'ers, pervious to Ihe wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but lo weq>. 
Yet are his tears no emh'em nf regret ; 

Cherish'd atFeclion only bids them flow. 
Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget. 

But warm his bObOni with impassion'd glow. 
Tet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 

Or gewgiw grottos of the vainly great; 
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 

Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst Ihe will of fete. 
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 

Thee to irradiate wilh meridian ray ; 
Hours splendid as the pa^t may still be thine, 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 



When slow Disease, with all her host of pains. 
Chills the warm tide which flows along Ihe veins; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changing gale of spring; 
Not lo the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the dr^ioping mind : 
Wl'ial grisly forins, the spectre train of woe. 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation w.age relentless strife. 
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 
Yet less the pang v%-hen, through the tedious hour, 
Remembnnce sheds nround her genial power. 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given. 
When love was bliss, and Beauty form '(four 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 dist.-nt 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 rf his formei blaze. 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still 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, develnf>ed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a la.st 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 remeniber but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic coui^e 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now uni'e. 
To dazzle, though they please, ti;y aching sight. 
Ida ! blest spot, where Science ho'ds her reign, 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 



3* 



30 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged by time oi- distance, seem the same ; 
Through winding paths along the glade, 1 trace 
The social smile of every welcome face ; 
My wonted haunts, my scene; of joy and woe, 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe. 
Our feuds dissolved, but 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 j 
Untaught by worldly 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 weirs. 
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 heard, 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
Although sigainst 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 birds delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, aiid but once, she aini'd a deadly blow, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame. 
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 feeble foe to save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pompoms' virtues are but known to few : 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod. 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
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 p^st, and thus she will not sin 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 theirlast'resort ; 
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frowti. 
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 ; 
Prnhus, t 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 Invcd the sage: 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 



1 Dr. Dniry. This most able and excellent man retired 
from his situation in March, )805, after liQving resided 
thirty-five years at Harrow; the last twenty as head- 
mut>-r; an ofHce he held with equal honour to himself 
sod art» intake to the very extensive school over which he 
pmided. Paneftyric would here be siiperfluoiis : it would 
be useless to en"merale qualifications which were never 
doubted. A considerable contest t»»ok place between three 
rival candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can only 



Pomposus fills his magisteiial chair; 
Pompoms governs, — but, njy muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, — 
To him my tiibute is already paid. 

High, through those elms, with hoary braockn 
crown'd. 
Fair /do's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favourd haunt puisue, 
Repeit old pistimes, and discover new ; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun. 
In rival bands, between the wickets ran. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with nctive force, 
Or chase wiih nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way, 
V.'here Brenl's cool waves in limpid curren's stray ; 
While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 
Others, again, a pert and lively crew, 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in vit.w, 
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 : 
" 'T was 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 renew'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 Learnin? beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall. 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
There, deeply carved, behold f 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 when 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 grave 
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 nee, 
Who 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 p.ass the dreary winter's eve away — 
" And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail d ; 
Here Probiis came, the rising fray to quell. 
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night .abroad they dared to roam. 
While bold Pontpotus bravely staid at home ; " — 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive: 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no ruiK, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetinzs, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with yt.u. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy worM, 
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. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



31 



V»in wiih ! if chance some wcU-emember'd face, 
dome old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart, proclaimed me still a boy ; 
The glitteriiia; scene, the fluttering groups around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
The smiles of beauty — (for, ahs '. I 've known 
What 't is to bend before Love's mishty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty, thouzh th^se smiles were dear. 
Could hardly charni me, w'hen that friend was near : 
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Jda danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
I siw and joiii'd again the joyous throng; 
Panting, ngain I tmced her lo'fiy 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 heirts 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. 
Stem Death forbade mv orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or een a guardian "s name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone. 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise. 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred lies ! 
Oft m the progress of some flee'ing dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of bve will murinur in my rest : 
1 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 stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwme, 
I cannot call one sinsle blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand. 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

Alouzo ! 1 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 thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier b.Trd shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely Ijlest, 
Oft have vire drain'd the font of anci-nt lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet, svhen confinement's lingering hour 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 sjioil ; 
Or, plunging from the green derlining shore, 
(har pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchansed, the same. 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 



Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davu^^'i 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 p\lh. though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in ihe factious strife. 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung; 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe. 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow ; 
Your arm, brave boy, airested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand. 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon Ihe sand : 
An act like this, can simple 'hanks repay ? 
Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deei 
That instant, Davus', it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus ! 3 on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To'th«e alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo the-e perfections shine, 
Lycus .' thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind. 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at length matures thy growmg yean, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Eurynlus * pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung: 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I '11 think we are so still. 
A form unmatch'd in na'ure's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shall wield. 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field j 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in polish 'd courts might be thy seat. 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile. 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all Ihe glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire Ihce, and thy friends adore; •— 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest, of the social band. 
See honest, open, generous Clean s stand ; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 



1 Ttiu Hon. Jotin Wiuefield. of Ihe Coldstream Guards, 

brother to Riotiard. fourtti Viscount Powerscourl. He 

died of a fever, in his twentieth year, at Coimbra, May 

' nth, 1811. — •' Of all human beings," sayn Lord Byron, 

, ■ 'I was, perbapti, at one time, Ihe most attached to poor 

[I Wlngfleld. I had known him the better half of bis life, 

I aDd the happiest part of mine."— E, 



2 The KcT. John Cecil Tattersall, B. A., of Christ 
Church Oxfi)rd; who died Dec. 8, 1612, at Hall's I'lace, 
Kent, aged twenty-four. — E. 

3 John Fitzsibbnn. second Earl of Clare, Imrn June 2, 
1792. His father, whom he succeeded January 38, 1802, 
was fur nearly twelve years Lord Chancellor of Ireland. 
His Lordship is now (1636) Governor of Bombay. — E. 

4 Grorse-John, flflh Earl of Delawarr, born Oct. 28, 
1791; succeeded his father, John-Richard. July V. 1"96. 
This ancient family hare been liarons by Ihe male line 
from 13J2; their anceslor. Sir Thomas West, having htem 
summoned to parliament as Lord West, the I6tb Kdw. 
XL— E. 

5 Edward Noel Long, Esq. — to whom i 
poem is addressed. — E. 



32 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



On the same day our studious mce be^n, 
On the same liiy our studinus mce wis run ; 
Thus side by si je we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by si Je we strnve for many a year ; 
At last conclLded our scholas'ic life, 
We ueiher coiiquerd in the classic strife: 
As spe-Jte!Ti> each supports an eqiil name, 
And crowds alltiw to b-)th a pavliil fame : 
To sootlie a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleou's candour would the palm divide, 
Yet candours self compels me now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh : friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
Remembrance hail> you with her warmest tear! 
Dro ipinj, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return j 
Yei with the retrospecion loves to dwell. 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, ' 
When Probus' praise repaid mv lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the s'udious throng; 
Or when my first harangue received applause. 
His sage iustruc'ion the primeval cause, 
Whit gratitude to him my soul posses!, 
While ho|)e of dawnmg honours fill'd my breast! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who n^ade 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 give; 
The song might perish, but the theme might live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
His honour'd name requires no vain display : 
By every son of gra'eful Ida blest, 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dreim. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain '. 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past. 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy. 
To me a silent and a sweet employ. 
While future hope and fear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine. 
And chase the phantom 'of what once was mine. 

Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside. 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere. 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along. 
The feeble veterans of jome former throng. 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by "tempests 

whiri'd. 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth. 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a talm to soothe your hours of woe ? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son. 
Can royal smiles, or wre.aths by slaughter won, 
Cin stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view. 
As those where Youth her garland twined for you ? 
Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
Vou turn with faltering hand life's varied page; 
Peruse the record of your days on c.arlti, 
Unsullied only where' it marks your birth ; 



Still linzering pause above each chequer'd leai^ 

And blot with tears the .y ble lines of grief; 

Where P.assion o'er the theme her mautle tijrew, 

Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 

Traced by tie rosy finger of the morn ; 

When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 

And Love, without his piuion,^ smiled on youth. 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 

ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT."* 

j Montgomery I true, the common lot 
1 Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; 

! Yet sonie stall never be forgot — 

Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
"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. 
His joy or grief, his «eal or woe. 

Perchance may '-cape the page of fame ; 
Yet nations now unborn will know 

The record of his dea:hless name. 
The patriot's and the poe"s frame 

Must share the common tnmb of a'l 
Their glory will not sleep the same ; 

That will arise, though empires fall. 
The lustre of a beauty's eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
The fair, the brave, t'he good must die. 

And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
Once more the speaking eye revives. 

Still beaming through the lover's strain; 
For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 

She died, but ne'er will die again. 
The rolling seasons pass away. 

And Time, untirine, wav^ his wing; 
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay. 

But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb : 
The old and young, with friends and foes. 

Festering a'like "in shrouds, consume. 
The mouldering marble lasts its day. 

Yet fills at length an useless fane; 
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 

From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 
A bright renown shall be ecijny'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 
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. 



TO A LADY 
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH TIIR 
VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HBC 
TRESSES. 

This B ind, which bound thy yellow hair, 
Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 

It cl 'ims my warmest, dearest care, 
Like relics left of saints above. 



I 1 This alludea to the r 
I, tskool where the author \ 



2 " 1,'Airitie I'sl I'Aroour eans ailes," is a Fruocn pro- 
verb. 

S Written by Jamrs Monigomery, author of "The Wi>- 
derer in Switzerland, '* &.c. 

4 No particular hero is here alludtd to. The 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



33 



Ob ! I will wear it next my heart ; 

T will biad my so-.il in bonds to th'ie: 
From me again 't will ne'er depart. 

But mingle in the grave with me. 
The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this ; 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss ; 
This will recall each youihful scene, 

E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 
I'he leaves of Love will still be green, 

When Memory bids them bud agaiiu 
Oh '. little lock of golden hue, 

In gently waving ringlet cu'rl'd. 
By the dear head on which you grew, 

'I would not lose you for a world. 
Not though a thousand more adorn 

The polish'd brow where once you shone, 
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn, 

Beneath Co.umbia's fervid zone. 

180G. [First published, 1833.] 



REMEMBRANCE. 
'T IS 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 I could add Remembiance t x) ! 

1806. [First published, 1830.] 



To me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an hour, 

If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frOKii ; 
To nie what is tiile? — the phantom of power; 

To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 
Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 

1 s!ill am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
Then why should 1 live in a hateful control ? 

Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 



LINES 



ASDRE88KE TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, 

ON HIS AUVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX 

MORE WITH SOCIETY, 
jjear Becher, you tell me to mix wiih mankind ; — 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But re'irement' accords with the tone of my mind: 

I will not descend to a world 1 despise. 
Did 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. 
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. 
Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. 
Could I soar with the phcenix on pinions of flame, 

With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death. 

What censure, what danger, what woe would I 
brave ! 
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath ; 

Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
Whv bend lo the proud, or applaud the absurd > 

Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 
I have tasted the swee's and the bit'ers of love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe; 
My pas4on the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

1 have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 



of Bayard, Nemonrs, Kdward ttie Blark Prince, and, in 
more nvx'ern titles, ttie fame of Marlborougti, Frederick 
the Great, Count SaAe, Cliarles of Sweden, ic, are fami- 
liar to eTery hist jrical reader, but the exact places of their 
birth are known » a very small proporti'jn of their ad- 
mirers. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.' 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their 
remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight 
he recalls the sunny houis ol morn. He lifts his spear 
with trembling hand. '' Not thus feebly did I raise the 
steel befjre my fathei^! " Past is the race of heroef. 
But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on 
the wings of the wind ; they hear the sound through 
the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of 
clouds .' Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks down from eddying tem- 
pests: 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 Fin- 
gaL His steps in the field were marked in blood. 
Lochlin's sons had fied bef.ire his angry spear; but 
mild was the eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his 
yellow locks : they streamed like the meteor of the 
night. No maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts 
were given to friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, de- 
stroyer 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 sins fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their 
hos's throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
of Erin. 

Nijht rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: 
but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. 
They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not 
so the host of Morven. To watch was the jiost of 
Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were 
in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood 
around. The king w.as in the midst. Grey were his 
locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age with- 
ered not his powers. •' -Sons of Morven," said the 
hero, " to-morrow we meet th3 foe. But w here is 
CuthuUin, the shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls 
of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will 
speed through Lochlin to the hero, and cTill the chief 
to arms ? The path is by the swords of foes ; but 
many are my heroes. They are thunderlolts of war. 
Speak, ye chiefs ! Who will arise ? " 

" Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed,'- s.aid dark- 
haired Orla, " and mine .ilone. 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 
Cu'hullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay 
me by the stream of Luba." — " And shall thou fall 
alone?" s:iid 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 I ours has been the chase of the roe- 
buck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of dan- 
ger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the 
narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." " Calmar," 
said the chief of Oithona, '" why should thy yellow 
locks be darkened in the dust of Erin ? Let tie fall 
alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will 
rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the 
feast lor her son in Morven, She listens to the step* 



1 It may be necessary to observe, that the »tory, Ihoagh 
considerably varied in the cata-strophe, i» taken from 
•' Nisus and Euryulus," of which episode ...-_.- 

already given in the present volume. 



34 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of 

Cahnur. Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen liy the 

steel of Lochliu : he died with gloomy Oila, the chief 

of ihe dark brow.' Why should tears dim tlie azure ; 

eye of Mora ? Why should her voice curse Orla, ihe I 

destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Live to raise 

my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of 

Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my ^rave. ' 

Sweet will be the s^n5 of deith to Orli. from the voice 

of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on Ihe notes of I 

praise." " Orla," said the son of Mora, " could I raise 

the song of death to my friend? Could I ffive his I 

I fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in i 

I sighs: faint and broken are Ihe sounds of sorrow, i 

I Orla ! our souls shall heir the son» together. One 

I cloud shall be ours on high : the bards will miugle the 

names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit Ihe circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
to the host of Lochlin. The dving l)Iaze of oak dim 
twinkles through Ihe night. The northern star points 
the path to Tura. Swaran. Ihe king, rests on his lonely 
hill. Here Ihe 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. Lighly wheel Ihe heroes through 
the slumbering band. Half ihe journey is past, when 
Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. 
It rolls in flame, and glistens through Ihe shade. His 
spear is nised on high. " Why dosi Ihou bend thy 
brow, chief of Oilhona '" said fair-haired Calmar : 
" we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for de- 
la- }>' " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the 
if ooniy brow. " Mathon of Ijochlin sleeps : seest thou 
liis speir ? Its point is dim wih the gore of my f Uher. 
The blnod of Mathon shall reek on miie; but shall I 
s'ay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his 
wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of slum- 
ber. Bise.'Malhon, rise ! The son of Counal calls ; 
thy \V ■ is his ; rise to combat." Mathon slarls from 
sleep , but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering 
chiefs bound on the plain. " Fly ! Calmar, fly ! " said 
dark-haired Orh. "Malhon is mine. I shall die in 
joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through Ihe 
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. 
j Strumon sees him fall : his wrath rises : his weapon 
glitters on Ihe head of Orla: but a spear pierced his 
I eye. His brain gushes Ihroush Ihe wound, and foams 
on the spear of Calmar. As roll Ihe waves of the 
; Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the 
j men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge 
; in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise 
I the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Loch- 
! lin. The din of arms came to Ihe ear of Fingal. He 
; strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; Ihe 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 
i the clang of death 1 many are the widows of Lochlin ! 
j Morven prevails in its slrenglh. 

1 Morn glimmers on Ihe hills : no living foe is seen ; 

but the sleepers are manV; grim they lie on Erin. 

The breeze of ocean lifis their locks ; yet they do not 

awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 

I Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 

Bright as the gold of the stnmzer, they mingle with 

the "dark hair of his friend. 'T Is Calmar: he lies on 

I the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. 

Fieice is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes 

j iiot: but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death 

j unclosed. His hand is grasrv?.; =n Calmar's; but Cal- 

I mar lives! he lives, thougn mw. "Rise." said the 

king, " rise, son of Mora : 'I is mine to heal Ihe wounds 

■ of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of 

Morven.' 

I " Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven 

I with Orla," said Ihe hero. " What were Ihe chase to 

me alone ? Who would share the spoils of battle with 

I Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! 



jet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others 
lii lightning : to me a silver beam of night. Bear my 
sword to blue-ejed Mora ; let it hang in my empty 
hall. II is not pure fiom blood : but it could not save 
Orla. Lay me ^^ ith niy friend. Raise the song when 
I am daik 1 " 

They are laid by Ihe stream of Lobar. Four grey 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When 
Swaran was bound, our siiils rose nn the blue waves. 
The winds gave our barks to Morven: — Ihe bards 
raised the song. 

"What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose 
dark ghost gleams on Ihe red s'reams of tempests? 
His voice mils on the thunder. 'T is Orla, the brown 
chief of Oilhora. He was unmatched in war. Peace 
to thy soul, Orla ! thy f ime v/iU not perish. Nor 
thine, Calmar! Lovely wast Ihou, son of blue-eyed 
Mora ; but not harmless was Ihv sword. It hangs in 
thy cave. 1 he ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its j 
steel. Heir thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the' 
voice of Ihe mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes 
of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. 
Spread them on the arch of Ihe rainbowj and smile 
through the tears of Ihe storm." i 



L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 

\Vhy should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine j 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back Ihe ye.ars 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 1 " 

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now bright in r.ays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
My soul, enraptured with the past. 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move. 
My silent imirs too plainly prove 

*' Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Oh. Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows v.'ere p lid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine^ 

Bui these are now decayed ; 
For thine are pinions like Ihe wind. 
No frace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power, 
Thoii shall not haunt my coming hour; 

Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 



1 I fear I.aing'8 late edition hs8 mmpleti-ly nverthrow« 
every hope Ihat Macphersou'e Oseian m'gtit pnive the 
traiislali.-n of a series of poemK ctimpli"te in themsrlvei 
but. while the iinpo?ture is discovereJ, the merit of the 
work remains undiepuled, thoi-eh not without faults — 
pariicularlv, in some parts, turgid and bombastir ilirtinn. 
--The present humble imitation will be pardoned by Ike 
admirers of the original iis an oltemp', however inferior, 
which evinces an aitachment to their favourite author. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



35 



Seat of my youlli ! » thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene ol joy ; 
My bosom glo«s with former fire,— 

In mind a^ain a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path deliv^hts me still, 

Kaoh /lower a dauble frigrance flings j 
Again, as once, in converse gay. 
Each dear associate seems to say, 

" i'rieiidship is Love without his wings ! " 

My Lycus ! 2 wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
AiTeclion for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 't will wake again. 
Think, think, my fiiend, when next we meet, 
Our lon^-wish d interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rajiture springs; 
While youthful he^irls thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wre;eli to scorn. 
' turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
VV ith feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings; 
And till those vital chords shall break. 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lastin? love ensures, 

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, ly snares beset. 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings!" 

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 lies. 
Me the enchantress ever tiies. 

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 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE.3 

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'sf my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh, point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of ycuth. 
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile. 
Let priests, to spread their snble reign. 

With t.alos of mystic rites baguile. 

1 Harrow. 2 The Karl of Clare. —E. 

3 It is difficult to conjecture for what reason. — but these 



Shall man confine his Maker's sway 

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 
Thy temple is the face of diy ; 

Ear h, ocean, heaven thy bjundless throne. 
Shall man condemn his race to hell, 

Uiilr:ss Ihev bend in pompous form? 
Tell us that all, for one who fell. 

Must jjerish in the mingling storm? 
Shrill each pretend to reach the skies. 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Ui- doctrines less severe inspire ? 
Shall these by creeds ihey can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 
Shall reptile., grovelling on the ground, 

Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
Shallthose who live for self alone, 

Whose years float on in daily crime- 
Shall they' by Failh for guilt atone. 

And live beyond the bounds of Time? 
Father ! no prophet's laws I seek,— 

77.7/ 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 aether's space; 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 
I Who-.e hand from pole to i)ole I trace : — 
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here. 

Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 
Ah 1 whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 

Extend to me thy wide defence. 
To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or woe betide. 
By thy command I rise or fill, 

In thy protection I confide. 
If, when this dust to dust's restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
While.life yet throbs I raise my prayer. 

Though (ioom'd no more to (}uit the dead. 
To Thee I breathe my humble strain. 

Grateful for all thy mercies j)ast. 
And hope, my God. to Thee again 

This erring life may tiy at last. 

December 29, ]fi 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.* 
'Nil ego contulerim jocundo eanus amico." — H«r. 

Dear Long, in this stquester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; 
Thus if amidst the gathering stoini. 
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 paace, 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 



4 Tills young gentleman, who was with Iird Byron 
both at Harrow and Cambridee, afterwards enirri'd the 
(luar.ls, and served with diBtinction in the expedition lo 
Copenhagen. He was drowned early in lf09, when on h:« 
way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in | 
which he sailed being run foul of in the nipht by another 
of the convoy. " Lung's father." says Lord Byrcn, " wrote 
to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised — but I had 
not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, .-.mi- 
nble being 89 rarely remains long in this world; with talent 
and accomplishments, loo, to naake bim the mce rt> 
gretted." —Byron Diary, 1821, 



36 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Ah ! though the present brings but p.iin, 
I think those days may crime again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurkmg envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dreini, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace, 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before. 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion — 
Age will not every hope destroy. 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring : 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which blooni among the fairy bowers. 
While smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early np'ure swell ; 
If frowning Ase, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic si'gh. 
Or heirs unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh ! niay my bosom never learn 

To soothe i:s wonted heedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remenibr.ince yet delays, 
Still may 1 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 joj's are tame. 
But, hence 1 ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er : 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I '11 ttiink upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past. 

And cives their sullen roar eiiclose. 
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 IjTe ; 
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 roU'd on me. 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear Long, 't was lime to flee; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beims 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 bale them burn «'ith fiercer glow, 

Noiv quenches all their sparjcs in night; 
Thus has it been with passion's tires. 

As many a boy and z\t\ remembers, 
While all the force of Inve expires, 

Extiuguish'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 't is midnight's noon, 
Aai clouds obscure the watery moon, 



■\Vhose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in everv stripling's ver^e; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perforni'd her stated round, 
Has thri.e 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 ihen wi^h those our cliildh'iod knew, 
We '11 mingle in the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
And all the Aow of souls shall pour 
The sacred iutellec'ual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of mom. 



TO A LADY.5 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine. 

As cnce this pledge appear'd a token, 
These follies had not then been mine. 

For then my peace had not been brokcn.3 
To thee these early faults I owe, 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
Thev know my sins, but do not know 

'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 
FDr once, my soul, like thine, was pure, 

And all its rising tires could smother; 
But now thy vows no more endure, 

Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
Perhaps his peace I could des'roy. 

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 j 
But what it sought in tbee alone, 

Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

'T were vain and fruitless to regret theej 
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
Yet all this giddy waste of years. 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears. 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures ■ 
If thou wert mine, had ali been hush'd : — 

This cheek, now pale from early riot. 
With passion's hectic ne'er had fiush'd, 

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; * 



1 The two friends were bntli passionately attached 
Harrow ; and sometimei* made excitrBiona thither V 
gether, to revive their schoolboy recollections. —E. 

2 Mrs. Musters. — E. 

3 *' Our union would have healed feuds in whicf" Wood 
had been fhed by our fathers— it would have joioef Innds 
broad and rich — it would have joined at least 
and two persons not ill-matched in year8(shc is two years 
my elder), and — and— and — uhat has been the result 7" 
— Byron Diarij, 1621. 

4 "Our meetings," says Lord Byron in 1822, "wer« 
stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth'j 
grounds to those of my mother wa* the place of our inter 
views. But the ardoiir was all on my side. I was serl 
ous ; she was volatile : she liked me as a younger brother 
and treated and laughed nt me as a boy: she, howevei 
gave mc her picture, and thnt was something to mak, 
verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps the whol .' 
tenour of my life would have been dilTerent.'" 



;L^!i 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



37 



And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore tbee. 

But now I seek fir other joys : 

To tliiiik would drive my soul lo madness; 
Id thou»h:less thrones r>nj empty noise. 

1 conquer half my bosom's s.a'dne-s. 

Tet, even in these a thought will steal 
In spile of every vain endeivour, — 

An<: fiends mi^ht'pitv what I f::el,— 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS C1UU\ 

I would I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or b-.)imding o'eV the dark blue w-ave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon ' pride 
Accords not with the freebnrn soul, 
Which loves the mountiin's crajgy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows rolL 
Fortune 1 take back these cultured lands. 

Take back this name of splendid sound ! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me among the rocks I love. 

Which sound to Ocein's wildest roar ; 
I ajk but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youih hath known befors. 
Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er desisn'd for me. 
Ah I why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when lu'.ii must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dreim, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth : — wherefore did thy haled beam 

Awake me lo a world like this ? 
I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

And friends — my early friends are fled i 
How cheerless feels the heart alone. 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gav companions o er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart — is lonely'slill. 
How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the fes'ive hour. 
Give me ayiin a faithful f -w, 

In years and f-eling^ s'ill the same, 
And I will fiy the midnight crew. 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 
And woman, lovely wonnn '. 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 mike that calm contentment mine. 

Which virtue knows, or seems to knovr. 
Fain would I P.y the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the >^ullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd miDd. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 
Which bear the turtle o her nest '. 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 
To flee away and be at rest.* 



WHEN I ROVED A YOL'XG HIGHLANDER. 

When I roved a young Highlander o'l r the dark heath. 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morvtn of suow I » 
To gaze on the torrent that Ihunder'd beneath. 

Or tht mist of (he tempest that gather'd below,* 
Cntutor'd by science, a stranger to fear. 

And rude as the rocks wheie my infancy grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was daar; 

Need I say, my sweet Jlary,* 't was centred in yon? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd will 
One image alone on my bosom impressed, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 

And pure were my thoughts,' for my soul was with 
you. 

I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain 1 bounded along j 
I breasted the billows of Dee's « rushing tide. 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: 
At eve. on my heath cover'd couch of repose, 

No dreamt, save of Mar)-, were spread to my view ; 
And warm lo the skies my'devotious 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 h.ave witness'd before: 
Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd my lot ; 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew i 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are no* 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 



1 Sass.'nach. nr Saxon, a Gaelic word, eignifying either 
Lowland or Enijliah. 

3 "And t said. Oh! ttiat 1 had wings like a do»e; for 
Ihea would I fly away and t)e at rest." — Psitm !v. 6. 
This tent also constitutes a part of the mo*; beautiful 
■nthrm in our language. 



3 Mor»en, a lofly mountain in Aberdeenshire. •* 
Dial o( suow," is an expression frequently to be found io 
Ossian. 

4 This will not appear e.xtranrdinary to those who h«Te 
been accust'-med to the mountains. It is by no means 
um-omraon.on attaining the lop of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-txiord, 
*p., to perceive, t>etween Itie summit ami the valley, 
clfflids pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by 
lightning, while the fpeitator literally louks down upon 
the storm, perfectly secure from its elTect* 

6 In Lonl Byron's Diary, for 1?13. he says, "I have 
been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very 
odd that I hhould have been so utterly, devotedly fond of 
that girl, at an age when I could neither feel paaiun, nor 
know the me nine of the word! And the efltct! My 
mother used alw,ay3 to rally me about this childish amonr; 
and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, she 
told me one day: 'Oh, Byron, t have had a letter from 
Edinburgh, from Miss Abercrnmhie, and yur old swett- 
' heart. Mary Duff, is man iid to a Mr. Cockbum.' (Rjlwrt 
Cockburn, Esq., of Winhurgh.] And what was my, an- 
swer 7 I really cannot ex,>lain or account for my feelings 
»; that moment: but they nearly threw me into convul- 
sions— to the horror of my mother and astonishment of 
every body. And it is a phenomenon in my existence 
(for I was not eight years old), which has puzzled and will 
puzzle me to the latest hour of it." — Again, in Januaiy, 
1815, a few days after his marriage, in a teller to his friend 
Capta'n Hay, Ihe poet th'.is speaks of his childish attach- 
ment :—•' Pray lell me more — or as much as you like, of 
your cousin Mary, t believe I loH you our story some 
years ago. 1 was twenly-seven a few days ago. and I 
have never seen her since we were children, and young 
children too; but I never f.>rget her. nor ever can. Tfou 
i will oblige me bv presenting her wilh my best respects, 
; and all good wishes. It may seem ridiculous— but it is at 
anv rate. I hope, not offensive to her nor hers — in me to 
pretend to recollect anylhing about her, at so early n 
period of both our lives, alm.ist, if not quite, in our nurse- 
ries:- but it was a pleasant dream, which she must par 
don me for remembering. Is she pretty sllll 7 I have the 
most perfect idea of her persiui, as a child ; but Time, I 
suppose, has played the devil with us both."— H. 

6 The Dec is n be.outiful river, which rises »ear Mar 
Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 



38 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



When I see some dark hill point its crest to the skj", 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; i 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speakin; eve, 

I think of those eves that endear'd the rude sc^ne ; 
When, hiplv, soine'li^ht-waviiis locks. I behold, 

That fiint'ly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold. 

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 
Tet the day may arrive when the mountains once more 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
Bot 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 hfad, — 

Ah ! Marj-, what home could be mine but with you ? 



TO GEORGE, E ARL DE L A W A RR.2 

Oh '. ves, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true J 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the aliection 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 tires. 
Full oft liave we wandrr'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 I 

But winter's rude tempets are gathering now. 
No more with affection shall memory blending. 

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: 
When pride steels the brsnm. the heart is unbending, 

And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you — 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 
The chance which has lost may in luture redeem you, 

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
I will mt complain, and though chill'd is alTec'.ioa, 

With me no corro<ling resentment shall live : 
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 

That both may be wrong, and that both sliould for- 
give. 
Tou knew that my soul, that my heart, rriv existence. 

If danger dema'ndel, were w holly yourown ; 
You knew me unalterM by years or by distance, 

Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 
Tou knew, — but away with the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of afft-clio'n no longer endures ; 
Too late vou may droop o'er the fond recollection, 

And sign 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 shruid endeavour, 

I ask no atonement, hut days like the past. 



TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 



Friend of my youth I 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, 



3 See ante, p. SI. 



Whnn distant far from you: 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain 
To trace those days and hours again. 

And sigh again', adieu 1 

My pensive memorj- lingers o'er 
1 hose scenes to be eiijov'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever ; 
The mea'.ure of our youth is full. 
Life's evening dreim is dark and dull. 

And we may meet — ah : never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain; 
How soon, diverging from their source. 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course. 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe. 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow. 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear. 
Till death's unfafhom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore. 
Our souls, my friend I which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in difl'erent channels: 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'T is yours lo mix in polish'd courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals ; 
'T is mine to waste on love my time. 
Or ven' mv reveries in rhvnie, 

Without the aid of rea>"on ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 
Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard! 
Of late esteem d it monstrous hard 

That he, who sang before all, — 
He who the lore of love expanded, — 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral. 3 
And yet. while Beauty's prai-e is thine, 
Harmonious favourite' of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot. 
Tliy soothing lays may still be read. 
When persccniion's arm is dead, 

And critics .are forgot. 
Still I must yield those worthies ment, 
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 tight them.* 
Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner: 
He who oft'ciids at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become. I ween, 

A very hanien'd sinner. 
Now, Clare, I must return to you j 
And. sure, .apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from left lo riitit ; 

My muse admires digression. 
I think I said 't would be your fate 
To add one star to royal state ; — 



3 Thrse stanza.1 were wrilti-n soon ofter the appeamnte | 
nf a severf critique in a norltirrn review. »»ii ft new puhti- t 
cation of the Brilisli Anacrivin. —See Kdiiiburgh Review, ' 
Julv. If07. article on •• Kpiwiles, Odes, and other Poem^ 
liy ttiomas Lillle, Esq." — E. 

4 A tiaid (horrcsco refereiiv) (tettcd hU reviewer to mor. 
tal combat. If tliis example hernmes prcv.ilent, onr 
periodit-al censora mtist be dipped in Itie river Stf x : fof 
wliat eltie can secure titeui (rem the Dumerouit ha«t ct 
their enraged assuilants? I 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



39 



May re^al smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monaic'h reign. 
You will not seek tiis smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 
Vet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round, 

From snares may simls preserve you ; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you ! 
Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure, unerring way ! 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roies 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 j 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you 've been knosvn to me, — 

Be still as you are now.i 
And though some trifling share of praise 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly deir ; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I 'd waive at once a Tpuefs fame, 

To prove a prophet here. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN 
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. 2 
Spot 01' my vouth 1 whose hoarv branches sigh. 
Swept by liie breeze that fans tiiy cloudless sky ; 



Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who, ^cattJr'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like Die, the happy scenes thej- knew before : 
Oh ! as I tiace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eves admire, my heart adores thee still. 
Thou (froopiiig Elm i beneath whose boughs I lay. 
And frequent rauscd the iwilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were 

mine: 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom 10 recall the past. 
And seem to wiiisper, as they gently swell, 
'• Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell '. " 

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast. 
And calm its cares and passions inlo 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 linser'd, here my heart might lie; 
Here might I sleep where al'l my hopes arose, 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
For ever strel'ch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd wi'h the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; 
Blest by the ton»nes that charm"d niy youthful ear, 
Munrn'd by the few my sr)ul acknowledged here ; 
r)e[)lored by those in early days allied. 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 

September 2, 1807. 



1 "Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the Ln^d Byrnn sent her rcm.iins to be buried at Harrow, 
least allered 111 every Iliuig from the exrelltnt qualities ..whore," he says, in a teller to Mr. Murray, "I core 
and kind atrecti.ms whieh attarhert me to him so strongly 1 hoped to have laid my own." •• Tbere is," he adds, "a 
at school. I should hardly have thought it possible for sp,,, ,„ t^e churchyard, near the foot-rath, on the brow 
society (or the world, as it is called.) to leave a being with I ^f ,he hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a 
80 little or the leaven of bad passioi.s. I do not speak ^^^^^ ,„e (bearing the name of Peacliie. or Penchey), 
from personal experience only, but Irom all I have ever | where I used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This 
heard of him from others, during absence and distance."— 1 ^.j, j„y favourite spot: but as I wish to erect a tablet to 
Bi/ron Diary. 1851. — E. her memory, the body had belter be deposited in the 

2 On losing his natural daughter, Allegra, in April, 1622, 1 church ; " — and it was b<i accordingly. — E. 



The " Lines written beneath an Kim at Harrow," were the last in the little volume printed at Nf wark, in J€07. 
The reader is referred to .Mr. Moore's Nutt^es, for various interesting particulars respecting the impression produced 
on I-ord Byron's mind by the celebrated Critique of his juvenile performances, put forth in the Edinburgh Review, 
— a journal which, at that time, possessed nearly undivided influence and authority. The poet's diaries and lettenj 
afford evidence that, in his latter days, he considered this piece as the work of Mr. (now Lord) Brougham; but 00 
what grounds he had come to that conclusion he nowhere mentions. It forms, however, from whatever pen it may 
have proceeded, so important a link in Lord Byron's literary history, that we insert it at length. — E. 



ARTICLE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, FOR JANUARY, 1808. 

Huxirs of Idlenes) ; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor, 
I 8vo. pp. 200. Newark, I SOT. 

i The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class available only to the defendant ; no plaintiff can offer 
which neither gods uor men are said to permit. In- it ,as a supplemenlar)' ground of action. Thus, if any 
ieed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the pur- 
verse with so few deviaions in either direction from pise of comiiellin'g him to put into court a certain 
that exact standard. His etTusions are spread over a quantity of poetrj',"ar.d if judgment were given against 
dead ilat, and can no more get above or below the him. it is highly probab'e that an exception would be 
level, than if they wore so much stagn.ant water. As taken, weie he to deliver fcr poetry the contents of 
ar. extenuation of this offeree, the noble author is pecu- ! this volume. To this he might plead minority ; but, 
liarly forward in pleadins minority. We have it in as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he 
the titlepage, and on the very back of the volume; it halh no risht to sue, on that ground, for the price in 
follows his name like a favourite part of his sfy/c. ' good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. 
Much stress is laid upon it in the preface; and the This is our view of the law on the point ; and we dare 
poems are connected with this general statement of his to s.ay, st will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, 111 
case, by particular dates, substaiitiating the age at which reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather 
each was written. Now, the law upon the point of | with a view to Increase our wonder than to soften our 
minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea censures. He possibly means to say, "See how a 



40 



CRITIQUE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. 



minor can write ! This poem was actually composed 
by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only 
sisteen ! " But, alas : we all remeuiber 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 nf 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 l^rd Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings 
forward in order to waive ir. He certainly, however, 
does allude frequently to his family and ancestors — 
sometimes in poetry,' sometimes in notes; and, while 
giving up his claim on the score of rank, be takes care 
to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
handsomely acknowledged. ]n truth, it is this con- 
sideration 'only that induces us to give Lord Byron's 
poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- 
sel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn 
his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- 
ties, which are great, to better account. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to as- 
sure him, that the mere rhyming of the fiiual syllable, 
even when accompanied b'y the presence of a certain 
number of feet, — nay, although (which does not al- 
ways happen) those feet should scin regularly, and 
have been all counted accurately upon the fingers, — is 
not the whole an of poetry. We would entreat him 
to believe, that a cerUin portion of liveliness, some- 
what 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 ex- 
pressed. We put it to his candour, whether there :s 
anything so deserving the name of poetry in verses 
like the following, written in ISOG ; and whether, if a 
youth of eighteen could say anything so uninteresting 
to his ancestors, a youth of nmeteen should publish 
it: — 

"Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, depart- 
ing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
"Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, ihat excites his regret : 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
" That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will'he perish ; 
When deciy'd, may he mingle his dust with your 
own." 
Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing 
better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the 
noble minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have d ^ne before him, for com- 
parisons (as he must have had occasion lo see at his 
writmg-master's) are odious. Gmy's Ode on Eton 
College should really have kept out the ten Imbbling 
stanzas " On a distant View of the Village and School 
o: Harrow." 

• A\'here fancy yet joys to re'race the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied. 
How welcome to me your neer-fiding remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers, 
" On a Tear.'' might have warned the noble author otf 
those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such 
stanzas as the fb'Iowing -. — 
" Mild Charity's g'.ow, 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 lail with the blast of the gale, 

Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends o er the wave, which may soon be hi* 
grave. 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear." 
And so of instances in which former poets have 
failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made 
for transla'ing. during his njnage, "Adrian's Address 
to his Soul," when Pope succeeded so indifferenti) iu 
the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another 
opinion, they may look at it. 

"Ah ! gentle, P.eetin;, wavering sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 
'Jo what unknown region borne 
Will thou now wing thy distant Hight? 
No more with wonted humour gay. 
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 
However, be this as it may we fear his translations 
and imitations are great favourites wi h Lord Byron. 
We have them of all kinds, from Ar.acreon to Ossian ; 
and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. 
Only, why print them after 'hey have had their day 
and served their turn ? And why call the thing in p. 
79.1 a translation, where two words {OzXui Xtyuv) of 
the original are expanded into four lines, and the other 
thing in p. 81."-, where fita-ovvKTiaiS 7ro9' oupai; is 
rendered by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his 
Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in 
truthj so moderately skilled in that species of com- 
position, that we should, in all probability, be criticis 
iiig some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were 
we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhajisodies. 
If, then, the following beginning of a " Song of Buds" 
is by his lordship, «e 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; 'tis 
Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was," &c. 
After detaining this "brown chief" some time, the 
bards conclude by giving him their advice to "raise 
his fair locks ; " then to " spread them on the arch of 
the rainbow ;" and "to smile through the tears of the 
storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than 
nine pages ; and we can so far venture an opinion in 
their favour, that they look very like Macpherson ; and 
we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and 
tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but 
they should " use it as not abusing it ; " and particular- 
ly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe 
age of nineteen; on being "an infant bard," — ("The 
ar.less Helicon I boast is youth") — should either not 
know, or should seem not lo know, so much about his 
own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the 
family seat o'f the Byrons, we have another of eleven 
pages', on the self-same subject, introduced with an 
apology, " he certainly had n9 intention of inserting 
it," but really " the p.articular request of some friends," 
&c &c. It conclude; with five s'aRv^is on himself, 
" the last and youngest of a noble line." There is a 
good deal also 'about his maternal ances'ors, in a poem 
on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of 
his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a 
bag|')ipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
volume to immortalise his employments at school and j 
college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present- 
ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effii- 
sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Gnnta. 
we have the following magniticent st.anzas : — 
" There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for colleje prizes 
Si's poring by the midnight hmp, 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
" Who reads fnlse quantities in Scle, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle. 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
fn barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: 



See I 



II. 



2 See p. lU 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



41 



"Rtnouncing every pleasing p^^e. 
From authors of historic use, 
Preferring to the lettered sage 
The square of the hypotenuse. 
"Still harmless are these occupations, 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreati )ns, 

Which bring together the miprudent." 
We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic 
stanzas: — 

" Our choir would scarcely be excused 

Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 

To such a set of croating 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 pissed on the Doemi 
of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we 
find them, and be ctmient ; for they are the last we i 
shall ever have from him. He is. at best, he says, but 
an intiuder into the groves of Parnassus: he never ' 
lived in a garret, like thorough-bred jioets; and 
" though he once roved a careless nsountameer ic tiie 
Highlands of Scotland," he has not of lale enj(//ed 
this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from 
his publication ; and, whether it succeeds or not, "it 
i? "jighly improb:ib.e, from his siluation and pursuits 
hereafter," that he should again condescend to become 
an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be 
thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? 
We are well otF to "have got so much from a man of 
this lord's station, ivho does not live in a garret, but 
" has the sway" of Newstead Abbey. Agam we say, 
let us be thankful ; and, with honest Sancho, bid God 
bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS : 

A SATIRE.* 



» I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." — Shakapeart, 
' Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 't is true. 

There are as mad, abacdon'd critics too." — Pope. 



PREFACE. 4 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
me not to 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. But I am 
not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, 
with or without arms. I can sifely say that I have 
attacked none personally, who did not commence on 
the oilensive. An author's works are public property : 
he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion 
if he pleases ; and the authors I have endeavoured to 
commemorale may do by me as I have done bj; 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 his met with far more success than I 
expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 



The first editinn of this satire, which then began with 
at is DOW the Dinetv-scv*,'nth line ( Time was, ere 
" iiQ.), apix-ared in March, ie09. A seiniid, to w.'iich 



the author prefixed hia Dame, folliwed in Ortobcr of that 
year; and a third uDd fourth were la led for durine his 
first pilgrimage, ia 1810 aDd 1811. Oii his return lo KDg- 
land, a fifth edition was prepared for the press by himself, 
with considerable care, but suppressed, and, except one 
copy, destroyed, when on the eve of publicatioD. The 
text is now printed from the copy lliat escaped; on casu- 
ally meeting with which, in 1816, he repernsed the 
whole, aad wrote on the margin some aDDOialii.ns, a few 
of which we shill preserve, — distinguishing them, by the 
insertion of their date, from those afiixed lo the prior 
editioDs. 

The first of these MS. rotes of lelB, appears on the fly- 
leaf, and ruDs thus: — "The binding of this volume is 
considerably too valr.ahle for the coDleDts; and nothing 
but the considention of its being the property of another, 
prevents me from consigning this miserahle record of 
misplaced anger and ii.discrimiiiate acrimony to the 
flames."— E. 

3 This preface was written for the second edition, and 
printed with it. The noble author hail left this country 
preTious to the publication rf that eifiiion, and is not yet 
returned. — tt'ole to the fourth edition, 1811. — [" He is, 
and gone again."— B. 1816.] 



I some additions and alterations, to render it more wor- 
thy of public perusal. 

In the first ediion of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written by, and inserted at the request of, an 
ingenious friend' of mine, 3 who has now in the press 
a volume 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 
wou'd opeiate with any other person in the same man- 
ner, —a determimtion not to publish with my name 
any production, which was not entirely and exclusively 
mv own composition. 

'With'' regard to the real talents of many of the 
poetical persons whose perfom.ances ate mentioned or 
alluded to in the follovvine pages, if is presumed by the 
author that there can be little difl'erence of opinion in 
the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
abilities are over-rated, his fiuKs overlooked, aiid his 
metric il canons received without scruple and without 
consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 
consideralile genius by seveml of the wrilers here cen- 
sured renders their menial prostitution more to be re- 
gretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laugh- 
ed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand the 
most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
than the author that some known and able writer had 
undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. GitTord has de- 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
rejrular ph\T>ician, a countrv' practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute! necessity, he allowed to prescribe his nos- 
trum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epi- 
demic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment 
of the mahdy. A caustic is here otVered ; as it is to be 
feareil nothing short of actual cautery can recover the 
numerous i)atients afflicted with the present prevalent 
and distressing raiiis for rhvming. — As to the Edin- 
burgh Reviewers, it would indeed require an Hercules 
to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in 
merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," 
Ihoush his own hand should suffer in the encounter, b* 
will be amply s.atisfied. 



42 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH 
REVIEWERS. ! 



still must I hear? i — shixll hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
His creikin? couplt's in a tavern lia]|,2 
And I not sin^, lest, haply. Srotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbier.'and denounce ray muse? 
Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish, right or wrong: 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my'sonj. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my erey ffonse-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my' will, 
Torn from ihy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen 1 foredoomed to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose. 
Though nvmplis forsake,' and critics mny deride 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed azain, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's 3 shall be free ; 
Thou'h spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: 
Then let us soar to-day ; no" con.nion theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires— our path, though full of thorn>, is plahi ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When 'Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who noujht beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime. 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their iustice in a golden scale; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
AfraiJ of shame, unknown to other fears. 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Stich is the force of wit ! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race: 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
The cry is up. and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, 'Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, epic' elegy, have at you all ! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schonlbiy 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 mthing in 't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm cnn save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
FaiI'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 
No mitter, George continues still to write.* 
Though now the name is veiled from public sight 



Jmit. 



• Semrer e: 

lepnn 

Veiatu8 1 



audit 



unqiiamne 



:e8 rauci Theseide Cndri 7 " — 
Jwit. Sat. I. 

2 Mr. Fitzgerald. fa'-elioiwlT terniPd by C"t)l>ptt the 
"Small Beer Poet." inflicts his annual trihiilp of verse 
OD the Lilera'-y Fund : not ronlentwilh writing, he epouts 
in ppp^on. atier the cnmpaiiv have imhihed a reasonable 
quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the opera- 
tion. 

3 Cid Kamet Benen^eti promises repose to his pen. In 
the laa rhaiter "f Don Quixote. Oh ! that our volumin- 
ous gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet Be- 
nengeli < 

« In the Edinburgh Review. 



Moved by the gre.at example. I pursue 
The self'same road, but make my own review; 
Not seek great Jeifrey's. yet, like him, will b« 
Self constituted judge of jwesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rots, 
With just enough of le.arning to misquote ; 
A mind well skill'd to tind or forge a fault; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; 
To .TetTrey go, be silent and discreet. 
His pay is just ten s'erling pounds per sheet ; 
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit j 
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 cons'ancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman or an ejjitnph, 
Or any other thing that 's false, before 
"V'ou trust in critics, "ho themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe s Boeotian head.* 
To these young tyrants.^ by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the ihrone 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. 



Then lihould you ask me.t why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gitford trod before; 
1( not yel sicken'd, yon can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
" But hold I " exclaims a friend, — •' here 's some ne- 
glect : 
This — that — and t' other line seem incorrect." 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got. 
And careless Dryden — "Ay, but Pye hns not: " — 
Indeed 1 — 't is granted, faith 1 — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in the'ie degenerate days 
I?noble thenies obtained mist.iken 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 'aste, bloom 'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rap' 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, or O'tw.ay's nnelt— I 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When .-ill to feebler bards resign their place? 
Yet to such times our lingerins looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey Ihe precious works that please the age. 
This truth at lea?! let satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 



6 Messrs Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and omfgii, 
the first and last of Ihe Edinburgh Review; the others 
are mentioned hereafter. 

6 Imit.~" Stulta est Clementia. cum tot ubiqne 

occurrasperituracpircerechartae." — 

Juv. Sat. I. 

7 Imit.— " Cur tnmen hoe libeal p.jtinsdec-.irrere rampo 

Per quern mngnus equos Auruncae flvxit 

alumnus: 
81 varnt, et ptactdi rationem admittttla, 

odam." — Jae. Sat. I. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



43 



The lo ded press hene:\th her Ubour groans, 
And printers' devils sh:ike their weiry bones ; 
Whilf Soathey's epics cram tlie creaking shelves, 
And Lit le's lyrics shine in hol-pre5s'd twelves. 
Thus «ailh the Pieicber : " Nought beneath the s*! 
Is new ; " yet still from change to change we ruu: 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In Ibrns appear, to make the vulgar stare. 
Till the s« oin bubb'e bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less now schools of Poetry ari e. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail : 
Eac^ country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And. hurling lawful genius from the throne. 
Err"ts a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.i 

Behold ! in v.arious throngs the scribbling crew, 
Foi ro'ice ci^er, pass in long review: 
Each spurs hij jajed Pegasus apace, 
Ai.d rhyme and blank maintain an equal race J 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
ImnieasurablT" measures move along ; 
For sim.pering folly loves a varied song. 
To strange mys'enous dulness still the f^riend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of M.nstrels^ — may they be Ihela't! — 
On hUf strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
While mountain upirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames m.ay listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brat's, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood. 
And skip at every step. Lord knows how high, 
And frighlen foolish babes, the Lord knows why J 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 

1 Stott, belter known in the "Mornirip Pnst " by tlie 
name of Hafiz. Ttiis persoDase is at present the mf.st 
profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, when the 
riMRning family left Portngal, a special Ode of Master 
Slott '8, beginning thua : — (.SJo(« tuquitur quoad Hiher- 

" Princely offspring of Brapnnza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," 8;c. 
Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a 
most thundering Ode, commencing as follows : — 
•' Oh '. for a Lay ! loud ae Ihe surge 
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 
Lord have mercy on us ! the " Lay of the I.ast Minstrel " 
was nothing to this. 

2 See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never 
was any plan so incongruous and absurd as Ihe ground- 
wotli of this production. The entranre of Thunder and 
Lightning, prologuising to Bayes' tragedy, unfoitunately 
takes away the merit of originality from Ihe dialogue be- 
tween Messieurs Ihe Spirits of Fl'md and Fell in Ihe first 
canto. Then we have the am'able William nf Deloraine, 
"a stark moss-trooper," videli'-tt, a happy compound of 
poacher, sheep-slealer, and highwayman. The propriety 
of his magical lady's injunction not to read can only be 
rqnall d by his candid acknowledgment of his independence 
of the trammels of spelling, allhough, to use his own ele- 
gant phrase, " 'i was his neck-verse at Harribee," i.e. 
Ihe gallows. —The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the 
marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as 
his master's horse without the aid of seven-leagued boots, 
are chefs-d*o(Uvrp. in the improvement of laste. For 
incident wc have ihe invisible, but by no means sparing 
bo.x on th« ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of 
a knight and charger into the castle, under the very 
natural disguise of a wain of hay- Mirmion. the hero of 
the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine 
would have been, had he been able to re id and write. 
The poem was manufactured for Messrs. Confutable, Mur- 
ray, and Miller, woishipful bo.iksellers, in consideration 
nf the receipt iif a sum of mon>-y : and truly, considering 
the inspiration, it is a very creditable pnKlnction. If Mr. 
Scott will write for hire, let him do liU best for his pay- 
roasters, but not disgrace his geni'is, \vhich is undoubtedly 
(real, by a repetition of black-letter ballad imitations. 



Despitch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
I And fight with honest meu to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
1 TTie golden-crested haughty Mamiinn, 

Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the light, 
j Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
I The gibbet or the lield prepared to grace ; 
' A mighty mixture ot the great and base. 
I And thinkst thou, Scolt : 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-acrown per line ? 

No I when the sons of song descend to trade, 
j Their bays are sere, their former laurels fade. 
I Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
I Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
1 Still for s'ern Mammon may they toil in vain ! 

And sadly gaze on eold they cannot gain ! 

Such be their meed, such still the just reward 

Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
I For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
I And bid a long " good night to Marmion." 3 

I These are the themes that claim our plaudi's now; 

i These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was young. 
When Homer swept Ihe I^-re, and Maro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
While awe-struck nations haii'd the magic name : 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years.* 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth. 
Tongues have expired with those who gave thena birth, 
Without Ihe glory' such a sti-ain can give. 
As even in nin bids 'he language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labour srent : 
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whnse annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see .loan of Arc advance. 
The scourge of England and Ihe boast of France ! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold the statue placed in glory's niche; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,» 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome. 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thv face. 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence. 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails. 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales; 



3"Good night to Marmion " — the pathetic and also 
prophetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Eaquire, on the 
dealh of honest Marmion. 

4 As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story 
of the Iliad, they may almost he clissed as one grand his- 
toriciil poem. In alhiding l.i Milton and Tasso, we con- 
sider Ihe "Paradise Lost." and "Giernsalemme Liherala." 
as their staudard effnils; sinie neither the "Jerusalem 
Conquereu " of the Italian, nor Ihe " Paradise Regained " 
of Ihe English bard, obt.:i 
their former poems. Qu 
will survive? 

5 "Thalaba," Mr. Sotithey's second poem, is wrillen in 
open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to 
produce somelhing novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 
"Joan of Arc " was marvello-s enough, but '• Thalaba" 
was one of those poems "whiih," in Ihe words of Per- 
son, "will be rend when Homer and Virgil are forgotleB, 
but — nol till then." 



44 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
Oh. Souihey : Soulhey 1 J cease thy varied song! 
A bard may chant too often and too Ion; : 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas 1 were njore Ihau we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way: 
If still in Berkeley ballads most uncivil, 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, 3 
The babe unborn thv dread intent may rue : 
" God help thee," Southey,3 and thy readers too. 

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 ; " ■• 
VVho, 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 mnon-stnick. silly lad, who lost his way. 
And, like his bard, confounded ni»ht 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 Coleridje 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,s 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegise an ass. 
So well the subject suits his nob'e mind. 
He brays, the laureat of the long ear'd kind. 

Oh ! wonder-working Lewis '. monk, or bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard .' 



1 We bep Mr. Sonltipy'g pardon: '• Mador disdains the 
degradinsr title of epic." See his preface. Why is epic 
degraded! and by whom 7 Certainly the late romaunts of 
Masters Cottle,' Laureat. Pye, Ogiivy, Hole, and gentle 
Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic muse: but, as 
Mr. Southey's poem "disdains the appellalior," allow us 
to ask — has he substitutej any thing belter in its stead? 
or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Blarkmore in 
the quantity as well as quality of h.s verse 7 

2 See "The Old Woman of Berkeley," a ballad, hy Mr. 
Southey, wherein an aged genlleworzian is carried bway 
by Beelzebub, on a "high-lrolting horse." 

8 The last line, ■' God help thee," is an evident plagia- 
rism from the .\nti-jarobiD to Mr. Soulhey. on his Dac- 
tylics. — [Lord Byrnn here alludes to Mr. Giftird's parody 
on Mr, Southey's Dactylics, which ends thus: — 
" Ne'er talk of ears again '. look at thy spelling-book ; 
Dilwnrth and Dyche are both mad at thy qnanlities — 
Dactylics call'sl thou 'em I — 'God help thee, silly 

one.' "] 
4Lyrical Ballads, p. 4. —"The Tables Turned," Stanza 1. 
"Up. lip, my friend, and clear vrur looks; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
Or surely you '11 grow double." 
S Mr. W. in his preface laboiirs hard to prove, that 
prnae and verse a'e much the same; and certainly his 
pr«eptB and practice are strictly conformable: — 
" And thus to Betty's qnestions he 
Made answer, like a tiaveller bold. 
The coik did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo. 

And the sun did shine so cold,"<kc, 4c., p. 129. 
Poems, p. 11., Songs of the Pixies, i, e. 



Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy trow. 

Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 

Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 

By gibb'ring spectres h lil'd, thy kindred baiid ; 

Ur iracest chaste descriptions on thy page, 

To please the females of our modest age ; 

All hail, M. P. : i Irom whose infernal brain 

Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 

At whose command '• grim women " throng in cn>wdi, 

And kings of liie, of water, and of clouds. 

With " small grey men,'" " wild yagers," and wha not, 

To crown with honour Ihee and 'Walter Scott; 

Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 

St. Luke alone can van(|uish the disease : 

Even Satan's self with Ihee 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, 
Wi'h sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd. 
Strikes his wild lyre, whil t listening dames are hush'd? 
'r is Little ! young Calullus of his day. 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay I 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar bums; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns: 
Yet kind to youth, this expia'ion 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 Sti-angford ! with Ihine eyes of "blue,' 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
Whose plaintive s'rain each love-sick miss admires. 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Thinkst thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
By dressing Camoens 9 in a suit of lace? 
Mend, Strangford ; mend thy morals and (hy taste; 
Be warm, but pure ; be nmo'rous, but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the l.usiau bard to copy Moore. 

Behold ! — ye tarts '. one moment spare the text — 
Hayley's last work and worst — until his next: 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays. 
Or damn the dead with purgaorial praise, 
I His style in youth '>r age is still the sanie. 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine ! 
I At least I 'm sure they triumph 'd over mine. 
Of " Music's Triumphs," all w ho re.ad may swear 
That luckless music never triumph'd thereto 
Moravians, rise ! bes'ow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — Lo '. the Sabbath bard. 
Sepulchral Gnhame.o pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 



6 Colertdfe'i 
kevoDshire fairi 
,adj; " and, p. i 



' Lines to a young Ass," 



I a yo 



7 "For everyone knows little Matt's on M. P."— See a 
poem to Mr. Lewis, in 'The Statesman,' supposed to be 
written by Mr, Jekyll. 

8 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, 
may refer to " Strangford's Camoens," p. 137. note lo p, 
J6., or lo the la-t page of Ihe Edinburgh Review, ot 
Strangford's Camoens. 

!• It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the 
public as poems of Camoens are no more to be foulrf in 
the original Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomop. 

10 Hayley's two most notorious verse productions arc 
"Triumphs of Temper," and " The Triumph of Music." 
He has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, arc. 
Sec. As he is rather an elejiant writer of n..tes and bio- 
graphy, let us recommend Pope's advice to Wycherley t; 
Mr. H.'s consideration, viz. "to convert his poeliy into 
prose," which may be easily done by taking away the 
final syllable of each couplet. — [The only performance 
for which Hayley is now remembered is his Life of Cow- 
per. His pe'rsoijai history has bcrn sketched by Mr. 
Southey in the Quarterly Review, vol. xxxi. p. 28S.] 

Jl Mr. Orahame has pourfd fcrth two volumes of cant, 
under the name of " Sabbath Walks." and "Biblical Pic- 
tures."— [This very amiable man, and pleasing poet, pul^ 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



45! 



Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 

AiJd boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; 

And, undi'sturb'd by conscientious qualms, 

Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 

Hail, Sympathy I thy soft idea brings 

A thousaod visions of a thousand things, 

And shows, still whimpering through three score of 

years, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, hirmonious Bowles! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 
The fill of empires, or a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,> 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap I 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and slill blest. 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'T is thine, wiih gentle Little s mor.\l 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 6tr.iin,"2 
Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leiky ark reposed in mud, 
By more or less, are sung in every book. 
From Captain Noih down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road. 
The ba-d sighs forth a eentle episode ; 3 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles I in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
Slick to thy sonnets, man '. — at le.ast they sell. 
But if sonie new born whim, or 1 irger bribe, 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim tliee for a scrihe; 
If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 
Now, prone m dust, can olily be revered ; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, 
Have foii'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
Do thou essay : each fault, each failing scan; 
The first of iy>ets was, alas ! but man. 
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and coniide in Curll ; * 
Let all the scandals' of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 

lislied subsequently "The Biids of Scotland," and other 
pieces; but his reputation rtrfel« on hlR ••Sabbath." He 
began life as an advocate at the Ed.nburgh br-.r ; but he 
had little success there, and beioK o( a melancholy and 
very devout temperament, entered into holy orders, and 
retired to a curacy near Durham, where he died in Ibll.] 

1 See BowleB'a ••Sonnets to Oxford," and '•Stanzas oo 
hearing the Bells of Ostend." 

2 "Awake a louder," &c., is the firBt line in Bowies'* 
" Spirit of Discovery ;" a very spirited and pretty dwarf- 
epic. Among ether exquisite lioea we have the follow* 
ing:- I 

"Akisa 

Stole on the list'oing silence, never yet 

Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," &e. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a Xiss ; very 
much astonished, a» well they might be, at such a pheno- 
menon. — [•• Mi.'qnoted and misunderstood by me; hut 
not intentionallv. It was not the •• woods," but the peo- 
ple in them who trembled — why. Heaven only knows — 
unless they were overheard making the prodigious smack." i 
— B. J816.] I 

3 The episode above alluded to Is the story of Rotwrt n 
Mdihin" and •' Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, 
who performed the kiss at>ove mentioned, that startled the 
woods of Madeira. 

4 Curll Is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a ' 
txmkseller. Lord Fanny in the poetical name of I.ord Her- 
v«]r, author of "Lines to the Imitator of Horace." I 



Afiect a candorr which thou canst not feel, 

[ Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 

i Write, as if St. Johns soul could still inspire, 

] And do from I.a:e what Mallet * did for hire. 
Oh I badst thou lived in that congenial lirae. 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme;* 
Throng'd wi'h the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; i 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 

j And liok'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. 

I Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
Mort books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Bicotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 

j 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 ! 8 who 11 buy? wholl btjy } 

1 The precious bargain 's cheap — in failh, not I. 
your turtle feeder's verse must needs be flat. 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
Ai.d Amos Cot le 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 ! — Phcebus 1 what a name 
To fill the speaking-trump of fu'ure Came ! — 
Oh. Amos Cottle 1 for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring fmm pen and ink ! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prosti'uled reams? 
Oh pen perverted 1 paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle 9 still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent oe'r the desk, or, born to u-eful 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, 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurice 10 all his granite weight of leaves: 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain I 
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 Alcaeus 'wanders dos> n the vale ; 

5 Lord Bolinghroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after 
his decease, because the poet had retained some c<>pie« of 
a work by Lord Bolingbroke — the •• Patriot King," — 
which that splendid, but m .lignant, genius had ordered to 
be destroyed. —['Boiiiigbroke's thirst of vengeance," 
says Dr. John.son, " incited him to blast the memory of 
LV rnan over whom he had wept in his last struggles; 
and he employed Mallet, another friend of Pc pe, to tell the 
tale to the pubhc, with all its aggravations."] 

6 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. — 
"Silence, ye wolves 1 while Ralph lo Cynthia bowls. 

Making night hideous: answer him, ye owls "' 

Dunciad. 
J See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, fur which 
he received three hundred pounds. Thus Mr. B. experi- 
enced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of 
another, than to elevate his own. 

6 ••Fresh fish from Helicon I" — " Helicon" is a moun- 
tain, and not a fish-pond. It should have been "Hippo- 
crene."— B. 1816. 

9 Mr. Cottle. Amoc, Joseph, I don't know which, but 
one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, nnd 
DOW writers of biioks they do nut sell, have published a 
pair of epics, " Alfred," — (poor Alfred! Pye has been at 
him tool) — "Alfred," and the "Fall of Cambria." 

10 Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts 
of a ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of " Richmond 
Hill," and the like: — it also takes in a charming view of 
Turnham Green, Hammersmith. Brentford, Old and New, 
and the parts adjaient. — (The Rev. Thomas Maurice also 
wrote •• Westminster Abbey," and other poems, the •• His- 
tory of Ancient and Modern HiDdoslan,''&c.,and his own 
'• Memoirs; comprehending Anecdotes of Literary Charac* 
lers, during a period of thirty years;"- a very amusing 
piece of autobiography. He died in 1«1, at his apartmeota 
in the British .Museum; where be had been for aoOM 
years assistant keeper of MS8.J 



46 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Though fair they rose, and might have blooni'd at last, 
His hopes have perished by the northern blastj 
Is'ipp'd in the bud by Cnledonian gales. 
His blossoms witlicr as the blast prevails ! 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! J 

Yet say ! why should the liard at once resign 
His claim to favour from llie sacred nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of norihern wolves, that still in darkness prowl j 
A coward brood, which mangle as Ihey prey, 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way j 
Aged or young, the living and the dead, 
No mercy find — these hirpies must be fed. 
VV'by do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field ? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's Seat? a 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
England could boisl a jurlge almost the same; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet ju!<, 
Some think that Sa'an has resisn'd his truit, 
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' !0 decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; 
Since well insti-ucted 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 Jeffrey's shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope: 
" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skiird to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to gre,at Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars 1 
Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever glorious almost fatal fray, 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by ?3 
Oh, day disastrous f on her fVrm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
Dark roll'd the sympa'hetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the star led whirlwinds of the north; 
Tweed ruffled half his w aves to form a tear. 
The other half pursued its cilm career; •* 
Arthurs s-eep summit nodded to its base, 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept ter place. 

1 Poor Montgnmerv, though praised by every English 
Review, lias been bitterly reviled by the Kdinburgh. 
After all, the bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable 
g.nius. His "Wanderer of Switzeilarid" ia worth a 
thousand "Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty "degraded 
epies." 

2 Arthur's Seat; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 

3 In 1^06, Messrs. J.-fTrcy and Moore met at Chalk- 
Farn:*. The duel was prevented by the interference of 
the magistracy , and, on examination, the balls of the pis- 
tols were found to have evaporated. This incident gave 
occasion to much wagsery in the daily prints!. [The pre- 
ceding note was struck out of the fifth edition, and the 
following, after being submitted to Mr. Moore, substituted 
in its place. — "I am informed that Mr. Moore published 
at the time a disavowal of the statements in the newspa- 
pers, as^r as regarded himself; and, in justice to him, I 
mention this circumstance As I never henrd of it before, 
I cannot state tne pariicu.ars, and wras onlv made acquaint- 
ed with the fact very lately. — November 4, 1611. "] 

4 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum; it 
would have been highly reprehensible in the English half 
of tbe river to have shown the smallest symptom of uppre- 
heLsion. 



The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
I If Jeffrey died, except wi hin her aims: * 
I Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 
I The sixteenth story, wheie himself was bom, 
1 His patrimooial garret, fell to ground, 
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound: 
Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white leami, 
Flow'd all the Canongate with iijky stieamsj 
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 min-cled emblems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore j 
From ei'her pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 
And straight restored it to her favo;jrile's head j 
That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r. 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r, 
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 poll lies and poesy preside, 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide 1 
For long as Albion's heedJe?s 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 oatfed phalanx shall be seen 
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdcen.6 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hanmier,' and sometimes. 
In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 
Smug Svdnev « too thv bitter page "shall seek, 
And classic H.allam,9 much renowu'd for Greek; 



L=? 



5 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth 
(tbe principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to 
have been most aft'ected on this occasion, is much to be 
commended. It was to be apprehended, that the many 
unhappy criminals executed in the front might have ren- 
dered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the 
softei sex, beiause her delicacy of feeling on this day was 
truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, per- 
haps a little selfish. 

6 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of 
the Athenian Society, and reviewer of " Cell's Top. giaphy 
of Troy." — [George Hamilton Gordon, fourth Earl of 
Aberdeen, K.T., F.R.S., and P.S.A. In lt22, his lordship 
published an "Inquiry into the principles of Beauty in 
Grecian Architecture." — E.] 

7 Mr. Herbert is a translator oflcelandic and other poe- 
try. One of the principal pieces is a " Song ou the Reco- 
very of Thor's Hammer :" the translation is a pleasant 
chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus : 

"Instead of money and rings, I wot. 
The hammer's bruises were her lot. 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 
[The Hon. William Herbert, brother to the Earl of Car- 
narvon. He also published, in Ifcll, "Helga," a poem in 
seven cantos. — K.] 

j 8 The Kev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter 
Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. — [Now (lt32) 

; one of the Canons Residentiary of 61. Paul's, &ic., *c. 
" Dyson's Address to his Constituents on the Reform Bill," 
and many other pieces publ.shed anonymously, or pseudo- 

, nomously. are eenerally ascribed to this eminently witty 

I person, who has put forth nothing, it is believed, /n his 
own name, except a volume of Sermons. — E.] 

9 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's "Taste." and 
was exceedingly seve'e on s-'me Greek verses therein. It 
was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the 
press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which 
still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenu- 
ity.— A'ote added to second tdiliun. The said Hallam is 
incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never 

i dineth at Holland House, if this be true, 1 am sorry — 
not fur having said so, but on his account, as I understand 
his lordship's feasts are preferable to his compcsiiions. If 
he did nut review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad : 
because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



47 



Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry 'Pillansi shall traduce his friend; 
While ^y Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe.a 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will 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 satfron and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham 3 destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cau!iRo->vers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.'' 

Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain ! 
Whatever ble-sing wait a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot; 
For thee £dina culls her evening sweets, 
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets. 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.* 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour d grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and' cleaves to thee alone ; 
And, too unjust to other Piclish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 

Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot! 
Holland, with Henry Petty 6 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-streot dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hal lam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work. 



praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who Jid review it, 
the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, 
nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical 
syllables, aai wiii come into the verse : till then, Hallara 
must stand for want of a belter. 

1 Pillans is a tutor at Eton. — [Mr. PillanF became after- 
wards Rector of the Hi!;h School of Edinburgh, and has 
now bten for »ome years Professor of Humanity at 
University. There was not, it is believed, the slightest 
foundation for the charge in the tuxt. — E] 

5 The Hon. George Lambe reviewed " Beresford's \ 
ries," and is, moreover, author of a farce enacted 
much applause at the Priory, Slnnmore ; and damned 
great expedition at the late theatre, Ccvcnt Garden. It 
was entitled, "Whistle for It." 

3 .Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Re- 
view, throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de 
Cevallos. has displayed more politics than policy; many 
of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed 
at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have with- 
drawn their subscriptions. — [Here followed, in the first 
edition, — "The name of this personage is pronounced 
Broom in the south, but the truly norlhern and mu»icat 
pronunciation is Broueh-am, in two syllables;" but for 
this, Lord B. substitulcd in the second edition: — "It 
seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but 
a Borderer, and his name ia pronounced Broom, from 
Trent to Tay : — so be it."— E.j 

4 I ought to apologise to the worthy deities for intro- 
lucing a new goddc-^s with short pelticoals to their notice : 
but, alas '. what was to be done ? I could not say Cale- 
donia's genius, it being well known there Js no such 
genius to be found from Clackmnnan to Caith. ^ss; yet, 
without 8upernatur.al agency, how was Jeffrey to t>e 
saved 7 The national " kelpies " are too unpoetic;.!, nnd 
the "brownies" and "gude neighl»ur8" (spirits of a 
irood disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddets, 
therefore, has been called for the purpose; and great ought 
to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only com- 
munication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
thing heavenly. 

6 See the colour uf the bock bindin] of the Edinburgh 
Review. 



And, grateful for the dainties on his pl.ate. 
Declare his landlord can at least traiisla'.e ! t 
Uunedin ! view thy children with delight. 
They write for food — au Mtd because they write t 
And lest, when heated w ,h the unusual grape. 
Some glowing thoughts should lo the press escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cre-im of each critique; 
Bi'eathus o'er the page her puriiy of soul, 
Reforms each -srror, and refines the whole.8 

Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 9 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscioinania's O'er 
And full-grown actors .are endured once more ; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts lo please, 
While British critics suffer scenes like these ; 
While Reynolds vents his " dammts ! " " poohs 1 " aca 

" zounds ! " 10 
And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenney's "World " — ah ! where is Kenney's »» 

wit ? — 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach atlords 
A tragedy ccmplete in all but words? 12 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the ragt^ 
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, 13 awake J 
Ring the nlarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh,"Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schools} 
Leave new Pizarros to tianslaling fools j 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the s!age. 
Gods I o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head. 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread ? 
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'rj's mask. 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient manajers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? 



7 Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope 
de Vega, inserted in his life of the author. Both are be- 
praised by his ditinteretted guests. — [We are not aware 
th.at lx>rd Holland has subse<|nenlly published any verses, 
except an universally admired version of the 28th canto 
of the Orlai'do Kurioso, which is given by way of appen- 
dix to one of Mr. W. Stewart Rose's volumes. — E.] 

8 Certain it is, her ladyship is snspected of having dis- 
played hermalchleys wit in the Edinburgh Review. How- 
ever that may be, we know, from good aulhority, that the 
manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt, for 
correction. 

9 In the melo-drama of Tekeli. that heroic prince is 
dart into a bariel on the stage; a Lew asylum for distress- 
ed heroes. 

10 All these are favonnte expressions of Mr. Reynolds, 
and prominent in hiscomedies, living and defunct. — [The 
reader is referred to Mr. Reynolds's Autobiography, pub- 
lished in 1(126. for a full account of his volumiooiu wri* 
tings for the stage. — E.] 

11 Mr. Kenney has since written many anccessfo] 
dramas. — E. 

12 Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lan» 
theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogor, 
and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractarus. 
Was this worthy of his sire? or of hiraiJelf! — [Thomsk 
Sheridan, who united much of the convivial wit of hi« 
parent to many amiable qualities, received, after the ler- 
inination of his theatrical management, the appointinent 
of colonial paymaster at the Cape of Good Ho|c, ^ere be 
died in September, \tn, leaving a widow, who«<r>iovel of 
"Carwell" has obtained much approbation, and several 
children; among others, the accomplished authoress of 
•■Bobalie" and other poems, now the Honourable Mr». 
Korlon. — E.) 

13 Ri-hard Cumberland, the well-known author of the 
"West l.'^diuii," the "Observer." and one of Ihti DiMt 
amusing o." uutoliiographies, died in lull. — E. 



48 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
I<o ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.' 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renowu'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ; a 
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,3 
While poor John Bull, beivilder'd with the scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
But as some bands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now. Ah 1 wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to duluess. do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
Well may they smile on It ly's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons,* 
Since their own dnima 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 theheart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down: 
Let wedded strumpets lanzuish o'er Desliayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquises, and stripling dukes : 
Let high-born lechers eve the livelv Presle 
Twirl her li^ht limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 
I.et 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 ! 
Whet not your scythe, suppressors nf our vice ! 
Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
r.y whose decrees, our sinful souls to save. 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
And beer undrawn, and beards \mmown, display 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle ! 6 



1 Dilidin's pantomime of Mother Goose, had a run of 
nearly a hundred nights, and brnuRht more than twenty 
thousand pounds to the treasury of Covent Garden thea- 
tre. — K. 

2 Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, Bcene-painter to Drury 
Lane theatre — as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted 
to him. 

3 Mr. [now Sir Lumley] Skeffington is the illustrious 
author of the "Sleeping Beajty; " and some comedies, 
particularly "Maids ond Bachelors:" Baccalaurii baculo 
magis quam lauro digni. 

4 Naldi and Catalan! require liitle notice: for the vis- 
nqc of the one, ami the salary of the other, will enable us 
long to recollect these amoBing vagabonds. Besides, we 
are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night 
of the lady's appearance in trousers. 

5 The following twenty lines were struck ofT one night 
after Lord Byron's return from the Opera, and sent the 
next morning to the printer, with a request to have them 
placed where they now appear. — E. 

6 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for 
a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and 
not the duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A 
gentleman, with whom I am elightly acquainted, lost in 
the Argyle Rooms, several thousand founds at backgam- 
mon. It is but justice to the manager in this instance to 
say, that some degree of disapprobation was manifested • 
but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place 
devoted to the society of bolh sexes? A pleasant thing 
for the wives and daunhters of those who are blest or 
cuneil with such connections, to hear the hilliard-tables 
rattling in one room, and the dire in another! That th:: 
!■ the nse I myself can testify, as a late unworthy mem- 



Where yon proud palace. Fashion's hallow'd fane, 

Spreads'wide her portals for the motley train, 

Eehnlcl the new Pelronius "> of the day, 

Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 

There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 

The melting lute, the soft Lascivious lyre, 

The song from Italy, the step from France, 

The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 

1 he smile "of beauty, ;ind the flush of wine, 

For fops, fools, gamesters, I: naves, and lords combine 

Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; 

Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 

Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 

Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made; 

In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 

Nor think of poverty, except '' en masque," 

When for the night some lately titled ass 

Appears Ihe beggar which his'grandsire was. 

The curtain dro))p'd, the gay burlella o'er, 

The audience take their turn upon Ihe floor; 

Now round Ihe room the circlmg dow'gers sweep, 

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 

The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 

The last display the free unfetler'd limb ! 

Those for Hibernia'i lusty sons repair 

With art tlie 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 teich new sys'ems, or be taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just retum'd from Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls Ihe rattling main : 
The jovial ca»l-2r 's se', 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, two Pagets for your wife; 
Fit consummaiion of an e;irthly race 
Begun in folly, ended in disgr;ice ; 
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 mansled victim of a drunken brawl, 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fjll.8 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 

ber of an institution which materially nffects the morals 
of the higher orders, while the lower may not even move 
to the sound of a t.ibor ami fiddle, without a chance of in- 
diitment for riotous behaviour. — [Conceiving the fore- 
going note, together with the lines in the text, to convey 
a reflection upon his conduct, as manager of the Argyle 
institution, Colonel Greville demanded on explanation of 
Lord Bvron. The matter was referred to Mr. Leckie(the 
author of a work on Sicilian affairs) on the part of Colonel 
Greville, and to Mr. Moore on the part of Lord Byron ; by 
whom it was amicably settled. — E.] 

7 Petronius "Arbiter clecanliarum " to Nero, "and a 
very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's "Oid 
Bachelor" saitb of Hannibal. —E. 

8 I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday 
night I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all liic 
honest pride of hospitaUty ; on '^Vednesday morning at 
three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that remained 
of courage, t'eeling, and a host of passions. He was a gal- 
lant ami 'successful officer: his faults were the faults of a 
sailor — as such. Britons will forgive them. He died like 
n brave man in a better cause; for had he fallen in like 
manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just 
appointed, his last moments would have been held op by 
his countrymen cs an example to succeeding heroes.— 
[Lord Falkland was killed in a duel by Mr. Powell, in 
1809. It was not by words only that I.oTd Byron gave 

I proof of sympathy on the melancholy occnsion. Though 
his own difficulties pressed on him at Ihe lime, he con- 
I trived to administer relief lo the widow and children of 
litis friend. —F..) 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



49 



Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course throush passion's countless host, 
Whom everj' path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I n.ust raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal : 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ?" 
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. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoali 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,i 
Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanr\s to himself; 
Miles Andrews 2 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 future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 
The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse. 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer !3 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age. 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 
Hut managers for once cried, " Hold, enough ! " 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic s'.uff. 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
Ajid case his volumes in congenial calf: 
Yes 1 doff that covering, where morocco shines. 
And bang a calf-skin '> on these recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead. 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you' I war not : GitFord's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 



1 What woulil be the (entiraents of the Persian Ana- 
creoo, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at 
Bheerai (where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the 
oriental Hnmer and Catullus), and behold his name as- 
sumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and 
execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints? 

3 Miles Peter Andrews, many years M. P. for Bewdley, 
Oilone! of the Prince of Wales's'Voluiileeri", proprietor of 
a gunpowder manufactory at Darlford, author of numerons 
prologues, epilogues, and farces, and one of the heroes of 
the Baviad. He died in 1814.— E. 

3 The Earl of Carlisle baa lately pnblished an eighteen- 
penny pamphlet on the Etale of the stage, and offers his 
plan for building a new Iheatre. It is to he hoped his 
lordship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for 
the stage — except his own tragedies. 

( "Doir that lion's hide. 

And hang a call-skin 00 those recreant limb*." 
Shttk. King John, 
Lird Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form ■ 
conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves: — 

« The rest is all but leather and prunella." 



Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
Aud Melville's Mantle 5 prove a blanket too I 
One common Leihe wails each hapless bard, 
And. peace be with you ! 't is your best reward: 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 
But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. 
Whose strains, the fiithful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. s 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill. 
Some strasglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hazif yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of 0. P. (^.^ 

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 rouse. 
Heavens I how the vulgar stare ! how crowds ipplaud 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! 8 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know Ijest? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
And C.ipel Lofft » declares 't is quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Sivains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade! 
Lo! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
GitFord was born beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm, and Iriumph'd over fate ; 
Then why no more ? if Phcebus smiled on you, 
Bloomfield I why not on brother Nathan too ? to 
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 deio;ns 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 handywork peruse. 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 



5 " Melville's Mantle," a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," 
a poem. 

6 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted 
Jew King, seems to be a follower of the Delia Crnsca 
school, and has published two volumes of very respect- 
able absurdities in rhvme, as times go; besides sundry 
novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk.— 
["She since married the Morning Post— an exceeding 
good match; and is now dead— which is belter." — B. 
1816.] 

7 These are the signatures r.f various worthies who 
figure in the poetical derartments of the newspapers. 

8 "This was meant for poor Blackelt, who was then 
patronised by A. J. B." (Lady Byron): "hut that 1 did 
not know, or this would not have been written, at least I 
think not." — B. 1816. 

9 Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakrn, and 
preface-wriler-general to distressed versemen ; a kind of 
gratis accoucheur to those who wish lo be delivered of 
rhyme, but do not know how lo bring forth. — [The poet 
Bloomfield owed his first celebrity to the notice of Capel 
Lofft and Thomas Hill. Esquires, who read his "Farmer's 
Boy." in manuscript, recommended it to a publisher, and 
by their influence In society aud literature, s^ion drew 
general attention to its merits. .It is dislressing to re- 
member that, after all that had been done by the zeal of 
a few friends, the public sympathy did not rest perma- 
nenily on the amiable Bloomfield, who died in extreme 
poverty, in lb23. — E.) 

10 See Nathaniel Bloomfield'e ode, elegy, or wbate»«f 
he or any one else chooses to call it, 00 the encloaure* of 
" Honington Green." 



50 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



May Moorland weavers i 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 fur coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
Neglected genius ! let "me turn to you. 
Come forth, oh Campbell '. 2 give ihy talents scope; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers I rise at last. 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
Arise ! let blest remen;brance still inspire, 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre; 
Restore Apollo to his vacant Ihrone, 
Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
What ! must deserted Poesy s ill weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns. 
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel. Burns ! 
No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood, 
The race who rhyme from folly, or lor food, 
Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast. 
Who, least atfecting, still effect the most : 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
Bear witness Gilford, 3 Solheby,* Macneil.s 

" Why slumbers Gifford ? " once was asked in vain ; 
Why slumbers Gilford ? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 6 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 
Are there no sins for satire's bard lo greet ? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gilford ! be thy promise claim'd. 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White ! ■> while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wiug, 
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self deslrov'd her favourite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sow'd the seeds, but death hath reip'd the fruit 
'T was thine own genius gave the final blow. 
And help'd to plant the w^Dund that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again. 



• of a Weaver in the Moorlands of 

2 It would be supprflnons to recall to the mind of the 
reader the authors of *• The Pleasures of Memory" and 
"The Pleasures of Hope," the miwt hcaulifal didactic 
poems in our language, if we except Po|ie's " Essay on 
Man : " but so many poetasters have started up, that even 
the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange. 

3 Gilford, authrr of the Baviad and Maeviad, the first 
satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal. 

4 Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's 
Georges, and author of "Saul." an epic poem.— [Mr. 
Sotheby has since essentially raised his repulatiou by 
various original poems,and a translation of the Iliad. — E.] 

5 Macneil, whose ixwms are deservedly popular, par- 
ticularly "Scotland's Scaith," and the " Waes of War," 
f f which leu thousand copies were sold in one month. — 
[Hector Macneil died iu 1818.— E.] 

6 Mr. GiSbrd promised publicly that the Baviad and 
Maeviad should not be his last original works: let him 
remember, " Moi in relnctantes dracones. " — [Mr. Gif- 
ford became the editor of the Quarterly Ueview,— which 
fhencetorth occupied most of his time, — a few months 
after the first appearance of this satire. — E.] 

7 Henry Kirlte White died at Cambridge, In October, 
1806, ii. consequence of too much exi rlion in the pursuit 
of studies that would have matured a mind which disease 
and poverty could not impair, and which death itself de- 
stroyed rather than subdued. His poems atwiind in such 
beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest re- 
iret that so short a period was allotted lo talents, which 
would have dignified even the sacred functions he was 
dntioed to a!^sume. 



View'd his own feather on the fatal dart. 

And wing'u the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; 

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 

He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 

While the same plumage that had warm'd his neit 

Drank the last life-drop ot his bleeding breast. 

There be who say, in these cnlighlen'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; 
Ye1 Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's nanie let Crabbe 8 attest; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee 9 and Genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencH yield an equal grace; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine. 
And trace the poer's or the painter's line; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow. 
Or pour the ea.sy thyme's harmonious How j 
While honours, doubly merited, attend 
The Poel's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower, 
Where dnell the muses at their nalal hour; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afiur, 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory s'ill 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 their remnants with a poet's eye! 
Wright ; to 't was thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them loo ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen, 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associ.ate bards ! ti who snatch to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where attic Rowers Aonian odours breathe. 
And all tiieir 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'a lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as ihe^e, with just applause, 
Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime. 
That migh'y master of unmeaning rhyme. 
Whose gilded cynrbivls, more adorn'd than clear. 
The eye delizhted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple 1 're could once surpass. 
But now, worn dowr/, appear in native Lr ss ; 
While all his train 'if hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similM and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die; 
False glare attracts, but more offends tlie eye.'* 



8 " I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of IheM 
times, iu point of power and genius." — B. 1816. 

9 Mr. Shee, author of "Rhymes on Art," and "EJe- 
ments of Art."— [Now (IS37,) Sir Martin Shee, aoa 
President of the Royal Academy. — E.] 

10 Waller Rodwell Wright, late consul-general for the 
Seven Islands, is author of a very beautiful poem, just 
published : it is entitled " Horae lonicae," and is descrip- 
tive of the isles and the adjacent coast of Greece.— [To 
the third edition, which came out in 1816, was .ndded an 
excellent translation of the " Oreste " of A Ificri. After 
his return to England, Mr. Wright was chosen Recorder 
of Bury St. Edmunds. — E.] 

11 The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Meri- 
vale, have since published separate poems, which ivince 
genius that only requires opportunity to attain eatizeDcc. 

12 The neglect of the •■B<itanic Garden" is sciii.t pnot 
of returning taste. The scenery is its sole lecoaavmU- 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



51 



Tet let them not to \Tjlgar Wordsworth stoop, 
The meanest object of Ihe lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
S«eins blessed harmony to Lsmb and Lloyd : i 
L*t them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond 'ihy humble reach: 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And tnoQ, too, Scott ! 2 resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire ; 
Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming mase, 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse j 
Let simple Wordsworlh 3 chime his childish verse, 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
To rouse the gil.eries, or to r.iise a ghost ; 
Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from Moore, 
And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yorej 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave. 
And godly Grahime chmt a stupid stave; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
And whine and whimper ti the fourteenth line; 
Let Stotf, Carlisle,* Maiilda, and Ihe rest 
Of Grub Street, and of Grosveiior Place the best. 
Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble hys : 
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 gl-rious record of some nobler field, 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter fix)d 
For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? 
Scotland i still proudly claim thy native bard. 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 



1 Messrs. Iamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers 
of Southey and Cii. 

2 By ttie bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott'a next p.iem, his 
hern or heroine will he lues addiitfd to "Oiamaiye," and 
more to grammar, Ihan the Lady of the Lay and her 
bravo, William of Deluraine. 

3"Dnjust." — B. 1818. 

4 It may be astied. why I have censored the Earl of 
Carlisle, my Ruardlan and relative, to whom I dedicsitrd 
a volume of puerile poemu a few years ago? — The guar- 
dianship wa.** nominal, at least a-s far ait 1 have been able 
to disrover; the relarionship I rann'it help, and am very 
sorry for it; but as his lordship seemed ti> forget it on a 
Tery essential oteasion to me, I shall ni>t burden my me- 
mory with the rerolleition. 1 do not think that personal 
differences sancli<)n the unjust condemn tion "f a brr^iber 
scribbler; but I see no rea-on why tliey should act as a 
preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has fur a 
series of years, beguiled a "discerning palilic" (as Ihe 
■dTrrtlKemenis have ii) with divers reams of most ortho- 
dox, imperial nonsense. Bisides, I do not step aside to 
vituperate Ihe earl: no — his works come fairly in review 
wilh thotfe of other patrician literati. If beTore I escaped 
from my teens, I said any thing in fav.nur of his lord- 
ship's paper books, it was in the way nf dutiful dedica- 
tion, and more fiom the advice of others than my own 
judgment, and I seize the first nppnrtuuily of pr^n^uD- 
cing my sincere recantation. 1 have heard that some 
p«rsoni> conceive me to be under nbl gallons In Lord Car- 
lisle : if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn 
what they are, and when conferred, that I hey may Ne 
duly appiecialed and publicly acknowle.Jged. ' Wh,at I 
have humbly advanced as an opinion on his primed 
things, I am prepared to support, if uecess ry. by i|»nta- 
lions from elegies, eulogies, <xles, episodes, and certain 
facetious and dainiy tragedies bearing his name and 



80 savs Pope. Amen t— [■• Much too savage, whatever the 
. foundation might be."--B. 16115.] 



Yet not with thee alone his name should live. 
But own the vast renown a world can give; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
And te.l the tale of what she was before; 
To future limes her faded I'.ime recall, 
And save her glory, though his counlry fall. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer ages, and wilh time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors fill the applauding skies; 
A few brief generations fleet along. 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce mav claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
\Vhen lame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blict, 
Though long Ihe sound, the echo sleeps at last; 
And glory, like Ihe i)hQ;nix 'ii.idst her fires. 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert al puns? 
Shall these approach Ihe muse? ah, no ! she fiies, 
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condeicend the press 10 soil 
With rhyme by Hoare,* and epic blani: bv Hoyle:« 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by wList, 
Requires no sacred' theme to bid us list.l 
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 pleas*," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buifoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And fuibish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Himself a living libel on mankind. 8 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal nee ! 9 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodeson's to verse 
Can make thee teller, nor poor Hewson's" wone. 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove. 
To crown Ihe bards that haunt her classic grovej 
Where Richarls wakes a genuine poel's fires. 
And modern Brilons glory in their sires.i 2 



5 The Rev. Charles James Hoare published, io 1608, the 
"Shipwreck of bl. Paul." a Seatonian prize poem. — £. 

6 The Rev. Charles Hoyle, aulhor of '■ Exodus," an 
epic in thirteen books, and several other Srutiiniao prize 
prems. — E. 

7 The "Games of Hoyle." well known to the votaries 
of whist, chess, 4.-C., are not to be superseded by the 
vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, 
as expressly stated in Ihe advertisement, all the "plagues 
of Egypt." 

6 This person, who has lately betrayed Ihe most rabid 
symptoms of confirmed aiMhorship, i» writer of a poem 
denominated the "Arl of Pleasiiie," as " locus a noo 
lucendo," containing little pleasantry and less p)ctry. He 
also aclg as m'nthly stipendiary and collector of .alum* 
nies for Ihe "Sialirist." I: this unfortunate young man 
would exchange the ma^azims for the nialbemalics. and 
endeavour Io lake a decent degree in hia university, it 
mijht eventually prove more serviceable than hi« present 
salaiy. 

9 " Into Camhridseshire the Empeior Probus tronsport- 
ed a considerable boily of Vandals."— Gibbr.n's Decline 
aiHl Fall vol. ii. p. b3. There is no reasi:n Io uoubt Ihe 
truth uf this s>.sjcrlian ; the breed is still in high perfec- 
tion. 

10 This gentleman's name reqr.ires no praise : the man 
who in lianslatiiiii displays uLqurslional'le genius may b« 
well expected to excel in original compos .ion, of wh'cb 
it is to be hoped we shall soun see a splendid specimen. 

11 Ilewson CLarke, Bsq., as it is written. 

12 The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poCTB, bf 
Richards. — [The Rev. George Richards, D.D. has llM 



52 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



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 ; 
No just applause her honour'd name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame. 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appeir'd in her meridian hour, 
'T is thine at once, f lir Albion ! to have been — 
Earth s chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen : 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie sbatter'd in the main ; 
Ijke these, thv strenslh may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
WitL warning ever scoff'd at, till too latej 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine. 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.* 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest. 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. 
And old dame "Portland 2 fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height. 
And Stamtwul's minarets must greet my sight : 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime. 
Where Kaff < is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows 

sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess ; 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carrj 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin s slill pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 



sent from the press "Songs of the Aboriginal Bards of 
Britain," •" Modern France," two volumes of Miscellaiie- 
oud PopiTiB, and Bamplon Lectures "On tlie Divine Ori- 
Bin of Prophecy." This gentleman is now Rector of St. 
Martin's in ttie Fields. — E.] 

1 With this verse the satire originally ended. — E. 

2 A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace of Port- 
land was liliened to an old woman? replied, " he sup- 
posed it was because he was past bearing." — His Grace 
is now gatt-'red to his grand-mothers, where he sleeps as 
sound as evjr ; but even his sleep was t>etter than his 
colleagues' waking. 1811. 

3 Georgia. 4 Mount Caucasus. 

e Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures. 



Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freakt, 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques j 
And make tbeir grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art, 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid Gell ; 6 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To«tun the public ear — at least with 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 : 
My voice W3s 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 diu of Melbourne house. 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
By JeS'rey'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 &U 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall j 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eye» : 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
1 '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, 
Ncr care if courts and ciowds applaud or hiss : 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared ; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong'd these rigbteous'times, let others say: 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. i 



6 Mr. Cell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot foil 
! to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of clas- 
sical tasle, as well for the information Mr. Gell conveys 
to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and researib 
the respective works display. 

7 "The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wisi 
j had never lieen wriiteu — not only on account of the in- 
I justice of much of the critical, and some of the personal 
' part of it — but the tone and temper are such as 1 cannot 

approve." — Byron. July 14, 1616. Diodati, Geneva.— E. 



POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



I have been informed, since the present edition went 
to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- 
ment critique on my poor, gentle, U7nesistine, Muse, 
whom thev have alieady so be-deviled with their un- 
godly ribaldry : 

" Tantaene animis coelestibus irae!" 
I iuppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek saith, " an I had known he was so cunning of 
fence, I had se.^n him damned ere I had fousht him." 
What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bnsphorus 
before the next number has passed the Tweed ! But I 
yet hope to lisht my pipe with it in Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, 
of personality towards their great litemrv' anthropopha- 
gus, Jellrey ; but what else was to be jone with him 
and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slander- 
ing," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking?" I 
have adduced facts already well known, and of Jef- 
frey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he 



thence sustiined any injury; — what scavenger was 
ever soiled by being pelted with mud ? It may be said 
that I quit England because 1 have censured there 

i " persons of honour and wit about town; " but I am 
coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot 

I till my return. Those who know me can testify that 
my motives for leaving England are very different 

I from fears, literary- or personal : those who do not, may 
one day be convinced. Since the publication of this 
thin?, my name has not been concealed ; I have been 
mostly in London, ready to answer ff-r my transgres- 
sions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but. 
alas! "the age of chivalr)- is over," orj in the vulgar 

I tongue, there is no spirit nowa-days. 

There is a youth ycleped Hew'son Clarke (subaudi 
esqriire), a slyer of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a 
denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have intro- 
duced in these pages to much better company than he 
has been accustomed to meet ; he is, notwithstaodiDg, 
a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, 
except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by meat 



HINTS FROM HORACE 



53 



Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the ' 
iealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from - 
success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the' 
defenceless innocent above me tioned, in '• The Sati- 
rist" for one year and some months. I am utterly un- 
conscious of having given him any provocation ; in- 
deed, I am guiltless of having heard his name, till 
coupled with "The Satirist." He has therefore no 
reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fret- 
ful Plagiary, he is rather pkastd than otherwise. I 
have now mentioned all who have done me t.e 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 little 
of his Kcntility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
that Mr. Jeruingham i> about to Lake ■}[> the cudgels for 
his Macenas, liird 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, " jiour on, I will endure." 
I have nothing further to add, save a general note of 
thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers, 
and, in the words of Sccit, 1 wish 



HINTS FROM HORACE: 

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE 'AD 
PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO 
" ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



■ "Ergo fnngar vice cotis, acutum 

Reddere quae fi'.ruiu valet, exsors ipsa scrandi." 

HOR. De Arte Poet. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811. 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvass with each flatter"d face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some linmer join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low Dubost i — as once the world has seen — 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their laults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Stoschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man'a dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 
Humano lapili cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, el varias indurere plumag, 
Vndique collatis memhris, lit furpiter atriim 
Desinal in piscem mulifrr formosa suptrne : 
Spectatutn admissi risum teneatis, amiri? 
Credile, Pisoiies, isli tabulae fore libnim 
Feraimilem, cujus, velul aegri somnia, vanae 



1 Tn an English newspaper, wliich finds its way abroad 
wtierever tliere are Englishmen, I read an account of this 

dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H as a "beast," and 

the consequent action, Ac. Tlie circumstance is, pro- 
Inhly, loo well known to require further comment. — 
[The gentleman here alluded to was Thomas Hope, Esq., 
the author of •' Aiiastasius," and one of the most munifi- 
cent patrons of art this country ever possessed. Having, 



name Dubost, that adventurer revenged himself by a pic- 
ture calle<l " Beauty and the Beast." in which Mr. Hope 
and his lady were represented according to the well-known 
fairy story. The picture had loo much malice not to suc- 
ceed ; and, to the disgrace of John Hull, the exhibition of 
it is said to have fetched thirty pounds in a day. A bro- 
ther of Mrs. Hope thrust his sword through the canvass; 
end M. Dubost had the consolalirn to get five pounds 
damages. The allair made much noise at the time; 
though Mr. Hope had not then placed himself on that seat 
of literary eminence, which he afterwards attained. Pro- 
bably, imleed. no man's reputation in the world was ever 
so suddenly and completely altered, as his was by the 
appearar.ee of his magnificent romance. He died in 
IMS. — E.l 



Poets and painters, as all artists know, 
Miy shoot a little with a lengthen'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 lof'y note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear bronk babbling through the goodly plain . 
The groves of Granta, and her gorhic halls. 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 

walls: 
Or, in adven 'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.' 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
You plan a vase— it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide down Gi-ub 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 scribej 
Fingentur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
Reddalur formae. Pictorihus atque poetis 
QuidtitK-t audendi semper fuit acqua potestaSy 
Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusquedamusquevicililB; 
Sed noil ut ptacidis coeant immitia : non ut 
Serpenles avihus gemineiitur, tigribus agni. 

Incoeptis gravibns plerumque et magna prnfessii 
Puipureus, late qui spleiidcat, uiius et alter 
Assuitur paniius; cum lucus et ara Dianae, 
Et properaiilis aquae per amoenos ambitus agro», 
Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arena. 
Sed nunc non erat his locus: et fortaste cupressum 
Scis simnlare: quid hoc, si fractis enalat exppes 
Navihus, acre dalo qui pingilur? amphora coepit 
Institui ; currente rota cur urceus exit ? 
Denique sit quod vis, simplex dunlaxat et unum. 

Maxima pars valum, pater, et juvenrs palre dignl, 

2 "Where pure description held the place of sense."— 



54 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Are led astray b)' 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 tiy, 

He spins his subject to satiety ; 

Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 

Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
None are coniplete,'all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man ; 
But coats must claim another artisan.' 
Now this to me, 1 own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo s irame ; 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose! 

D ar authors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subjec, 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 voicP^ 
Await the poet, skilful in his choice; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omiti»d line : 
This shnll the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
Nsc slight applau^e will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 'I is neclful to produce 
Some term unknown, or ob^oleIe in use, 
(As Pitt 2 has furnisb'd us a wo'd or two 
Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
So you indeel, wilh care, — (but be content 
To take this license rarely; — may invent. 
New words find credit in Ihe^e laiter d lys, 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's ma'.urer muse. 



Brevis esse laboro, 



Decipimur specie recti. 

Obsvurus ft(i: sectanlem levia. nervi 

Deticiiint animiiiue: professui- gramlia, turpet; 

Serpil hnmi. tutus nimium. tinnidi'sqiie procellae: 

Qui variare ciijiit rem prodigiatiler unam, 

Delphinuni sylvia appiiigit fluctihuB aprum. 

In Titium ducil culpae fupa, si caret arte. 
Aemilium circa ludum faber unua ef niiguea 
Exprimet. et mnlles imilabilnr aere lapillos; 
Infelix operis numma quia pnnere lotum 
Nesciet. Hunc eso me, si quid compmiere curcra, 
Koii masis esse velini, quam pravn vivere uaso, 
Speclandum nltris nculis nigoque oapillo. 

Sumite materiem vrslris, qui acribitis, pqnam 
Viribus; et versate diu quid ferre recusent 
(iuid valeant humeri. Cui leita pnlenlei erit res, 
Nee facundia descret hnnc nee huidus ordo. 

Ordinis tiaec virtus erit et venus, aul ego fa!lor, 
VI jam nunc- diet, jam nunc debenlia di.i 
PIcraque diffcrat, et praesens in tempus omitiat ; 
Hoc amet, hoc spernal pmmissi carminis auctor. 

In verbis eliam tenuis cautusque sereudis : 
Dixeris egregie, notum si jallida verbum 
Rertdiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est 
Indiciis monstrau' reientibus abdita rerura, 
Fingere cinclulis nou exaudila Celhegis 
Cnnlinget; dabilurque licentia sumpta pudenterj 
Et oova fact.aque iiuper habebunt verlja fi.lem, si 
Graeco fonte cadani, parce drtorla. Quid aulem 
Caecilio Plautoque dabil Romanus, ademptum 
Virgilio Varioque I ego cur, acquirere pauca 



1 Mere common mortals were commonly content with 
one tailor and wilh one bill, but the more particular gen- 
tlemen found it impossible to confide their lower garments 
to tbc makers of their body clotlies. I speak of the be- 
einniiig <m 1809: what reform may have since taken place 
1 neither know, nor desire to know. 

2 Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions loour parliament- 
ary tougue; as may be seen in many publications, par- 
licntorly tlie Ediuburgh Review. 



If vou can add a little, sav whv not, 

As'well as William Fiit. and VValier Scott? 

Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 

Enrich'd'our island's ill-united tongues; 

'T is then —and shall be— lawful to present 

Relorm in wri;ing, as iu p,arlianient. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees. 
So fade expressions vi'hich in season please; 
And we and ours, alas ! are due to tate. 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though as a monarch cods, and commerce calls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the vellow grain. 
And rising ports^along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar, 
All, all, must perish ; but. surviving last, 
The love of lelt«:rs half preserves the.past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ; 3 
Though those sh.all sink, which now r.ppearto thrive, 
As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels wage, 
Are they not shown in Milton's sicred page ? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad slanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhvme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.* 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Trigedv. and rarely quits her side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays; 

Si possum, invideor; cum lingua Cotonis et Ennl 
Serrnonem palrium diiaverit, el nova rerum 
Nomina prnlulerit ? I.icuii, scmperqiie licebit, 
Signaium pracsenie nota produc ere nomen. 

i't silvae foliis pronos mulantur in annos; 
Prima cadunt : ita verborum relus inleril aetas, 
Et juvenum ritu florent modo iiata, vigentque. 
Pebemur morii nostraque: sive receptus 
Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet. 
Regis opus; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque remis 
Vicinas urbes alit, et grave sentit aralrum : 
Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus aranis, 
Poctiis iter melius; mortalia facta peribunt : 
Nedum se-.monum stet honos. et gratia vivax. 
Mulla renascenlur, quae jam ceridere; cadeiitque, 
Quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus; 
Quern f-t'nes nrbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi. 

Res gestae regumqne ducumque et Iristia bella, 
Quo srribi possent numero. mo.nstravit Homerus. 

Versibus impariter juiiclis querimonia primum; 
Post etiam inclusa est vnti senlentia compos. 
Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
Grammalici cerlant, et adhuc sub judice lis est. 

Archilocnm proprio rabies armavit iambo; 
Hunc socci cepere pedem grandesque cothurni, 
Alternis aptum sermrnitius, et pnpulares 
Vintentem strepitns, et nat-im rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque dcorum, 
Et pugilera victorem, et equum certamine primum, 

3 Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at 
present ill a** much request as old wine or new speeches. 

I In fact, ttiis is the millennium of black-letter: thanks to 
our Hehers, Webers, and Scotls! — [There was consider- 
able malice in thus putting Wehtr, a poor German hack, 
a mere amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, between the two 
other names.— E.] 

4 " Mac Flecknoe," the "Dunciad," nnd all Swift's lam- 
pooning ballads. Whatever their other works may be, 
these originated in personal feelings, and angry relort on 
unworthy rivals; and though the abiuly of these satires 
elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the 
personal character of the writers. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



55 



Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and puTi » 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 I daran'd some twenty times a year ! 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight < 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 
Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
Where angry Townly 2 lifts his voice on high- 
Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings. 
When common prose will serve for common things; 
And lively Hal resijns heroic ire, 
1 To " hollowing Hotspur 3 " and his sceptred sire. 
T is not enough, ye bards, with all your art. 
To polish p')ems ; — they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but. "by bis leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his hnguor. I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face. 
And men lo^'k angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly. 
And sentiment prescribes a pen-^ive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung. 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense; 
O'erwhelm with sourd the boxes, gallerj. pit. 
And raise a laugh with any thing — but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import, 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or 
court ; 

Et juTennm ruras, ef libera vina referre. 
Descriptas servare vires, opernmque colore^ 
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poela salutor ? 
Cur nescire, pudens prave, qiiam discere malo? 

Versibus exponi tragicis re» romica non vult; 
Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socro 
Digniscarminibus narrari coena Thyestae. 
Singula quaeque Incum tenrant sortita decenter. 
Inlerdum lamen et vorem comnedia tollit, 
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore : 
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
Telephus et Peleus, cum panper et exiil, uterque 
Projicit ampullas, et sesqnipedalia verba ; 
8i curat cor cpectantis tetigisse querela. 

Non satis est pulchra esse poeroafa; dalria 9nnto, 
Et qnocunque volent, animum auditoris agutito. 
tit ridentibtis arrident, itn flentibtis adflent 
Humani vullns; si vis me flere dolendum est 
Primum ipsi tihi ; tunc lua me inforlunia laedent. 
Telephe, vel Pelcu, male si mandala loqueris, 
Aut dormilabo, aut ridrbo: tristia mnestum 
Vultum verba decent ; iratiim. plena minarum; 
Ludentem, lasciva; severum. stria dictu. 
Format enim ratiira prius nos intus ad omnera 
Fortunarum habitum; juvat, aut impellet ad iram; 

I Aut ad humnm moerore gravi dedncit, et angit; 
Post elTert animi motus interprete lingua. 
Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, 
Rnmani tollent equitea, iiedilesque cachinmim. 
I Intererit multum, Davusne loquatur an heros; 

1 With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence 
nrytti>5, they have Aristotle on their pide; who permits 

I them to oratorE, and gives them consequence by a grave 
disquiiritioD. 

2 In Vanbmgh'a comedy of the " Provoked Hus- 
band."— E. 

3 •' And in his ear I '11 hollow, Mortimer ! " — 1 Henry 



Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 

To draw a '-Lying Valet. ' or a " Lear," 

A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 

A wandering " Peregrine, ' or plain " John Bull ;' 

All persons please when nature's voice prevails, 

Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw. 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in vour scheme are plann'd, 
Macbelh's fierce dame is ready to your hand; 
For tears and treachery, for good and evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet and the Devil I 
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. 

"T is hard to venture where our betters fail. 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale; 
And vet, perchance, 't is wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd pint, than choose a now, and err; 
Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
More justly, thought for thought than word for word 

Maturnsne senex. an adhuc florente juvenia 

Fervid^is; an matrona pulens, an sedula nulrix; 

Mercatoine vagus, cultorne virentis agelli ; 

Col.hus nn Assyrius; Thebis nutrilus an Argia. 
Aut famam tcquere, ant sibi convenientia (Inge, 

Srriptor. Hmnratum si forte reponis Achillem; 

Impiger, irarundus, iuexorabilis ai-er. 

Jura neget sibi nata. nihil non arroget armis. 

Sit Medea ferox invirtaque; fiebilis Ino; 

Perfidus Ixion; lo vaga ; trislis Orestes; 

Si quid inexperlum scccae commiltis, et audea 

Personam fnrmare novam ; servetur ad imum 

Qualis ab incepio processerit, et sibi consttt. 
Diflicile est prnprie commonia dicere;4 tuque 

Reciius Iliacum larmen deducis in actus, 

Qusm si proferrrs ignntj indictaqne primus. 

Publira materies privali juris erit. si 

Nee circa vitem patulnmque moraberis orbem; 

Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 



4 " Difficile est prop 
rier, Mde. de Sevigne. 
dispute on the meaning of this passage in a trad con- 
sidorablv longer than Ibe poem of Horace. It is printed 
at the close of tlie eleventh volume of Madame de Se- 
vigne's Letters, edited by Grouvelle. Paris, J605. Pre- 
suming that all who can cnnslrue may venture an opinion 
on such subiects, particularly as so many who can tiol 
have taken the same libeilv. I should have held my 
"farthing candle" as avvkwaidly as another, had rot my 
respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augusiaa 
Biecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 
1st, Boileau : '• II est difficile de trailer de« sujels qui soct 
a la portee de tout le monde d'ure maniere qui vous les 
reiide propres, ce qui s'arpelle s'approprier un eujet par le 
tour qu'on y donne." M, Datteux ■ " Mais il est bien 
difficile de donoer des traits propres et individuels aux 
etrea purement possibles." 3d, Dacier : "II est difEcile 
de trailer convenablement ces catacterea que tout le 
monde pent inveuter." Mde. de Sevigne's opinion and 
translation, consisting of seme thiity pages. I omit, par- 
ticularly as M. Grouvelle cibservcK, 'La chfwe est bien 
remarq'pahle, aucune de ces diverges interpretations De 
parait etre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it 
seems, fifty years afterwards, " Le lomineux Dumart-ais " 
made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs again, 
"dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tone les dissenti- 
mens;" and some fifty years hence, somebody, still more 
luminous, will doubtless start np and demolish Dumarsais 
and his system on this weighty aflTair, as if he were no 
better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or his comments of no 
more consequence than astronomical calculations on the 
present comet. I am happy lo say, " la longueur de la 
dissertation '• of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any 
more on the ma'ter. A bettei puel than Itoilcau, and at 
least as good a scholar as Sevigne, has said, 

"A little learning is a dangerous thing." 
And, bv this comparison of comments, it mar be per- 
ceived how a good deal may be rendered as periloun to the 
I proprietors. 



50 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



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 uod of all who reid, 
Ere your tirst score of cantos time iinrolls, 
Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles ! * 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? — 
He sinks' to Southey's level in a trice. 
Whose epic niouiitains never fail in mice ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper'd wirblingsof h * mister-Iyre ; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the luie, 
" Of man's tirst disobedience and the fruit " 
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along, 
Eirth, heaven, and Hades echo with the song. 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
As if we witness'd all already done ; 
Lea\>es on his piih whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
Gives, as eich page improves upon the sight, 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — light ; 
And truth and ficlion with such art compounds. 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many -headed monster's ear ; 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Iiiterpres, nee tlesiliee imitator in arctum 
Unde pedem proferre pudor vctet, aut operis iex. 
Nee sic inciiiiea, ut scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
"Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum." 
Quid dignora tanto feret hir prornissor hialu J 
Parturiunt monies: Dascetur ridiculus mus. 
Quanto rcctiu3 liie, qui nil molitur iuepte '. 
" Die mihi, Musa, virum captae post tempera Trpjae, 
Qui mores hominum mullorom vidit, et urbes." 
Non tumum ex ful;oie, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut epeciosa dehinc miraeula promat, 
Aiitiphaten, Scf llamque, et cum Cyrlope Charybdim. 
Nee reditum Diomedis at interim Meleagri, 
Nee gemino bellum Tri!ian'.im orditar ab ovo. 
Semper ad eventum feslinat : et in mediaa res 
Non serus an nolas, auditorem rapit, et quae 
Desperat traetata niteseere posse, rclinquit: 
Atque ila raentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet iraum. 

Tu, quid ego et populus mecum deeideret, audl- 
Si plaasoris eges aalaea msinentis, et usque 



1 About two years ago a young man, named Townsend, 
was announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review since de- 
ceased as being engaged in an epie poem to be entitled 
•Armageddon." The plan and specimen promise much; 
but I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor his 
friends, by recommending to his attention the lints of 
Horace to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend 
succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, 
how much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland 
for bringing him before the public ! But, till that event- 
ful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature 
display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly are) 
has not, — by raising expectation too high, or diminishing 
curiosity, by developing his argument, — rather incurred 
the hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's future prospects. 
Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate by 
the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must 
not suppose me actuated hy unworthy motives in this 
suggestion. I wish the author alt the success he can wish 
himself, and shall be truly haptiy to see epie poetry weigh- 
ed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, 
Cottle. Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, VVjlkie, Pye, 
and all the "dull of pa«t and present days." Even if he 
is not a Milton, he may be better than Blactmore ; if not 
a Hom'.r, an Antimachut. I should deem myself pre- 
ftumpluoiis, as a young man, in ottering advice, were it 
nut addressed toone sttll younger. Mr. Townsend has the 
greatest diffleulties to encounter: but in conquering them 
t.e will find employment; in having conquered them, his 
reward. I know loo well "the scribbler's scoff, the 
critic's contumely;" and I am afraid lime will teach Mr. 
Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, 
r.nd those who do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard 
to say whitfh have most of it. I trust that Mr. Tnwn- 
Hend'8 share will be from envy; — he will soon know 
mankind well enough not to attribute this 
ratlice. 



Deserve those plau'Jits — study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking tr.iils of everj- age; 
While varying man and varjing years uufold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told : 
Obser\e his simple childhood's dawning days. 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his playa; 
Till time at length ihe maiini'sb tyro weanp. 
And prurient vice oulstrijig his tardy teens ! 

Behold him Freshman I forced no more to giOlM 
O'er Virgil's 2 devi'ish verses and — his own ; 
Priyers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse. 
He flies from Tavell's frown to " Fordbam's Mews j 
{Unlucky Tavell ! 3 doom'd lo daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears.) ■> 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain. 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore. 
Yet cursing both — for both h ive made him sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease. 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
Foord, pillaged, duan'd, he wastes his term away, 
And unexpeU'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of ar's ! as hdU and clubs s proclaim, 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank. 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the Senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer, 
His son 's so sharp — he 'II see the dog a peer ! 

JIaohood declines — a^e palsies every Hmb ; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 



Sessuri. donee canlor, Vos plaudite, dicat ; 
Aelairs eujusque nolandi sunt tibi mores, 
Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis. 
Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
Signat humum ; gestit paribus eolludeie, et iram 
Colligit ac ponit teraere, et mutator in boras. 

Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode reraoto, 
Gaudet equis canibvisque, et aprici gramine campi; 
Cereus in vitium flecli, monitoribus asper, 
Utilium tardus provisor, prcKligus aeris, 
Sublimis, cupidn-'que, et amala relinquere pernix, 

Conversis sludii.s. actaa animusque virilia 
Quaerit opes, et amicilias inservit honori; 
Commisisse cavet quc-d mox mutare laboret. 

Multa eenem conveniunt incommoda; vel qnrnl 
Quaerit, et inventis rniser abstinet, ac timet uti ; 
Vel quod res omnes timide gclideque ministrat. 
Dilator, spe longus, iners, avidusque futuri; 
Ditticilis, quaerulus, laudator temporis a':ti 



2 Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the 
blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admira- 
tion, and say, "the book had a devil." Now, such a ch»- 
rai tei as I am copying would probably fling it away alnfl, 
but rather wish that the devil had the book; not from 
dislike to Ihe poet, but a well founded horror of hexame- 
ters. Indeed, the public school penance of**Long&nd 
Short " is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the 
residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be an ad- 
vantage. 

3 " Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." I dare 
say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will under- 
stand me ; and it is no matter whether any one else dues 
or no.— To the above events, "quaeque ipse miserrima 
vidi, et quorum pars magna fui," all timet and lirm$ bear 
testimony. 

4 The Rev. O. F. Tavell was a fellow and tutor of 
Trinity College, Cambridge, during Lord Byron's resi- 
dence, and owed this nf»tice to Ihe zeal with which he had 
protested against some juvenile vagaries, sufficiently ex- 
plained in .Mr. Moore's Notices, vol. i. p. 210.— E. 

6 " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk lit- 
tle, and are cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant pur- 
gatory, where you lose more, and are not 
cheated at all. 



HINTS FROM HORACE 



Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by yoiinp Hopeful's debts; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Comp^ete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doating, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buiied — let him rot! 

But from the Drama let me not digre5s. 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd, 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Tet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better l'>ld than acted on the stage : 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, 1 here am French 
Bloodshed 't is surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatt.rial gore we teach "o flow 
In trngic scene disgusts, though but in show, 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick. 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage' the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience wilh a mnmrch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature bear ? 
A haltered heroine ' Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play, 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Siint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do. 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing " heroines blue?" 2 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I 'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 3 

8e pnero, rastigator rensorque minorum. 
Muita feruut anni veiiientes lommoda gecum, 
Multa recedenlfS adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
Maodenlur juveni partes, pueroque viriles. 
Semper in aitjunctis, aevtjque morabirnur aptia. 

Aul agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertnr, 
Segnius irritant animog demitsa per aureiii 
Quam quae sunt oculis subjerta fidelibue, et qnaB 
Ipse sibi Iradit spectator. Koc lamen intun 
Disna geri, promes in scenam; mullaque tolleg 
Rx oculis, quae mnx narret farundia praeeeos. 
Ne pueros rorann populo Medea trucijct; 
Aul huraana palam coqrat exta ncfarius Atrens; 
Aut in avera Frogne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
Quodcuoque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 



1 "Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring 
round her neck; but ttie audience cried out 'Murder!' 
■ Dd she was obliged to go off the stage ahve. " — Bos- 
uiM't Juhnson. (These two lines were sfterwnrds struck 
out, and Irene was carried off, t<i be put to death behind 
the scenes. "This shows," says Mr. Malone, "how 
ready modern audiences are to condemn, in a new play, 
what they have frequently endured very quietly in an eld 
one. Rowe has made Moneses, in Tamerlane, die by the 
bowstring without offence." Davies assures us, in his 
Life of Garrick, thai the strangling Irene, contrary to 
Horace's rule, coram populo, was suggested by Gar- 
lick.— E.] 

2 In the postscript to the "Castle Spectre," Mr. Lewis 
tells us, that though blacks were unknown in England at 
the period of his actiiin, yet he has made the anachronism 
to set off the scene : and if he could have produced the 
eftVct "by making his heroine blue," — I quote him — 
" blue he would have made her! " 

3 In 1706, Dennis, the critic, wrote an "Essav on the 
Operas after the Italian manner, which are about to be 
mUbliehed on the English Stage;" in which he endea- 
vours to show, that it is a diversinQ of more pernicious 
coDsequence than the most licentious pluy tlial ever ap- 
peared upon the stage. — EL 



Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but mor.-.ise, in song. 
Hail, la-t memorial of our foreign friends, 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whnres, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rus ics earn"d, and now may beg, their bread. 
In all iniquity is grown so nice. 
It scorns amu enients which ^re not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he jjays to hear. 
Whom sh.ime, not s\nipalhy, forbids to snore, 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ; " 
Squeezed in " Fop s Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
Teised with his hat, and trembling fur his toes; 
.Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tas'«s of ease, 
1 ill the dropp'd curt.ain gives a glad release : 
Why this, and more, he sutlers — can ye guess? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes himdressi 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and Ihey '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 ple:ised with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse 

jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known. 
Produced bli'he Punch and merrv Aladame Joan, 
Who still frisk on wilh fea's so lewdly low, 
'T is strange Benvolio f suffers such a show ; 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing. Legging, — all, save rout and race. 

Farce followed Comedy, and reach'd her prime, 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
Mad wag '. who pardon'd none, nor spared the best 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor stale escaped his public sneers. 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers: 
" Alas, poor Yorick ! " now for ever mute ! 
Whoever laughs a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrononhoionlhologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit, 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I 'II quit my cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle ! " 
Which charm'd our days in each JEeein clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,* 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eves, 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies; 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior acta 
Fabula, quae posci vult, et spectata reponi. 
Nfc Dens intersit, nisi dignus vindice nndut 
Inciderit. 



4 "The first theatrical representations, entitled <My». 
leries and .Mnralilies,' were generally enacted at Chrifl- 
mas, by monks (as the only persons who could read), and 
latterly by the clergy and students of the universities. 
The dramatis personae were usually Adam, Paler, Coeles- 
tis, Failh, Vice," &c. 4c. —See Warlou's History of 
English Poetry. 

6 Benvolio dors not bet ; but every man who maintains 
race horses ii- a promoter of all the concomitant evils of 
the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little Pharisaical. Is it an 
exculpation? I think not. I never yet heard a bawd 
praised for chastity, because the herietf did not commit 
fornication. 

6 Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of 
Sophrou was found the day he died. —Vide Barthelemi, 
De Pauw, or Diogenes L.ierliu«, if agreeable. De Pauw 
rails it a jest-book. Cumberland, in his Observer, teroM 
it moral, like the sayings of Publius Syius. 



58 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Corruption foird her, for she fear'd her glance ; 

Decorum lefl her for an oi)era dance ! 

Yet Chestertield,! whose polisbd pen inveishs 

'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 

Uncheck'd by megrims of palricinn brains, 

And damnioj dulnuss of lord chamberlains. 

Repeal that act ! agam let Humour roam 

Wild o'er the stare — we 've time for tears at home ; 

Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen's brows, 

And Estihnia gull her Copper - spouse ; 

The moral 's scant — but thai may be excused, 

Men go not to be lectured, but aniused. 

He whnm our plavs di^p->se to go d or ill 

Must wear a head' in want of Willis' skill ; 

Av, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 

It'form'd no thieves — the (hief was fonn'd before; 

And spite of puritans and Collier's curse.s 

Plays make mankind no be'ter, and no worse. 

Then spare our stige, ye methodis'ic men ! 

Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 

But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ? 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 

For times of" fire and fagot let them hope '. 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious C^alvin saw Servetus blrize. 

So would iJew sects on newer victims gaze. 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 

While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves. 

And Simeon * kicks, where Baxter only " shoves." * 
Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce, 

Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 

But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. 

And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 
Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 

To match the vouthful eclogues of our Pope? 

Vet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 

For art too rude, for nature too refined. 

Instruct how hard the medium 't is to hit 

'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 
A vulgar scribbler, ceries, 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 Swiffs faults ! his wit hafh made them pass, 

Unmalch'd by all, sive matchless Hudibras ! 

Whose au'ho'r !<; perhaps the first we meet 

Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
Ex nnto fictntn carmen nequar, nt sibi quivis 
Sperel iHem : sodet multum. frns'trftqup labnret 
Auaus idem: lantum Rories jnnrturaq-ie pollet : 
Taiitum de medio eumplis acrecM honoris. 
Silvis dedurii raveanl, me judice, Fauoi, 
Ke velnt iiinali Iriviis, ac pene forenses, 
Aut nimtum teneris juverentur vernibuB unquam, 
Aut immuDda rrepent, i^oroiniosaque dicta. 
OBeDdnnlur enim, quihua est equDs, et pater, et res: 
Kec, fli qoid fricli cicerie prohaf et DuciH emlor, 
Aeqiiis accipinni animis •I""""''''' corona. 

Syllaha k>ni!a brevi aubiecla, vocatur iambns. 
Pes rilus: umle ctiam trimelrin accrescere jussit. 
Komen iambeie, cum ►enon redderet ictns. 
Primus ad exiremum eimilia sibi : non ita pridero. 



3 Jerry Collier's controversy with Conereve, trc. 01 
the snbjcrl of the drama, is loci well known to require 
further comment. 

t Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and castieator 
of "good works." He is'nbly snppcrted by John Stick- 
les, a labo iTcr in the «ame vineyard : — but I say no more, 
for, according to Johnny in full congregation, " Ko kopei 
for thtm as laugkx." 

5 " Baxter's Shore tc hea»y-a — d Christian?." the 
Ttnlahle title of a book ODce in good repute, and likely 
enough to t.e so ngsin. 



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 

Forni'd, save in f de, to bear a serious strain. 

Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 

This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 

And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 

Heroic rhyme, but niosJ iu love and war, 

Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 

Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to sec, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 't is hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confin^ 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To giin the paltry suffrage of "corrccf .?" 
f)r prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fiy from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye, who seek finish'd models never cea^e, 
By day and ni?h', to read the works of Greece. 
Bill our good fathers never bent (heir brains 
To heathen Greek, content with t.ative strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen. 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, 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 elegint and low,' 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Delect with fingers, in default of ears. 

In soolli I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who our firft 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 stiil meet with much applause, 
Thoueh too licentious for dranr.tic laws ; 
At lerist, ^ve modems, wisely, 't is contest. 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jesU 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside. 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit fjight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse, 
Tardior et panlo graviorque veniret ad aureg, 
Spondeos slabilcs in jura palerna recepit 
Ctmmodus et pfltieiis; non nt de sede secnnda 
C:ederet aut qi>aila socialiter. Hie et in Acci 
Nohilihus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
In scenam missos masno cum pondere versus 
Aut orernc ceteris nimiiim, coraque carentis. 
Ant ignoralae premit artis crimine turpi. 

Non quivis videt immodnlala poemala judex; 
Et data Romanis venia est indipna poelis. 
Idcirrone vaper. s»ribamque hcenler? an omnea 
Visuros peccata pulem mea ; ti;Iu?, et intra 
Spem veniae cautus? vitavi deniqne ciitpam, 
Non laudem meroi. Vos exemplaria Graeca 
Nocturna versate mano, verrale diurna. 
At vestri proavi Plaulinos el nnmeros et 
I.audavere sales; nimium palienter nirumqoe, 
Ke dicam stulte, mirati ; si moilu ejo et vos 
Scimas innrbanum Icpido seponere riicio, 
LeKilimnmqoe srnum digitis callemns et aur«w 
Ignolum tragicae genus invenisse Camoeiiae 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
I Quae canerent agerenlqne perunili faedbns or«. 
Post hunc personae pallaeque reffertor honestao 
Aeschylus, et modicis inslravil pulpita lignis, 
Et docuit magnumqne loqui. nitiqiie cothurno. 
Snccessit vetns his c^moedia, non sine multa 
Laude; sed in vitiam liberlas excidit, .1 vim 
Dignam lege rrgi : lex est accepia ; < hornsque 
Turpiler oblicuit, ei;hlato jure noceiidi. 
Nil inlentalum nostri liqueie poetae : 
I Nee minimum rocruere deius, vestigia Graeca 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



59 



And leave to minds which never dare invent 
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? 

Lord? of the quill, whose critical ass.iults 
O'erlhrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon delect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our m:irble with too nice a nail ! 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
Ht only Ihoupit, but you would make, us mad ! 

But truth tf 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, ioss 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 j 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a Lake, 
And keep vour bushy locks a year from Blake; ' 
Then prmt 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 Bwes — before I write ? 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fanie at such a price, 
I 'II labour gratis as a grinder's wheel, 
And, blunt myself, give edge to o.hers' steel. 
Nor write at all, uiiless 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 modem practice sometimes differs quite, 
T is just as well to think before you write ; 
Let ever}- book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace il to the fountain-head. 

He who has learn'd the duty which he owes 
To friends and country, anl to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 

Atisi descrere, et celehraro dnmestira f^ir'a; 
Vel qui praetpxt.is, vi-1 qui ilncuerp togaias. 
Nee virlute foret ilarisve pnttntius armis. 
Quam lingua, Lalium, si non oftenderet unam- 
quemque poelarum lijiae labor, et mora. Voe, o 
Pompilius saufiuis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
Miilla dies et mulla litura coercuit, aique 
Praesectum decies non casligavit, ad uueuem. 

Ingpnium misera quia forlunatius arte 
Credit, et exeludit sanoa Helicoiie poetas 
Democrilus; boua pars non ungues ponere curat, 
Kon barbam ; Rerreta petti I'wa, t>alnea vitat. 
Nanciscetur enim prelium nomenque poelae. 
Si Iribus Auticyris caput insaiiabile nunquam 
Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego laevus. 
Qui pnrgor bilem tiub veroi temporis horamt 
Non alius facerel roelinra poemata : verum 
Nil tanti est: ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
Redfleie quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandis 
Munus et olticium. nil scribens ipse, docebo; 

I Untie pareutur opes; quid alat formetque pf»etam ; 

I Quid dtceat, q"id nouj quo virtus, quo ferat error. 
Scritiendi recle, sapere est et principium et fons. 
Rem tibi Socraticae pnterunt ostenclere cliarlae : 
Verbsque prorisam rem non invita sequenlur. 
Qui didicit patriae quid drheal. et quid amiris; 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandiis, et hospes; 
Quod sit conscript!, quod judiri" ofiicium; quae 
Partes in bellum missi ducis ; ille profecto 
tteddfie persoiiae scit couveuientia cuique. 

1 As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and l)etter 
paid, and may, lilie him, be one day a senator, having a 
belter quatilicaiion than one half of the heads he crops, 
viz. — independence. 



\Vho 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 heirt, philosophise: 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse. 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappv 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 bovs (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short " before they 're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
' A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a' city birth ! from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder make? — 
"A jroat." — "Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum! 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum."-* 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
T is clear, are fit for anv thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight ; 
For poets (says this sage.2 and many more,) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore j 
And Delphi now, however rich of old. 
Discovers little silver, and less gold. 
Because Parnassus, though a mouct divine. 
Is poor as Irus,3 or an Irish mine.-J 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whatever you leach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didictic line ; 
Redundance places memory on the rack. 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when tauiht to look like truth. 
And fairy f ibies bubble none but youth : 
E::necl no credit for too wondrous tales. 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Respicere exemplar vitae, morumque juhelw 

Doctiim imitatorem, et vivas hinc durere vocea, 
Interdum speciosa locis, moratique recte 

Fahula, nullius veneris, sine prndere el arte, 

Valdius oblectat p>pulum, meliusqne moralnr, 

Quam versTis inopes rerum nugaeqiie cnnorae. 



n, Gr 



dedit oi 
1 nu'lin 



Muaa l.iqui, praete 

Romani pueri longis ralionibus a.i-em 
Discuut ill partes centum didnrere : dicat 
Filius Albini, Si de quincnnce remota est 
I'ocia.quid f.operat 7 poterat dixisse — Triena. Ea ! 
Rem poteris servare tiiam. Bcdit iincia: quid fit 7 
Semis. An haec animos aerugo el cura pecnli 
Cum semel imhueril. eperamus carmiua fingi 
Vosse linenda cedro, el levi servanda ciipresso T 

Aut prodesse voluni, aul deleclare poelae; 
Aul simul et jucunda • t idonea dicere vitae, 
Quidquid praeripies, eslo brevis : ut Hlo dicta 
Percipiant animi dociles. leneantqiie fiileles. 
Omne siipervacuum pleno de perlore manal, 

Ficia voluplalis causi,, sini proxima veris : 
Nee. quodcunque volet, poscal sibi faliula credl : 
Neu pransue Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo. 

2 I have not the original by me, hut the Italian trans- 
lation runs as follows : — " K una cosa a mio credere 
molto tiravaganle, che un padre desideri, o permetin, che 
sue flgliuolo "oltivi e perfezioni queslo lalento." A little 
further on : "Si Irnvann ili tado nel Parnasn le miniere 
d' oro e d' argent.i." — £r/i/r/iiion« rfei FnneiuUi del 
Signer Loete. f" If the child have a poelic vein, it is to 
me the strangest Ihing in Ihe world, that the father should 
desire or sulfer it to he chf rished or improved." — " It is 
very seldom seen, that any one discovers miues of gold or 
silver on Parnassus. "— E.] 

S •' Iro pauperior : " this is the same beggar who boxed 
wiih Ulvsses for a poun<; of kid's fry, which he lost, and 
half a diizen"leeth besides. — See Odyssey, b. 18. 

4 The Irish gold mine of Wirltlow, which yield! jn»l 
ore enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea. 



GO 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Tcan; men with aught but elegance dispense ; 
Maturer years require a Utile sense. 
To end at once : — that bard for all is fit, 
Who mingles well instruction with his uit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'ertlonr 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's libera! aid, shall pass 
(■Who ne'er despises books ihat bring liini brass) ; 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St. George's Chanuel and the Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps and fiddles of en lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
With all his best endeavours, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,* 
And double-barrels (damn them 1) miss their mark.'* 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two; 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend. 
But ever twangs the sirae discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let Havard's 3 fate r'erlake him, who, for once, 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
At first none deem'd it his ; but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work 't is 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 he sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view. 
But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new, 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance, or choice, 
H»th led to listen to ihe'Muse's voice, 

Centariae seniorum agitant experlia frngis : 
Celsi praetereuni austcra poemaia Rtiamnes. 
Orane tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
Lectorem delfctando, pariterque raonendo. 
Hie merel aera liber Sosiis; hie et mare transit, 
Et longum nolo seriptnri prorngat aivum. 

Sunt delicla tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus ; 
Nam neque churda sonum reddit quern vult manus et 

Poseeutique gravem perpaepe remittit acutum: 
Nee semper feriet qu"dcuDque mioabitur arcus. 
Verum nbi plura nitent in carmine, nnn ego pauci» 
Offendar marulis, quas out inruria fudit, 
Aut liumana parum eavit natura. Quid ergo? 
Vl scriptorsi peceat idem librarius usque, 
Quamvis est monitue, venia caret; ut eitharoedu* 
Ridelur. chorda qui semper oberrat eadem : 
Sie mitii, qui mulliim cespal, fit Clioerilus ille, 
Quern bis lerve bonura mm risu miror; et idem 
Indignor, quandnque tx>nu8 dormitat Hnmerua. 
Verum open longo fas est obrepere somnum. 

Ut pictun., poesis: erit quae, si propius stes, 
Te espiet masfts; et quaedam, si longius abstes; 
Haec amat otwcurum ; volet haec sub Ince videri, 
Jiidieis argutum qjae non formidal acumen: 
Haec placuit semel; haec decies repetita placebil 



I This couplet is amusingly characterislic of that mix- 
tare or fun and bitterness with which their author some- 
times spoke in conversation; so much so, that th'se who 
knew him might almost fancy they hear him utter the 
words. — JVfoore. — E. 

3 As Mr. Pope took the liberly of damning Homer, to 

whom he was under great obligations — ** And Homer 

(damn him /) catiJ " — it may be presumed that any body 

f or any thing may be damned in verse by prietical license; 

ijand, in case o( accident, I lieg leave to plead so illustrioua 
a precedent. 
I 3 For the glorv of Hilly Havard's tragedy, see ' Davies's 
/ Life of Garrick." 1 believe it is " Regulus " or "Charles 
the First." The moment it was known to »e his the 
I theatre thinned, and the bookseller refused to give the 
ry sum for the copyright. 



Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 

Few leach the summit which befiSre you lies. 

Our church and state, our courls and camps, concede 

Reward to very moder.ate heads indeed ! 

In these plain conmion sense will travel far; 

All aie not Erskines who mi, lead the bar: 

But poesy between the best and worst 

No medium knows; you must be last cr first; 

For middling poets' miserable volumes 

Are damu'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as Ihat sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledoniins feel 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel. 
Or mild Eclectic-.,* when some, worse than Turks, 
Wtiuld rob poor Faith to decorate " good works." 
Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 
My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ; or my inkless pen 
Shill never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas ! I cannot "strike at wretched kernes." 
Inhuman Saxon 1 wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice; so wholly thine ? 
Dear d— d contenmer of my schoolboy songs. 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
What ! not a word : — and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
Hast thou no wralh, or wish to give it vent? 
No wit for nobles, dunces by descent? 
No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame? 
Is it for this on Uion I have stood, 
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
Fingeiia ad rectum, et per te sapis; hoc libi dictum 
Tolle memor: certis medium el toletabile lebua 
Recte concedi : consultus juris, et actor 
Causarum mediocris abesi virtute diserti 
Messalae, nee scit quantum Cassellius Aulus: 
Sed tamen in pretio est : mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae. 
Ut graias inter mensas symphonia discors, 
Etcrassum unguentum, et Sardo cum mclle papaver 
Offendunt, poterat duci quia coena sine istis ; 

4 To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewer?, I have to re 
turn thanks for the fervour of Ihat charity which, ii 
ie09. induced them to express a hope that a thing then 
published by me might lead to certain consequen 
which, although natura] enough, surely came but rashly 
from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, 
where they congratulated themselves on the prospect of t 
tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which some 
great good was to accrue, provided one or both v 
knocked on the head. Having survived two years ar 
half those '•Elegies" which they were kindly preparing 
to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give them "so joy- 
ful a trouble," except, indeed, "upon compulsion, Hal;" 
but if, as David says in the " Rivals," it should eome to 
" bloody swnrd and gun lighting," we "won't run, will 
we, Sir Lucius?" I do not know what I had done to 
these Eclectic gentlemen : my works are their lawful per- 
quisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agag, if it seem meet 
unto them; but why they should t>e in such a hurry 
kill off their author, I am ignorant. "The race is not i 
ways to the swift, nor the battle to the strong: " end 
now, as these Christians have "smote me on one cheek," 
I hold them up the other; and, in return for their good 
wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating them 
Hiid any other set of men expressed such seiilicieata, 
should have smiled, and left them to the •* recording 
angel;" but from the pharisees of Christianity decency 
might be expected. I can assure these brethren, that, 
publican and sinner as I am, I would not have treated 
" mine enemy's dog thus." To show them the superiority 
of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend Messn 
Simeon or Ramsden should be engaged in sni h a conflict 
as that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they 
may es'-ape with being " winged " only, and th»t He 
side may be at hand to extract the ball. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



61 



On shore of Euxine or ^gean sea, 

My hate, untravell'd, t'ondly turned to thee. 

Ah! let me cease; in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unlcind Alexis turns : <■ 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy .left'rey then forego, 

Nor woo tliat anger which he will not show. 

What then ? — Edina starves some lanlcer 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 butler 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 bail d no epicure invites j 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who sh'iot not flying rarely touch a gun : 
Will he who swims not to the river ruu .-' 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson a ere Ihey dare to box. 
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil. 
None reach expertness without years of toil; 
But fifty dunces can, wilh perfect ease, 
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please. 
Why not i — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose falhers 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, 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust, will spare us for at least nine vears. 
And hark 'ye, Southey ! s pray — btit do n't be vex'd - 
Bum all your last three works — and half the next. 

Sic animis natum inventumqiie pnema jiivandfs, 
8i paulum a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Ludere qui oescit, carap«'stribu9 abstinet armie, 
Inrtoctusque pilae, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
Ne gpissae risum tollant impune roronae: 
Qui ncscit, versus tamen audet fingrie '. — Quid niT 
Liber et ingenuus praeserlini census equestrem 
Summara nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni. 
Tu iiiliil invita dices faciesve Minerva: 
Id tibi judicium est, ea mens; si quid tamen olim 
Scripseris, in Metli descendal judicis aures, 
Et patris, et nostras, uonumque premaiur in annum. 



1 Invenies alium, si te bic faatidit. Alexin. 

2 Lord Byron's taste for boxing brought him acquaint- 
ed, at an early period, with this distinguished, and, it Is 
not loo much to say. respected, professor of the art; for 
whom, throughout life, he, and also the late Mr. Wind- 
ham, entertained a sincere regard. In a note to the 
eleventh canto of Don Juan, he calls him "his old friend, 
and corporeal pastor and master." — E. 

3 Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his 
tail in the "Curse of Kehama," maugre the neglect of 
Madoc, ire, and has in one instance had a wonderful 
effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely 
evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Pad- 
dingtoD canal, was aljrmed by the cry of "one in jeo- 
pardy;*' he rushed along, collei-ted a t>ody of Irish hay- 
makers (supping on buller-milli in an adjacent paddock), 
procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and 
at last (horresco referens) pulled out — his own publisher. 
The unfortunate roan was gone for ever, and so was a 
lar^e qnarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which 
proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. SSouthey'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 premi- 
ses, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest 
brought in a verdict of "Felo de bibliopola" against a 
"quarto unknown:" and circumstantial evidence being 
since strong against the "Curse of Kehama" (of which 



But why this vain advice ? once published, books 
Can never be recaM'd — from pastry-cooks ! 
Though " M.adoc," with " Pucelle," * instead of punk 
May travel back to Quito ■— on a trunk 1 * 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour. 
We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then. 
Had built SI. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace j 
Abnlish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
And served the church — without demanding tithes; 

Membranis intus positis, delere licebit 
Quod non edideiis: nescit vox missa reverli. 

Sylvestres homines sacer interpresque deorum 
Caedibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus : 
Dictus Ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidos-que lennes: 
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanae conditor arcis, 
Saxa movere bono testudinis, et prece blanda 
Ducere quo vellet : fuit hae<; sapientia quondam« 
Publica privatis secerneie; sacra profanis; 
Concubita prohibere vago; dare jura maritie; 
Oppida moliri: leges incidere ligno. 
Sic honor et nomen divinis vntibus atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignia Homeroa 
Tyrtaeusque marcs animos in Martia bella 



the above words are an exait description), it will t>e tried 
by its peers next session, in Grub street — Arthur, Al- 
fred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus Exodia, 
Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria. Sieee of Acre, Don 
Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of 
the twelve jurors. The judges, are Pye, Bowles, and the 
bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The same advocates, pro and 
con, will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Bur- 
den's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public 
anxiously await the result, and all /ii>« publishers will be 
subpoenaed as witnesses. — But Mr. Southey has publish- 
ed the "Curse of Kehama," — an inviting title to quib- 
blers. By the bye, it is a good deal beneath Scott and 
Campbell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby 
Ballantyne to entitle thein, in the Edinburgh Annual Re- 
gister (of which, by the bye, Southey is editor) "the 
grand poetical triumvirate of the day." But, on second 
thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to be the one- 
eyed leaders of the blind, though Ihey might as well keep 
to themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," 
which must s.idly discomfit poor Southey's unsaleables. 
Poor Southey, it should seem, is the " Lepidus " of this 
poetical triumvirate. I am only surprised to see him in 
such good company. 
" Such things, we know, are neither rich nnr rare, 
But wonder how the devil he came there." 
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of 
Euclid :— " Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B, D B 
is equal to A C, and B C common to both; the two sides 
D B, B C, are equal to the two A C, C B, each to each, and 
thi; angle D B C is equal to ihe angle A C B: therefore, 
the base D C is equal to Ihe base A B, and the triangle D 
B C (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle A C B, Ihe less 
to the greater, which is absurd." Ac. — The editor o( 
the Edinburgh Register will find Ihe rest of the theorem 
hard by his slaMing: he has only to cross Ihe river; 't is 
the first turnpike t'other side " Pons Asincrum. " » 

4 Voltaire's "Pucelle" is not quite so immaculate as 
Mr. Southey's "Joan of Ar<'," and yet I am afraid the 
Frenchman has both more truth and poetry too on his 
side — (they rarely go together) — Ihdn our patriotic min- 
strel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical French 
strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the 
change of the first letter. 

5 Like Sir Bland Burgess's "Richard;" the tenth book 
of which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyres, 19, Cock- 
spur-street. If this be doubted, I shall buy a purtmauleau 
to quote from. 

« This Latin has sorely puzzled the Wniversily of Edin- 
burgh. Ballantyne said it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," 
but So^ithey claimed it as Iralf English; Scott swore if was 
the " Brig o' Stirling : " he had just passed two King 
James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it was 
decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor IcH 
than the "counter of Archy Constable's shop." 



62 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a piiest, 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, 
And fightmg's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofiy bard,) 
Though walld Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of soug. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
) In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
And gods were not ashamed on't, why should we ? 

The Muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
In turns she '11 seem a Paphian, or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels atFright, 
Mild as the same upon the second nightj 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer. 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone. 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her pa't ; 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artiticial 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 prirations with unruffled face, 
Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine. 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
Have followed music through her farthest flight. 
But rhymers tell you neiltier more or less, 
" I 've got a pretty poem for the press ; " 
And that 's enough ; then write and print so fast; - 
If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of hijh command, 
Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! ' 
Cash cannot quell them ; Pollio play'd this prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank \) 
Not all the living only, but the dead. 
Foe! on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ; "^ 
Danin'd all their days, they posihumouslv thrive 
Bug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 
I Reviews recoid this epidemic crime, 
I 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 stwn, hot-press'd, 
Behold a quarto I — Tart's must tell the rest. 
Then leave, ye wi>p., the lyre's precarious chorda 
To muse-macl baronets, or madder loids, 

Versihus exacuit: diolae per carmina sortes: 
Et vitjie moiistrata via esl : et gratia regura 
Pieriis tenlata modis : liiduB()ue repertus, 
Et longorum operum finis : ne forte pudnri 
Sit lilii Muea lyrae snlers, el canlnr .Vpollo. 

Natura tieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Quaesitum esl :.ego nee sludium sine divite vena. 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium : alterius sic 
Altera poscit opetn re», et ronjurat amice. 
Qui studet optatam curttu contingere melam, 
Multa tul't fecitque pner: sudavit, et alsit; 
Ab«tinnit Venere et vino: qui Pyttiia cantat 
Tibicen. didicit piiu8, rxlimuilqiie m'gistrum. 
Nunc satis est dixisee; ego mira poemata pango: 



Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale I 
Hark to those notes, narcoticallv soft 1 
The cobblerl lureats 3 sing to Capel Lofft 14 
Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse. 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship 's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his piris of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught to him ? 
He vents hi? spleen, or gratifies his whim. 
Snme fmcied 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 s|;eech you 've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town : 

Occupet extremum scabies: mihi turpe relinqui est, 
Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 
******* 



1 The Red Hand of Vlsler, introduced generally in 

canton, marks llie shield of a baronet of the United Krn( 

dom.— E. 

3 " Turn qnoijue marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, 

Gurgite cum medio portani* Oeagrius Hebrus, 

Vniveret Eurydicen vox ii»*a, et frigida lingua; 

Ah, miseram Eurydicen! anima rugienle vocabat ; 

Eurydicen tolo referebaut flumine ripae."— 

Oeorgie, It. 529. 



3 I beg Nathaniel's pardon : he is not a cobbler; it is a 
tailuT, but begged Capel LofTt to sink the profession in his 
preface to two pair of panla — '-i-sha '. — of cantos, which 
he wished the public to try oi' lut the sreve of a patron 
let it out, and so far saved the eipense of arr advertisement 
to his country cuslomeis. — Mirry's "Moorficlds whine" 
was nothing to all this. The " Delia Cruscans " were 
people of some education, and no profession; but these 
Arcadiairs ("Arcades ambo "-Sjumpkins lioth) send out 
their native nonsense withou* the smallest alloy, and leave 
all the shoes and ^m.llk■lollle» in Ihe parish unrepaired, to 
patch up Elegies on Enclosures and Paeans to Gunpowder. 
Sitling on a shopbnard, they desciibe the fields of battle, 
when the only t>lood they ever saw was shed from the 
finger; and an " Essay on War " is produced by the ninth 
part of a " poet," 

" And owin that nine such poets made a Tate." 
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and if be did, 
why not take it as bis inotto? 

4 Thi!- well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excel- 
lent shoemakers, and been accessary to the poetical un- 
doing of many of the induptiious poor. Nathaniel Bloom- 

I field and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire 
singing ; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. 
Pratt too (who once was wiser) has caught the contagion 
of patronage, and de<-oyed a poor fellow named Blacketl 
into poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving one 
child and two volumes of " Remains " utterly destitute. 
The girl, if she don't take a poetical twisf, and come forth 
as a ghoe-mi,king Sappho, may do well; but the "trage- 
dies" are as ri' kely as if they had been the offspring of 
an Earl or a Seatonian prize pcet. The patrr.ns of this 
poor lad are certainly answerable for his end: and it ought 
to be an indictable offeni e. But this is the lea^-t they 
have done: for. by a refinement of barbarily, they have 
mnde the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing 
whathewo'jld have had sense enough never to piint him- 
self. Certcs Ihesi' rakers of " Remains " come under the 
statute against •' resurrection men." What does it sig- 
nify 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 belter to gibbet his 
bcdy on a heath, than his soul in an oclavo ? " We know 
what we are, but we know not what we may be: " and 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 mountfbaiik on the other side of 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 this "Sutor ultra Crepidum's " friends and 
seducers have done » decent action without inveigling 
Pratt into biography? Ami then his inscription split 
into so many modicums! — "To Ihe Duchess of Somiich. 
the Right Hon. Snand-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, 



voln 



, lhi« 



soft milk of dedication " in gills.— there is but a 
quart, and he divides it amoUL- a d'lzen. Why, Pratt, 
hadet thou not a puff left 7 Do>t thou think six familie* 
of distinction can share this in quiet? There is a child 
a book, and a dedication : send the girl to her grace, lb* 
volumes tu the grocer, and the dedication to the deviL 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



631 



If so, alas '. 't is nature in the man — 

May Heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 

Then be it so; and may his withering bays 

Bloom fresh in sitire, though they fade in praise ! 

While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 

The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 

But springing upwards from the sluigish mould. 

Be (what they never m ere before) be — sold ! 

Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 

In modern physics, we can scarce allow), 

Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 

Some rhyming peer — there 's plenty of the sort * 

All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 

(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn '.) 

Condemn the unlucky curae to recite 

Their last dramalic work by cindle-light. 

How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 

Dull as his sermons, hut not half so brief! 

Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death, 

He 'II risk no living for a litile breath. 

Then spouts and fo'.nis, and cries at every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) " Bravo ! grand ! divine !» 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by (iatt'ry fed. 

Dependence bar;ers 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 disseniblers overact their part. 

Ve who aspire to " build the lofty rhyme," 2 
Believe not all who laud yijur false " sublime ; " 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers, " Burn '. " 
That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
But (if true bard !) you scorn to condescend. 
And will not alter what you can't defend, 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains,^ 
We 'II have no words — I 've only lost my pains. 

Si carmina cnndea, 

Nunquam te fallant anima sub vulpc latenles. 

Quintilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodeB, 

Hor(aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse ncgares, 

Bis lerque expertum fruetra, delere jubtbat, 

Et male tornatos iiicudi reddere versus. 

Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 

Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem, 

Quio siue rivali teque et tua solus amares. 

1 Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more 
to his notice the sole survivor, the "ullimus Romano- 
rum," the last of the Cruscanii — •' EfJwin " the "pro- 
found" by our Lady of Punishment ! here he is, as live- 
ly as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I 
thought Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy ; but, alas ! 
he is only the penultimate. 

A familiar Epistle to the Editor of the Morning 
Chronicle. 
" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, v.^ho never think ! 
And so perhaps you '11 sav of me. 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why; 
Nothing *s so bad, you can't <leny. 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain, *o. Stc. 

On some Mndern Qticeks and Refurmitit, 
In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses. 
Though stranee, 't is true, we often find 

It knows not its resources: 
And men through life assume a part 

For which no talents they possess. 
Yet wonder that, with all their art. 
They meet no better with success, &c. Sto. 
a See Milton's Lycidss.— E. 

8 "Bastard of your train.'!." — Minerva being the first 
by Jupiter's head-piece, and a variety of equally unac- 
countable parturitions upon earth, such aa Madoc, ice. 
ice. &c. 



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 wiih his plaguy pen; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to pissages too much in shade. 
Nor let"a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 
Your friend's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd j 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, 
And furnish food for critics,! or their quill*. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune. 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
As yawning waiters fly 5 Fitz^cribble's lungs ; 
Y'et on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech j 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease. 
When riot pauses until rents increise. 
While such a rniiistrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 
If by some chance he walks into a well. 
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
" A rope ! help, Christi:»ns, as ye hope for grace ! " 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 
For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
Though this has happen'd to more bards than one j 
I 'II tell you Budgell's story, — and have done. 

Budgell. a rogue and rhymes'er, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
"To die like Cato,"6 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 w ho loathes the life he leaves j 
And, siolh to s\y, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 

Nor is if certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 

Vir bonus et prudena versus reprehendet inertes: 
Culpahit durog; incomptis allinet alrum 
Tran^verso calamo signum : amhiiiosa recidel 
Ornamenta ; parum Claris lucem dare cogel; 
Arguet ambigue dictum; mutanda uotahil; 
Fiet Aristarchus: nee dicet. Cur ego amicum 
OfTeiidam in nui^is? liae nugae seria ducent 
In mala derisum scrael exceptumque sinistre. 

Ut mala quern scabies aut morbus regius urguet, 
Aut fanaticua error et iracunda Diana. 
Vesaniim tetigisse timent fugiunlque poetam, 
Qui snpiunt; agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. 
Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat 
Si veluti merulis intenlus decidit auceps 
In puteum, foveamve ; licet, Succurrite, longum 
Clamet, lo cives ! non sit qui tollere curet. 
Si quis ourel opem i''rre, el demittere funem. 
Qui scia an prudeiis hue se dejecerit, atque 
Servari nolit? Dicam : Siculique piietae 
Narralio inliritum. Deus immortalis haberl 
Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem ftigidua Aetnam 
Insiluit : sit jus liccalque perire poetis : 



'Bat/est in the " Rehear^ 



5 And the *' waiters" are the only fortunate people wlio 
can " fly " from them : all the rest, vij. the sad subscri- 
bers to the " Literary Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, 
to sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaiming. 
'Sic' (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine, or worse 
poetry) " me servavit Apollo ! " 

6 On his table were found these words : " What Caro 
did, and .\dd son approved, cannot be wrong." But Addi- 
son did not " approve; " and if he had, it would not have 
mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on the 
same water-party ; but Miss Budgell, by some nccideot, 
escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the syoo* 
phant of " Alticus," and the enemy of Pope. 



u 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA, 



Dosed ' with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
(Jr got a child on consecrated ground 1 
And hence is haunted wiih a rhyming raze — 
Fear'd like a bear just bui-sting from his cage. 
Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti. 
Nee semel hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit, jam 
Fiet hnmo, el poDct famosae mortis amorem. 



1 If "dosed with," &c. be censured a 
to refer to the original for somelliiiig i 
any reader will translate "Minxerit in 
&c. into a decent couplet, I will insert s 
of the present. 



If free, all fly his versifying fit, 

Fatal at once lo simpleton or wit. 

But him, unhappy ! whom he seizes, — him 

He flays with recitation lin<b by limb ; 

Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach. 

And gorges like a lawyer — or a leech. 

Nee satis apparet cur versus factitet: otrum 
Minxerit iu patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
MoTerit incestus: rerte furil, ac velut nrsus, 
Objectos caveae valuit si franjere clathros, 
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus. 
tluem vero arripiiit, tenet, occiditque legendo, 
Non missura cutem, oiei plena ciuoris, birudo 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA.' 



Athena, Capuchin Convent, March 17, 1811. 

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 ^gina's rock and Hydra'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 guif, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse, 

More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 

Behind bis Delphian rock be sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's 2 latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Citheron's head, 
The cup of woe xvas quaff'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 



1 This fierce philippic on Lord Elgin, whose collection 
of Athenian marbles was ultimalely purchased for the 
nation, in 1816, at the cost of thirty-five thousand pounds, 
was written at Athens, in March, l&ll, and prepared for 
publication along with the " Hints from Horace ; " but, 
like that satire, suppreEsed by Lord Byron, frnra motives 
which the reader will easily undersland. It was first 
given to the world, in 1828. Few can wonder that Lord 1 
Byron's feelings should have been powerfully excited by 
the spectacle of the despoiled Parthenon; but it is only 
due to Lord Elgin to keep in mind, that, had those pre- 
cious marbles remained, they must, in all likelihood, have 
perished for ever amidst the miserable scenes of violence 
which Athens has since witnessed; and that their pre- 
sence in England has already, by universal admission, 
t>een of the most essential advantage to the fine arts of 
onr own country. The political allusions in this poem 
are not such as require much explanation. It contains 
many lines, which, it is hoped, the author, on mature re- 
flection, disapproved of — hut is loo vigorous a specimen 
of his iambics to be omitted in any collective editiuu of 
his works. — £. 

1 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entrea- 
tie« of his diBciples to wait till the sun went down. 



But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; 3 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams 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 sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming torrent of the gay kiosk,* 
And sad 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 JE^e^n, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

As thus, within the wall 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 poets' lore; 
Ofl 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 roU'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteiM trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god ; 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly faiV 
O'er the chill marble, where the s'artling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treisured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode. 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode! 

Yes, 't was Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed, 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, hy her divine command. 
Her form appear'd'from Phidias' plastic hand: 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle agis bore no Gorgon now ; 

3 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country; the days in winter are longer, but ins 

4 The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm !• 
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 Ilia- 
BUS has no stream at all. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA 



65 



m 



Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance | 

Seem'd weak and shaflless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wiiher'd in her grasp ; 
And, ah 1 though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her lar^e blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owle! circled slow, 
And niourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe ' 

" Mortal ! " — 't was thus she spake — " that blush 
of shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honour'J less by all, and least by me: 
Chief of thy foes sh II Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of bathing f — look around. 
Lo ! here, c'espite ot war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
These Cecrops placed, thu Pericles adorn'd,' 
That Adrian rear'd when droa|)ing Science niourn'd. 
What more I owe let gratitude it:est — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
The insulted wall sustains his hited name: 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pieads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds! 
Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pic'ish 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 poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with hi' pollutes my shrine : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdam to shine! 
Some retribution still might Pallas clnim, 
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 mav the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England ; England owns him not : 
Athena, no ! thv plunderer was a Scot. 
Ask'st thou thediflerence ? From fair Phyles' towers 
Survey Boeotia ; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land 3 
Hath Wisdom's godJe-s never held command ; 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stem sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thiftle well betrays the niggard earth. 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth j 
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 drizzly brain. 
Till, burst at length, each wal'ry head o'erflows. 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide : 
Some east, some v\'est, some every where but north, 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 



1 This is spoken cf the i-ity in Renpral, and not of the 
Acropolis in particular. The tcmpleof Jupiter Olympius, 
by gome supposed tlie Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian; 
sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful mar- 
ble and architecture. 

3 Hia lordship's name, and that of one who no longer 
bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon; 
sbove, in a part not far distant, are the torn remnants of 
the biMO relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove 
tliem. 

3 " Iriah baatards," occorj ng to SirCallaghan O'Bralla- 
ghan. 



And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — 

She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 

Yet Caledonia claims some native worth. 

As dull BcEOtia gave a Findar birth ; 

So may her few, the lelter'd and the brave, 

Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 

Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 

And shine like children of a happier strand j 

As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place. 

Ten names (if found) liad saved a wretchell race." 

"Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once 
more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas I this vengeance yet is mine. 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
Mv curse shall light, — on him and all his seed s 
Without one spiik 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 th?ir patron's gusto let them tell, 
Whose noblest, native eusto is — to sell : 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the day I — 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey.* 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best. 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er. 
And own himself an infant of fourscore.* 
Be all the bruisers cull'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 ' s there. 
Round the Ihrong'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs 

creep. 
To lounge and luciArate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh. 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room willi transient glance appears to skim, 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb j 
Mourns o'er the difference of vow and then ; 
Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ! ' 
Draws slight comparisons of these with those, 
And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
When shall a modem maid have swains like these ! 
Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules! 
And last of all, amidst ihe gaping crew, 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the ilust. 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Lin'k'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 
And Eratostratus and Llgin shine 
In many a branding page and burning line; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accurs'd. 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ases 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 tauzht her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 



4 In 1816, thirty-five thousand pounds were votedby 
Parliament for the purchase of the Elgin marbles. — E. 

6 Mr. West, on aeeing the "Elgin Collection" (I sup. 
pose we shall hear of the " Ahershaw " and "Jack Shep- 
pard" collection), declared himself "a mere tyro" in 
art. 

6 Poor Crib was sadly paizled when the marbleg wer* 
first exhibited at Elgin Houee : he asked if it wa» DOt"« 
stone shop 7 " — He was right ; it ii a shop. 



6* 



66 



THE WALTZ. 



Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war.i 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break Itie compact which herself had made, 
Far from such councils, from the faithless lieM 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal ?ift that lurn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base; 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native deid ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpurea! flood, 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish I — Pallas, when slie gave 
Yc'jr free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

"Look on your Spain! — she clasps the hand she 
hates, 



Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But 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 (here , 
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 ; ' 2 who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear j 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late : 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends. 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log,' 
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; 



1 The affair of Copenhagen.— E. 

S" Blest paper credit ! last and best snpply. 

That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly. " — Pope. 



Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme , 

Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dreaai. 

Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 

And pirates barter all that 's left behind. 3 

No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 

Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 

The idle merchant on the useless quay 

Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 

Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
1 Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores : 
I The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
! And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. 

Then in the senate of your sinking state 
' Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 

Vain is each voice where tones could once command ; 

JG'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
I Vet jarring sects convulse a sister isle. 

And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

I "'T is done, 't is past, since Pallas warns in vain ; 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brandta. 
And wring her vitals wi'lh their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
j And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chaini* 
I The banner'd pomp of v\^ar, the glittering files. 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 
I The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 
, Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
! And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught. 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
' But when the field is fought, the bailie won, 
j Though drench'd with gore, his «oes are but begun : 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
The rifled mansion and the foe reap d field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom w ho deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 



3 The Deal and Dover traffickers In specie. 



THE WALTZ: 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN.« 



"Such on Enrota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight. 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, aud overtops their heads.' 

DRYDEN'S YirgS. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 



I General T. at the general election, in 18I2.» But I 



Sir,- 1 am a «untry gentleman of a midland county. I |>^y„;>-^t s^'i\ybrc'oi'^^^^^^^^^^^ 
I might have been a parliament-man for a cerlam i,e says, in a letter to a friend, "that a certain malicious 
borough; having had the offer of as many votes as publication on wnlizing is attributed to me. This report, 
I suppose, you will lake care to contradict : as the aalhor, 

4 This trifle was written at Cheltenham in the autumn I am sure, will not like that I should wear his np and 
of 1812, and published anonymously in the spring of the bells." — E. 
followiDr year. It was not very well received at the time : 5 State of the poll (last day), 5. 



THE WALTZ, 



67 



■tn» all for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years a;o, 
on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of 
honour. We lived happily at Horneni Hall, lill last 
season, when my wife aiid I were invited by the 
Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relaMon of my 
spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinkin; no 
harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, 
as they call it, uiarkelable) age. and having besides a 
Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family 
estate, we came up in our old chariot, — of which, by 
the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a 
week, that'l w.as obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, 
of which i might niount the box. Mrs. H. says, if I 
could drive, but never see the inside — that place be- 
ing reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her 
partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great 
praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for liirlh- 
night minuets in the latter end of the last century), I 
unbodied, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expect- 
ing to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, 
and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge 
of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear M;^, 
Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge 
hussar looking gentleman I never set eyes on before ; 
and his, to say truth, ratlier more than half round her 

waist, turning round, and rniuid, to a d d see-saw 

up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the 
"Black Joke," only more " affttltwso," till it made 
me quite giddy with wonderin;; they were not so. By- 
and-liy they stopped a bit, and I thought they would 
sit or fall down : but no : with Mrs. H.'s ha;id on his 
shoulder, '^ quam famili'arirer'''t (as Terence said, 
when I was at school), they wilked abnut a minute, 
and then at it again, like two cock chafers spitted on 
the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, 
with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhel- 
mina la name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wake- 
field, though her mother would cill her af'er the 
Princess of Swappenbach,) said, '' Lord ! Mr. Hornem, 
can't you see they are valtzing ? " or waltzing (I forget 
which) ; and then up she got, and her mother and 
sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till 
supper-time. Now, that I know what it is, I like it of 
all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken 
my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem s 
maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morn- 
ing). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn 
for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, 
and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately 
I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and 
with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq.,'2 and a few 
hints from Dr. Busby.f (whose recitations I attend, and 
am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of de- 
livering his father's late successful " Drury Lane Ad- 
dress,'") I ccmpcsed the following hymn, wherewithal 
to make my sentiments known to the public; v.'hom, 
nevertheless, 1 heartily despise, as well as the critics. 
I am, Sir, vours, kc. &c. 

HORACE HORNEM. 



I Henceforth in al. 'he bronze of brightness shine, 
' The least a vestal of the virsin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude: 

Mnck'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 

'J hy legs Uiust move to conquer as they tiy, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 

Dnhce forth — sans armtjvr thou 5h;<l! take the field, 

And own — impregnable to most assaults, 

Iby not too lawfully begotten "Wal;z." 

Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banner* 
A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's 5 fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd hit 

aim ; 
Hail, moving Muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us lake the rest. 
Oh ! fnr the flow of Busbv, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To "energise the object I pursue," « 
j And give both Belial and his dance their due I 

I Imperial Waltz '. imported from the Rhine 
, (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 
I Long be thine import from all duty free, 
I And.hock itself be le'« es'eem'd than thee; 
I In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thoij our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Into.\icates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
Aud wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe^ 
As heaven-born Pitt can tes'ifv below. 
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
And only left us thy d d debts and dances ! 



THE WALTZ. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! * whose charms 
Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 
Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 

1 My I.atin !« all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
forgotten what he never remembered: but I bougtit my 
title-paee motto of a Catholic priest for a Ihree-stiiUing 
bank tolien, alter much haggling for the etien sixpence. I 
grudged ttie money to a papist, being all for the memory 
of Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting the 
downfal of the pope, because we can't bura him any 
more. 

2 See ant; p. 42, — K. 

8 See " Rejected Addresse*." — E. 

4 "Glance their mnny-twinkling feet." — Ora,». 



R To rival Lord Wellesley's. or his nephew'N, as the 
reader pleases- — the one gained a pretty woman, whom 
he deserved, by fighting for; and the other ha-" been fight- 
ing in the Peninsula many a long day, "by Shrewsbury 
dock," without gaining any thini! in I'hat country but the 
title of "the Gnat Lord." and "the Lord;" which 
savours of profanation, havinsf been hitherto applied only 
to that Being to whom " Te Deums " for cauioge are the 
ranke-st 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 qmcHy as he conquer'd Spain ' " 

The Lord Peterborough conqnered continents In a sum- 
mer ; we do more — we contrive both to conquer and lose 
them in a shorter season. If the "great Lord's" Ci'n- 
cinnatian progress in agriculture be no speedier than the 
proportional average of time in P.-pe's couplet, it will, ac- 
cording to the farmers' proverb, be "ploughing with 
dogs." 

By the bye — one of this illustrious person's new titles 
is forgotten — it is, however, worth remembering — "Sal- 
vador del mundo ! " credite, posteri • If this be the ap- 
pellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to 
the name of a man who has not yet saved them — query 
— are Ihey worth saving, even in this world? for, accord- 
ing to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, 
those three words make the odds much agninst 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 connection between superstition and 
impiety, so far has its use, that it proves there ran be lit- 
tle to dread from those Catholirs (inquisitorial Catholics 
too) who can confer such an appellation on a Protestant, 
I suppose next year he will be entitled the " Virgin 
j Mary : " if so, Lord George Gordon himself would h«"e 
I noihing to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of 
Babylon. 

fl Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Com- 
mittee was one by Dr. Busby, which began by asking — 
" When energising objects men pursue. 
What are the prodigies they cannot do7 "— K, 



68 



THE WALTZ. 



Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
We bless thee still — for George the Third is left! 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetling George the Fourth. 
To Germany, and highnesses serene. 
Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 
To Germany, what owe we not besides? 
So oft bestciwing Brunswickers and brides ; 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
Who sent us —so be pardon'd all her faults — 
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen —and Waltz. 

But peace to her— her emperor and diet. 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat ! " 
Back to my theme — Muse of motion ! say. 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails), 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or, startinz from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow > yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came — Wallz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 
Which Mouiteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news - 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs. 
And loads fnm Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate. 
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand. 
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
His grand pis-senl excited some remark ; 
Not lovelorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knitrhfs fandanzo friskier thnn it ought; 
Not soft HeroJ ins, when, with winning tread. 
Her nimble feet danced oft' anotlier's head ; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck. 
Displayed so much of Usr, or more of neck. 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; 
To you of nine years less, who only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
With added ornaments around them roll'd 
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match ; 



To you, ye children of— whom chance accords — 
Always the Udies, and someUmes their lords; 
To you. ye single gentlemen, who seek 
Tor'menls for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
As I-ove or Hymen your endeavours guide. 
To jain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 
To one and all the lovely stranger came. 
And every ball-room echces wfth her name. 

Endearing Wallz ! — to thy more melting tuno 
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon 
Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantasiic toe .' 
Wallz — Waltz alone- both legs and arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands; 
Hands which may freely nnge in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out the light." 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too rear; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this re- 
mark, 
" My slippery s'eps are safest in the dark ! " 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Wallz. 

OtKervant travellers of every time I 
Te quartos publish'd upon every clime! 
O Sly, shall dull Romaika's heavy round. 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Alinas s — tantalising group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can auglit from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne ? 
Ah, no I from Morier's pagc» down to Gaits, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign be^n of rore, 
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 tre-icherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
No stiff-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache; 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things thai ape 
Goats in their visage,^ women in their shape ;) 
No damsel fain-s when rather closely press'd. 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts. 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — thoueh on thv 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 — 



1 The patriolic arson of our ami.able allies cannnf be 
Bufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. Amongst 
other details omitted in the various despatches of our elo- 
quent ambassador, he did not stale (being too much occu- 
pied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swimming 

rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impa8.sable,) that 
one entire province perished by famine in the most melan- 
choly manner, as follows: — In General Rostopchin's con- 
summate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and 
train oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to 
the demand : and thus one hundred and thirty-three thou- 
sand persons were starved to ileath, by being reduced to 
wholesome diet ! The lamplighters of London have since 
BUtwcribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and ihe tallow-chandlers 
have unanimously voted a quantity of best moulds (four 
to the pound), to the relief of Ihe surviving Scythians; 
~ the scarcity will toon, hy such exerlione, and a proper 
attention to Ihe quality raiher than Ihe quantity of pro- 
viaiuL, oc totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the 
antonched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves 
for a day'a meal to our suffering manufacturers. 



2 Dancing girls — who do for hire what Walti doth 
gratis. 

3 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 the?e are indications of 
valour in the field, or elsewhete, may $ttll be question- 
able. Much may be, and hath been, avouched on twth 
sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskera, and 
soldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven— Hannibal 
thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard; 
but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having »arl» on 
his chin, which neither Ihe Empress Sabina nor even the 
courlieia could abide) — Turenne hod whiskers, Marl- 
borough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskered, Ihe Kegent 
whiskered; " argal " gieatness of mind and whiskers 
may or mny not go together; but certainly Ihe different 
occurrences, since the growth of the last mentioned, po 
further in behalf of whiskers than Ihe anathema of An- 
selm did aeainst long hair in Ihe reipr, of Henry I.— 
Formerlv, red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Bar- 
rey's comedy of Ram Alley, 16ei ; Act I. Scene I. 

" Tajfeta. No ' 
comes next by th: 

•■ Adriana. A 

••Taffeta. I I 
most in fashion." 

There is "nothing 
a favourite, lias now 



vager— What coloured beard 



THE WALTZ. 



69 



Though gentle Genlis, 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 clumpy cits attempt to bounce. 
And cocitneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods : how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
And rhyme finds p.irtnerrhyme in praise of " Waltz ! " 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut ; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new ; ' 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most new) 2 to follow ihose that fled j 
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 Ihin^ is somelhing new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks), 3 
New while sticks, gold sticks, broom-sticks, all new 

sticks! 
With ves's or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue: 

So saith the muse : my .'' what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 

Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 

Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 

Hoops are no tnore, and petticoats not much; 

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 

And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 

The ball begins — the honours of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — 

With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have been mis'aken for a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free. 

That spot where hearts ' were once supposed to be ; 



1 An anachronism — Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz 
are before said to liave opened Itie ball together ; the bard 
means (if he means any thing), Wallzwas not so much in 
vogue till the Regent atlaiiied Ihe acme of his popularity. 
AVallz, Ihe comet, whiskers, and the new government, 
illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much 
about Ihe same time: of these the comet only has dis- 
appeared; the other three continue to astonish us still. — 
Printer's Deoil. 

2 Amongst others a new ninepence — a creditable coin 
now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest 
calculation. 

3 "Oh that rifht should llins overcome might;" Who 
does not remember the "delicate investigation " in the 
"Merry Wives of Windsor ? " — 

"Ford. Pray you, come near: if I suspect without 
cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your 
jest; I deserve it. How nowl whilher bear you this? 

" Mrt. Ford. What have you lo do whither they bear 
it? — you were best meddle wilh buck-wa»-hing. '• 

4 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 Regent's): it would not be 
fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as 
every month will add to Ihe list now entered for Ihe 
sweepstakes : — adislinguishcd consonant is said lo be the 
favourite, much against the wishes of the krtowing ones, 

6 •• We have changed all that,** says the Mock Doctor 
— *l is all gone — Asmodeus knows 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 
IS absurdly as possible. But there are also some men 
with Itearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those 
phencziena ofte i mentiuued iu natural history ; viz. a 



Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The slrangest hand may wander undisplaced; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches otler to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip; 

The other to Ihe shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with aSection truly loyal'! 

Thus fiont 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-aone — with those of fashions host, 

For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post » 

(Or if for thi't impartial print too late, 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date) — 

Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, 

The genial contact gently underzo ; 

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 

If " nothing follows all this palming w ork ? " 6 

True, honest Mirza ! — you may trijst my rhyme — 

Something does follow at a fitter time ; 

The breast thus publicly resign'd to man. 

Id private may resist him if it can. 

ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and njany more. 
And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign taste and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Queensbury ! 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 ynung ideas how to rise, 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; 
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, 
With hnlf told wish and ill-dissembled flame, 
For prurient nature still will storm Ihe breast — 
IV/io, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought"; 



P? 



Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap 
Say — would you make those beauties quite «> cfeea 
Hot from the "hands promiscuously applied, -• 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side. 
Where were the rapture then lo 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 j 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score; 
Her mind wilh these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blaspheme? 
Thy bard forgot thy pr.-.ises were his theme. 
Terpsichore forgive ! — at every ball 
My wife now wallzes — and my daughters shall) 
My son — (or stop — 't is needless to enquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
Some ages hence our genealojic free 
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. 



mass of solid stone — only lo he opened by force — end 
when divided, you d'srovir a lund in the centre, lively, 
and wilh the repulalion of being venomous. 

6 In Turkey a pertinent, nere an impertinent and super- 
fluous, question —liternllv put, as in Ihe text, hy a Per- 



70 


ODE TO NAPOLEON 


BUONAPARTE. ( 




ODE 


TO 


NAPOLEON 


BUONAPARTE/ ' 



" The Emperor Jfepns was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provindals of Gaul ; his moral 
Tirtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his govern- 
ment announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. « * By this shameful atniication, he 
protracted his life a few years, in a verv ambiguous slate, between an Emperor and an Exile, till >■_ GIB- 
BON 'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 



I. 

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 lite man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive? 2 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor iiend bath fallen so far. 

ir. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the linee ? 
By gazing on thyself grosvn blind, 

Thou taughfs't llie rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to save, - 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that wnrshipp'd thee ; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's' less than littleness ! 

III. 

Thanks for that lesson — it will leach 

To after-warriors more, 
Than high Philosiphy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breiks never to unite aga'n. 

That led them to adore 
Those Pasrod things of sabre sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 



1 The reader has seen, that Lord Byron, when publish- 
ing "The Corsair." in January, 1814, aononnced an ap- 
parently quite serious resolution to withdraw, for some 
years at least, from poetry. His lelleis of the February 
aad March following, abound in repetitions of the same 
determination. On the mnrning of the ninth of April he 
writes — ** No more rhyme for — or rather from — me. 
I t.sve fatten my leave of that stage, and henceforth will 
mountebank it no lonsrer." In the eveninp. a Gazette 
Extraordinary announced the abdication of Fontainebleau, 
and the Poet violated his vows next morning, by com- 
posing thix Ode, which he immediately published, though 
wiihuut his name. His Diarv says, '• April 10. To-day 
I have boxed one hour — written an Ode to Napoleon 
Buonaparte— -copied it — eaten six biscuits — drunk four 
bntilea of soda water, and redde away the rest of my 



2 " I don't know 


— b 


1 1 think 7, even 7 (an 


nsect corn- 


pared with this cr 


eatur 


e), have set my life on 


casts n'-t a 


millionth part oft 


lifl n 


an's. But, atter all. a 


crown may 


not be worth dvin 


' for. 


Yet, to outlive Lorli 




Oh that Juvenal 


r J.. 


inson could rise from 


the dead ! 




ihra 


in duce summn inv 


eniesl- I 


knew they were 1 


phi 


n the b lance of morl 


lity; but 1 


thought their livi 


ne d 


ist weighed more eara 


tJ Alls' 


this imperial dinm 


iiid hath aflaw in it. and is 


now hardly 


fit to .tick inaal. 


y.ier'f 


pencil : — the pen «r t 


ie historian 




,c,t. Psha! 'somilhi 


IS too much 


of this.' But I w 


on't 


live him up even now 


though al 


his admirers have 


like 


the Thanea, fallen from him." — 


Byron Diary, Ap 


il'J. 


-E. 





IV. 

The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife 3 — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the scepre, 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 1 

V. 
The Desolator desolate '. 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 
A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That wilh'such change can calmly cope? 

Or dreid of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

VI. 
He 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 round ? 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength. 
An equal deed hast done at length. 

And darker fate hast found : 
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

VH. 
TTie Roman,* when his burning heart 

Was slaked n ith blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home. — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne. 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glorv was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandoned power. 

VIII. 
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 

Had lost is quickening spell, 
Cast crow ns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell ; 
A s'rict accountant of Lis beads, 
A subtle dispu'ani on creeds, 

His dotaje trifled well: 
Yrt belter had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despDt's throne. 

IX. 
But thou — from thv reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt fs wnme — 
Too Lite thou leav'st the high commanil 
To which thy weakness clung ; 

3"Cerlaminis fauiia" — the expression of Attila ia 
his harangue to his army, previoua to the battle of Ch»> 
Ions, given in Cassiodorus. 
I 4 Sylla. 



=-^ 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



m 



All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to ^ieve 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 ho^rd 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 jruise have shown. 
Oh 1 ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

XI. 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 

Nor v^-ritten thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fnme no more 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hT.dst died as honour dies. 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame Ihe world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 



XII. 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality '. are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deem'd Conten)pt could thus mike mirth 
Of these the Conquerors of the earlh. 



XIII. 

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 thronele=s Homicide? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ; » 

xrv\ 

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 Earlh :s now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 



1 It 18 well known that Count Neipperg, a gentleman i 
the suite of the emperor of Austria, who was first prt 
•entedto Maria Louisa within a few days after Napoleon' 
abdication, became, in the sequel, her chamberlain, an 
then her husband. He is said to have been a man of re- 
nurkably plain appearance. The Count died in 1831. — E. , 

2 Dionyaia* the younger, esteemed a greater tyrant I 



Thou Timour ! in his captive's case s 

What thoughts will there be thine. 

While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 

But one — '• The world was mine ' ' 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pnur'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 



X^T. 

Or. like the thief of fire from heaven,* 

Wilt thou wiihstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven. 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom 'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; * 
He in his fall preserved his pride. 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died I 



XVIL 

There was a day — there was an hour. 

While earth was GauPs — Gaul thine 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame, 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 



xvm. 

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 ? 
Vail) froward child of empire ! gay. 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? 

XIX. 

Where may the wearied eye repote 

When gazing on the Great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last— the best- 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hale, 
Bequealh'd the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one ! 



than his father, on being for the second time txnished 
from Syracuse, retired to Corinth, where he was obliged 
to turn schoolmaster, for a subsistence. — E. 

3 The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

4 Prometheus. 
6 •' The very fiend's arch mo<k — 

To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — 

Shaktpeare. 

We believe there is no doubt of the truth of the anecdote 
here alluded to — of Kapoleon's having found leisur< 
an unworihjr amour, the very evening of his arrival at 
Fontai oebleau.— £. 



72 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent po;ms were -nritten at the request 
of my friend, the Hon. Dou'las Kinnaird, for a Selec- 
tion of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, 
with the music, arranged by JNIr. Braham and Jlr. 
Nathan. 

January, 1815. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.* 
I. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starrj' skies; 
And all that 's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
II. 
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 ; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express. 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
III. 
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



How welcome those untrodden sphere* t 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earlh aud find all fear* 

Lost in thy light — Eternity 1 
II. 
It must be so : 't is not fbr self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to Being"s severing link. 
Oh I in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the inmiortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 
I, 

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 : — 

IL 
A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah \vitness'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 ! 

in. 

More blest each palm that shades tkose plaiiK 

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. 

IV. 
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 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT. 
L 
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 liven ! 
It sifien'd men of iron miulJ, 

It gave them virtues not their own ; 
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 ! 

n. 

It fold the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our ghdden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earlh 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. 
I. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears j 
If there the cherish'J heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 

1 Theae stanzas were written bv Lord Bvron, on return- 
iDf from a ball room, where lie had seen MfB. fnow Lady) QN JORDAN'S BANKS. 

Wiltnot Hnrlon, the wife of his relation, the present . 

Governor of Ceylon. On this oc.asion Mrs. Wilmot Hor- ^ , , , . , , , u 

ton had appeared in mourning, with numerous spangles on On Jordan's banks the Arab camels stray, 

her dress.— E. On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE 
I, 
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 GbJriew 
dwell! 

II. 
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again soem sweet? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'J before its heavenly voice? 

in. 

Tribes of the wandering fof.t and weary breast. 

How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
I The wild-dove ha'h her nest, the fox his cave, 
I Jlankind their country — Israel but the giave i 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



73 



The Baal-adorer bows on Simi's steep — 

Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thunders sleep ; 

II. 
There— where thy finger scorch'd the trxblef stone 1 
1 here — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shroude'd in its garb of fire : 
Thyself— none living see and not expire ! 

III. 
Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear; 
Sweep from his shiver d hand the oppressor's spear I 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worsliipless, Oh God ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER 
I. 

Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire ! 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now 1 

II. 
And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no moret 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

III. 
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. 

IV. 
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! 

V. 
When this Mood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovesl is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 

BLOOM. 

I. 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb j 

But on thy turf shall roses rear 

Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom ; 

IL 
And off 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 lead ! 
III. 
Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

Thnt death nor heeds nor hears distress: 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 

Or make one mourner weep the legs ? 
And thou — who tellst me to forget, 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 

I. 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 

And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 



If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm il forth again 

If in these eyes there lurk a te.ir, 
'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

II. 

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 j 
For it halh been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 't is dooni'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 
I. 

I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I siw thee smile — the sapphire's blaza 

Beside thee cea<ed to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

n. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow d)e, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky. 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
1. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun; 

3 hy country's s'rains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

II. 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that fiovv'd from thee 
Disdain"d to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its cuirenis be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

HI. 

Thy name, our charging iicsts 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. 
I. 

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 ! 

11. 

Thou who art be:iring my buckler and bow. 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
Stretch roe that moment in blood at Ihy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they daied not to meet 



74 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



III. 

FMe^'cU to others, but never we part. 
Heir to my royally, son of my heitrt ! 
Bnght is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death, which awaiis us today ! 



I. 

Tlion 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 ils hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Desith stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither d, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glit er'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; 
Frr n lips tliat movel not and unbreathing frame, 
l>ie cavern "d ivinds, the hollow accents came. 
P lul saw, and fell to earth, as fails the oak. 
At once, aiid blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

II. 

« Whv is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O King ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold; 
Such are mine; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrnw, 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. 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide: 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 



ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER. 
1. 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And heil'h and youth possess'd me; 
My goblets blush'd' from every vine. 

And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt'my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can sive, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. - 

n. 

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 rolTd no hour 

Of ple:isure unembi'ter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck"d my power 

That gall'd not while it glilter'd. 

III. 

Tne serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart. 

Oh I who halh power of cli.armiug ? 
It will not list to wisdom's loie. 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COIJ)NESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY. 



When coldne-s wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah ; whither strays the immonai miiiii? 
It cannot die, it caimot stay. 

But leaves its d.irken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps e.ach plane: 's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
H. 
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
AH, all in earth, or skies displ.ay'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 waj, at once appears. 

lU. 
Before Creation peopled earth, 

lis eye shall roll through Chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future nnfs or makes. 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

IV. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure: 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Avvay, awav, without a wins. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly j 
A nameless and eternal thins. 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
I. 

The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand f-ups of gold, 

In Judah deem'd divine^ 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine ! 
IL 
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 wand. 
III. 
The monarch saw, and shook. 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless wa.v"d his look, 

And tremulous his voice. 
<' l,et the men of lore appear. 

The wisest of the earth. 
And expound the words of fear. 

Which mar our royal miitl;.'' 
IV. 
Ch.aldea's seers are good. 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold acd awtul still. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



75 



And Babel's men of age 
Are wise and deep in lore; 

But now they were not sage, 
They saw — but knew no mo 

V. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the kinor's command, 

He s-xw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around w ere bright, 

The prophecy in view; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

VI. 
" Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdfim pass'J away, 
He, in I he balance weigh'd. 

Is light and worthless clay, 
The shroud, his robe of state. 

His canopy the stone ; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne 1 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 

Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 

That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 

How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 

So gleams the past, the light of other days, 

Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays j 

ight-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold. 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold ! 



WERE MT BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

I. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st if 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. 

II. 

If the bad ever 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 id thy failh, but in mine I will die. 

in. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow. 
As the God who permits ihee to prosper doth know ; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



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. 

III. 

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, 

1 beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 

'T was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy 

fall 
Flasb'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

11. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home. 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
I beheld but the dealh-fire that frd on thy fane. 
And the fast fetterd bands that made vengeance in 
vain. 

in. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

IV. 
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 I 

V. 
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; 
And scatler'd and scornM as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR JLARIAMNE. 
I. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for (hee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony. 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mr'riamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear rny bitter pleading: 
Ah ! coul'lst thou — thou « ouldst pardon now, 
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

n. 

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.- 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT. 



We sa'e down arid wept bv 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 1 
Were scatter d all weeping away. 

n. 

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 wither'd for ever. 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

in. 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Snlem '. its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when Ihv 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 ! 



76 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
1. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And In cohorls were gleiiming 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. 

11. 
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host wjili iheir banners at sunset « ere seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn balh blown, 
TUat host on the morrow lay wilher'd and strowu. 

IlL 
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breaihed in the face of the foe as he pass d ; 



IV. 

And there lay the steed svith his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roU'd not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

V. 

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 unlilted, the trumpet uublows. 
i VI. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wa',1, 
And the idols are broke in the '.emple of Baal ; 
And the misht of the Gentile, unsinote by the sword, 
Uath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord I 



A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE HE 

FROM JOB. 

I. 

A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 

The face of immortality unveil'd — 

Deep sleep c;jnie down on every eye save mine — 

And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 

Along my bones the creeping tiesh did quake j 

And as my damp hair stitfeu d, thus it spake : 

IL 
" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pui'e 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insei urer 
Crea ures of clay — vain dwellers in l\,^ d'lsl ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere Iho i ighl, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wast dligbt! " 



THE MORGANTE xMAGGIORE OF PULCI/ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Morgante Magginro, of the first canto of which 
this translation is ottered, divides with the Orlando 
Innamorato the honour of having formed and suggested 
the style and s'ory of Ariosto. The great defects of 
Boiardo were his tieating too seriously the narratives 
of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his con- 
tinuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Fulci, 
has avoided the one ; and Berni. in his reformation of 
Boiardo"s poem, has corrected the other. Fulci may 
be con-idered as the precuror and model of Berni 
altogether, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however 
Inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder 
of a new style of poetry very latelv sprung up in Eng- 
land. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. 
The serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same lan- 
guage, and more particularly the excellent one of Mr. 
Merivale, are to be traced to the same source. It has 
never yet been decided entirely wheiher Putci's inten- 
tion was or was not to deride the religion which is one 
of his favourite topics. It appears to me, that such an 
intention would have been no less haardous 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 interp'eted. That he intended 
to ridicule the monastic life, and suflTered his imagina- 
tion to play with the simple diilness of hi-i 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, Barnaljas, 



, Composed at Ravenna, in February, 1 



I Thwackum, Supple, and the Ord'nary in Jonathan 
I Wild, —or Scott, for the exquisite Uie of his Covenant- 
I ers in the " 1 ales of my Landlord." 

In the follou ing translation I have used the liberty 
I of the original with the proper names : as Puici uses 
'. Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or 
j Carlomano ; Rondel, or Rondello, ic, as it suits his 
I convenience ; so has the translator. In other respects 
I 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 
j same versification in the other. The reader, on com- 
. paring it with the original, is requested to remember 
that the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, 
is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, from 
.its great' mixture of Tuscan proverbs; and he may 
' therefore be more indukent to the present attempt. 
I How far the translator has succeeded, and whether or 
! no he shall continue the work, are questions which the 
! public will decide. Ke was induced to make the ex- 
' periraent parly by his love for, and partial inlerecurse 
i with, the Itili n language, of which it is so easy to 
! acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it is so 
I nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately 
I 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 
lonjest. The translator wished also to present in an 
English dress a part at least of a poem never yet ren- 
dered 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 «hich have 
been alre^idy mentioned. 



CANTO PRIMO. 
1. 

In principio era il Verbo appressn a Dio ; 
Ed era Iddio il Verbo. e "1 Verbo lui : 
Questo era nel principio, al parer mio j 
E nulla si puo far sanza costui : 



CANTO THE FIRST 
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 could be; 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



77 



Pero, giusto Signor benigno e pio, 
Mandami solo un de gli angeli tui, 
Che m' acconipagni, e rechimi a memoria 
Una famosa anlica e degna storia. 

II. 

E lu Vergine, figlia, e madre, e sposa 
Di quel Signor, che ti dette le chiave 
Del cielo e dell' alisso, e d' ogoi cosa, 
y^-\e\ di che Gabriel tuo ti disse Ave 1 
Peiche tu se'de' mo' servi pietosi, 
Con dolce rime, e stil grato e soave, 
Ajuta i versi miei benignamenfe, 
E'nfioo al fine alluniina la mente. 

m. 

Era nel tempo, quando Filomena 
Clin la sorella si lamenta e plora, 
Che si ricorda di sua antica pena, 
E pe' boschetti le ninfe innauioi-a, 
E Febo il carro tempsrato mena, 
Che '1 suo Fetonte I' ammaestra ancora. 
Ed appariva appunto all' orizzonte, 
Tal che Titou si graffiava la fronte. 
IV. 

Quand' io varai la mia barchetta, prima 
Per ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbe 
La mente, e faticarsi in prosa e m rima, 
E del niio Carlo Imperador m' increbbe ; 
Che so quanti la penna ha posto in cima, 
Che tulti la sua gloria prevarrebbe : 
E slata quella istoria, a quel ch' i' veggio, 
Di Carlo male intesa, e scritla peggio. 



Diceva gia Lionardo Aretino, 

Che s' egli avesse avuto scrittor degno, 
Com' egli ebbe un Urmanno il suo Pipino 
Ch' avesse diligenzia avu o e ingegno ; 
Sarebbe Carlo Magno un uom divino ; 
Pero ch' egli ebbe gran vittorie e regno, 
E fece per la chiesa e per la fede 
Certo a=sai piu, che non si dice o crede. 

VI. 

Guardisi ancora a san Liberatore 

Quella badia li presso a Manoppello, 
Giu ne gli Abbruzzi fatta per suo onore, 
Dove fu la battaglia e '1 gran flaegello 
D' un re pagan, che Carlo imperadore 
Uccise, e lanto del sue popol fello : 
E vedesi tante ossa, e tanto il sanno, 
Che tutte in Giusafl'a poi si vedranuo. 

VII. 
Ma il mondo cieco e ignorante non prezza 
Le sue virtu, com' io vorrei vedere : 
E tu, Fiorenza, de la sua grandezza 
Posiiedi, e sempre potrai possedere 
Ogni costume eU ogni gentilez^i 
Che si potesse aquistare o avere 
Col senno col lesoro o con la lancia 
Dal nobil sangue e veuuto di Fraucia. 

VIH. 
Dodici paladini aveva in corte 

Carlo ; e 'I piu savio e famoso era Orlando 

Gan traditor Io condusse a la morte 

In Roncisvalle un trattato ordinando ; 

La dove il corno sono tanto forte 

Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando 

Ne la sua commedia Dante qui dice, 

E metlelo con Carlo in ciel felice. 

IX. 

Xr* per Pasqna qnella di natale: 
Carlo la corle avea tutia in Parigi ; 
Orlando, com' io dico, il principale 
Evvi, il Danese, Astolfo, e Ansuigi ; 



Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode. 

Benign and pious, bid an angel tlee, 
One only, to be my companion, «ho 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through 

n. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 
Of the same Lord, «'ho gave Io you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 
The day thy Gabriel said " All hail ! " to thee, 

Since lo thy servants pity's ne'er denied, 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style -lod '»ee^ 

Be to my verses then benignly kind, 

And to the end illumioate'my mind. 

III. 

'T was in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befel. 
And makes the nymphs enamour'd, lo the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratcb'd his brow : 

IV. 

When I prepared mv bark first to obey. 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind. 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have underetood Charles badly, and wrote worse. 

V. 

Leonardo Aretmo 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 ill 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. 

vn. 

But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise. 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 

Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 
Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 

The wisest and most famous was Orlando; 
Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 

In Roncesvalles, as t'ae villain plann'd too, 
While the horn rang so loud, and kneli'd the doom 

Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do; 
And Dante in his comedv has given 
To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The DaTie ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 



78 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Fannosi feste e cose trionfale, 
E molto celebravan Sm Dionisi ', 
Angiolin di Bujoiia, ed Ulivieri 
V era venuto, e 'I gentil Berlinghieri. 



Eravi Avolio, ed Avino, ed Ottone 
Di Normmdia, Riccardo Paladino, 
E '1 savio Namo, e '1 veccliio Salamone, 
Gualtier da Monlione, e B.xldovino 
Ch' era figliuol del tristo Ganellone. 
Troppo lieto era il figliuol di Pipino j 
Tanto che spesso d' allegrezza geme 
Veggendo tutti i paladioi insieme. 

XI. 

Ma la Fortuna attenta sta nascosa, 

Per guastar sempre ciascun nostro effefto j 
Mentre che Carlo cosi si riposa, 
Orlando governava in fatto e in detto 
La corte e Carlo Mngno ed ogni cosa : 
Gan per invidia scippia il maladetto, 
E cominciava un di con Carlo a dire: 
Abbiam noi sempre Orlando ad ubbidire. 

XH. 

lo ho creduto miUe volte dirti : 

Orlando ha in se troppa presunzione : 
Koi siani qui conti, re, duchi a servirti 
E Namo, Ottone, Uggieri e Salamone, 
Per onorarti ognun, per ubbidirti : 
Che coslui abbi ogui reputazione 
Nol sofferrem ; ma siam deliberati 
Da un fanciuUo uoa esser goveruati. 

XHI. 

Tu cominciasti insino in Aspramonte 
A dargli a inteuder che fusse gagliardo, 
E facesse gran co^e a guella fonte ; 
]Ma se non fusse stato il buon Gherardo, 

10 so che la vittoria era d' Almonte : 
Ma egli ebbe sempre 1' occhio a lo stendardo; 
Che si voleva quel di coronarlo : 
Questo e colui ch' ha meritato, Carlo. 

XIV, 
Se ti ricorda gia sendo in Guascogna, 
Quando e' vi venae la gente di Spagna, 

11 popol de' Cristiani avea vergogna, 
Se non mosirava la sua forza magna. 
II ver convieu pur dir, quando e' bisogna; 

'Sappi ch' ognuno imperador si lagna: 
Quant' io per me, ripassero que' monti 
Ch' io passai 'u qua con sessantaduo conti. 

XV. 

La tua grandezza dispensar si vuole, 
E far rhe ciascun abbi la sua parte : 
La corte tutta quanta se ne duole : 
Tu credi che coslui sia forse Marte? 
Orlando un giorno udi queste parole, 
Che si sedeva soletto in disparte : 
Dispiacquegli di Gan quel che diceva ; 
Ma molio piu che Carlo gli credeva, 

XVI. 

E voile con la spada uccider Gano ; 
Ma Ulivieri in quel mezzo si mise, 
E Durlindana gli trasse di mano, 
E cosi il me' che seppe gli divise, 
Orlando si sdegno con Carlo Mano, 
E poco men che quivi don 1' uccise ; 
E diparlissi di Parigi solo, 
E scoppia e' mpazza di sdegno e di duolo. 

XVII. 

Ad Ermellina moglie del Danese 
Tolse Cortana, e poi tolse RoniK;lIo ; 
E "n '•erso Brara il suo cammin poi prese. 
Alda a bella, come vide quello, 



In festival and in triumph.al sport, 

The much-renownd St. Deiinis being the < 
Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
And gentle Belinghieri loo came there: 



Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normaudy, and Richard Paladin, 
Wise Hanio, and the ancient S.ilamone, 

Waller 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 knigh s came hitber, 
He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 

But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 

While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing; 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the ting 

One day he openly began to say, 

'• Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XIL 

<' A thouiand times I 've been about to say, 

Orlando loo presumptuously goes on ; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 

Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
Each has lo honour thee and to obey ; 

But he has too much credit near the throne, 
Which we won't sutfer, 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 1 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 bis earning, Charles. 

XIV. 

" If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 

When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christian cause had sulfer'd shamefully, 
Had not his valour driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complain : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which 1 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 deem'st this lad a Mars in heart?" 
Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
I As by himself if chanced he sate apart : 
I Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 
But much more still that Charles should give him credit 

XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder'J Gan, 

Bui Oliver thrust in between the pair. 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were. 
Orlando angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
Then forth alone from Paris ivent the chief. 
And burst and madden'd with disdain and griet 

x\'n. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Per abbracciarlo le braccia distese. 
Orlando, che isniarhto avea il cervello, 
Com' ella disse : beu venga il mio Oilando: 
Gli voile in su la testa dar col brando. 

XVIII. 
Come colui che la furia consiglia, 
Egli pareva a Gan dar veramente : 
Alda la bella si fe' maraviglia : 
Orlando si ravvide prestaniente : 
E la sua sposa pigliava la briglia, 
E scese dal caval subitaniente : 
Ed ogni cosa nnrrava a coslei, 
E riposossi alcun giorno con lei 

XIX. 

Poi SI parti portato dal furore, 
E termino passare in Pagania ; 
E menlre che cavalca, il traditore 
Di Gan senipre ricorda per la via : 
E cavalcaudo d' uuo in altro errore, 
In un deseiio truova una badia 
In luoghi oscuri e paesi lonlam, 
Ch' era a' cocfin' tra Cristiani e pagani. 

XX. 

V abate si chiamava Chiaramonte, 
Era del sangue disceso d'Aoglante : 
Di sopra a la badia v' era un gran monte, 
Dove abitava alcun fiero gigaute, 
De' quali uno avea nonie Passamonte, 
L' altro Alabastro, e '1 lerzo era Morgante: 
Con eerie frombe gittavan da alio, 
Ed ogni di facevan qualche assallo. 

XXI. 

I monichetii non potieno uscire 

Del monistero o per legne o per acque. 
Orlando picchia, e non volienoaprire, 
Fin che a 1' abate a la fine pur piacque j 
Entrato drento cominciava a dire, 
Come colui, che di Maria gia nacque 
Adora, ed era Cristian battezzato, 
E com' egli era a la badia arrivato. 

XXII. 
Disse 1' abate: 11 ben venuto sia: 
Di quel ch' io ho volentier ti daremo, 
Poi che tu credi al figliuol di Maria ; 
E la cagion, cavalier, ti diremo, 
Accio che non 1' imputi a villania, 
Perche a 1' entrar resistenza facemo, 
E non ti voile aprir quel monachetto; 
Cosi intervien chi vive con sospetto. 

XXIII. 

Quando ci venni al principio nbitare 
Queste montagne, benche sieno oscure 
Come tu vedi ; pur si potea stare 
Sanza sospetto, ch' ell' eran sicure: 
Sol da le here t' avevi a guardare ; 
Fernoci spesso di brutle paure ; 
Or ci bisogna, se vogliamo starci, 
Da le bestie dimestiche guardarci. 

XXIV. 
Queste ci fan piullosto stare a segno 
Sonci appariti tre fieri giganti, 
Non so di quel paese o di qual regno, 
Ma niolto son feroci tutti quanti : 
La forza e '1 nnlvoler giunt' a lo 'ngegno 
Sai che puo '1 tutto ; e noi non siam bastanti j 
Questi perturban si 1 orazion nostra, 
Che non so piu che far, s' altri nol mostra. 

XXV. 

Gli antichi padri noslri nel deserto, 
Se le lor opre saute erano e giuste, 
Del ben servir da Dio n' avean buoii merto ; 
Ne creder sol vivessin di locuste : 



As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, 
Raised up bis sword to smite her on the bead. 

XVIIL 
Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 
Which Aldabella thought extremely strange; 

But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
And his spouse took his bridle on this change. 

And he dismounted from his horse, and spaike 
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 Gaii remember d by the way J 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he found. 

Which form 'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Angrante : under cover 

Of a great mountain's biow 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 cerlam slings, and throw 

In daily jeopardy the place below. 

XXL 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave their cells fur 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 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 

With us in Mary Mother's Son divine; 
And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 

The reason why our gate was barr'd to you : 

Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIIL 
" 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, loo 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 waich 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 stutf ; 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

■i'ou 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 fel ; 

Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is ( ertain 
That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 



80 



M O R G A N T E M A G G I O R E. 



Piovea dal ciel la manni, ques'.o e certo ; 
Ma qui convieu che spesso assaggi e guste 
Saisi che piovon di sopra quel iiioute, 
Che gettojio Alabaslro e Pa^samoute. 

XXVl. 

E '1 terzo ch' e Morgante, assai piu fiero, 
Isve^lie e piui e hggi e cerri e gli oppi, 
E gettagli iiifin qui : questo e pur vero ; 
Nou poiso far che d' ira non iscoppi. 
Meutre che parlan cosi in cimilero, 
Uu sasso par che Rondel quasi ssroppi ; 
Che da' gigauti giu venne da alto 
Tanto, ch' e' prese sotto il tetlo un salto. 

XXVII. 
Tirati drento, cavalier, per Dio, 
Disse r abate, che la n)anna casca. 
Risponde Orlando : ciro abate mio, 
Cestui non vuol che "1 mio caval piu pasca. 
Veggo che lo guarrebbe del restio : 
Quel sasso par che di bunn braccio nasca. 
Rispose il santo padre ; io non t' ingaono, 
Credo che '1 monte un giorno gitteranno. 

XXVIII. 

Orlando governar fece Rondello, 
E ordinar per se da colazione : 
Poi disse : abate, io voijlio andare a quelle 
Che detie al mino caval con qutl caalone. 
Disse 1' abate : come car fr.itello 
Consiilieroiti sanza passione? 

10 ti sconforto, baron, di tal gita ; 
Ch' io so che tu vi lascerai la vita. 

XXIX. 
Quel Passamonte Dorta in man tre dardi ; 
Chi fronibe, ch! biston, chi mazzifrusti ; 
Sai che giganti piu di noi gagliardi 
Son per ragion, che son anco piu giusti ; 
E pur se vuoi audir fa che ti suardi, 
Che questi son villan niolto e robusti. 
Rispose Orlando: io lo veJro per certo ; 
Ed avviossi a pie su pel deserto. 

XXX. 

Disse 1' abate col segnarlo in fronte : 
Va, che da Dio e me sia benadetto. 
Orlando, poi che salito ebbe il mouta. 
Si dirizzo, come 1' abate detto 
Gli avea, dove sta quel Passamonte; 

11 quale Orlando vegsendo solelto, 
Molto lo squadra di drieto e davante ; 
Poi domando, se star volea per fanle ? 

XXXI. 

E' prometteva di farlo godere. 
Orlando disse : pazzo Saracino, 

10 vengo a le, com' e di Dio volere, 
Per darii morte, e non per ragazzino ; 
A' monaci suoi fatto hai dispiacere ; 
Kon puo piu comportarti can mastino. 
Questo gigante arniar si corse a furia, 
Quando senti ch' e' gli diceva iugiuria. 

XXXII. 
E ritomato ove aspettava Orlando, 

11 qual non s'era partito da boniba ; 
Subito venne la cjrda girando, 

E lascia un sasso andar fuor de la fromba, 

Che in su la testa giugnea rololando 

Al conte Orlando, e 1' elmetto rimbomba ; 

E' cadde per la pena tramortito ; 

Ma piu che morto par, tanto e stordito. 

XXXIII. 

Passamonte penso che fusse morto, 

E disse ; io voglio andarmi a disarmare : 
Questo poltron per chi m' aveva scorto ? 
Ma Crislo i suoi non suole abbandonare. 



But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in [bread, 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 
From off yon mountain daily riining faster. 
And flung by Passaniont and Alabaster, 

XXVI. 

"The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far; he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 

And flings ihem, our community to bur)- ; 
And all that 1 can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemeleiy, 
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. 

XX\II. 
'< For Godsake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 

The manna 's falling now,-' the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 

Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
"Of restiveness he "d cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim applied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
They 'Hone day fling the mountain, I believe." 

XXVI II. 

" Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own : 

" Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone." 

Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow ; 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 

I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 

As knowmg sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 
Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must 

You know that giants have much st.iute'r hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just: 

If go you will, guard well a^inst 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 secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sijn'd the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you wi^h God's lienison and mine : " 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survev'd him'fore and aft with eyes t)b^e^van^, 

Then'ask'd him, " If he wish'd to sUy as servant ? " 

XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 

But said Orlando, '• Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God. not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace 

Vile dog ! t is past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being retum'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 bhow'd a s.ample of bis skill in slinging ; 

It roird 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 stupified. 

XXXIII. 

TTien Passamont, who lhou»ht him slain outright. 
Said, " I will go, and while he lies along, 

Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 
But Christ bis servants ne'er .-ibaudous loop, 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



81 



Massime Orlando, ch' egli arebbe il torto. 
Mentre il giginte 1' arme va a s|iogliare, 
Orlando in questo tempo si rjseiite, 
£ rivocava e la forza e la niente. 

XXXIV. 

£ grido forte : gijante, ove vai ? 
Beu ti pensasti d' avernii ammazzafo'. 
Voljiti a drieto, che, s' ale non hai, 
Non puoi da me luggir, can riniiegato : 
A tradimento ingiuriato m' ha.. 
Donde il giginle allor niaravi^liato 
Si volse a Jrieto, e riteneva il passo ; 
Poi si tbino per tor di terra un sasso. 

XXXV. 

Orlando avea Cortana ignuda in mano ; 
Trasse a la testa : e Cortana tagliava : 
Per mezzo il teschio parti del pagano, 
E Passamonte morto rovinava : 
E nel cadere il superbo e villano 
Divotamente Macou bestemmiava ; 
Ma roentre che bestemmia il crudo e acerbo, 
Orlando ringraziava il Padre e '1 Verbo. 

XXX\'I. 

Dicendo : quanta grazia oggi m' ha 'data ! 
Sempre li sono, o signer mio, teuuto ; 
Per te conosco la vita salvata ; 
Pero che dal gigante era abbatluto: 
Ogni cosa a ragion fai misuraia ; 
Non val nostro poter sanza il tuo ajuto. 
Priegoti, sopra me teu<a la mano, 
Tanto che ancor ritorni a Carlo Mano. 

XXXTII. 
Poi ch' ebbe queslo detto sen' andoe, 
Tanto che irouva Alabastro piu basso 
Che si sforzava, quaiido e' lo trovoe, 
Di sveglier d' una ripa fuori un masso. 
Orlando, com' e' giunse a quel, gridoe : 
Che pensi tu, ghiotton, gittir quel sasso ? 
Quando Alabastro quesio grido intende, 
Subitamente la sua Iromba prende, 

XXXVIII. 

E' trasse d' una pietra molto grossa, 
Tanto ch' Orlando bisogno schermisse ; 
Che se 1' avesse giunto la percossa, 
Non bisognava il medico venisse. 
Orlando adopero poi la sua possa ; 
Nel pettignou tulta la spada misse : 
E morto cadde questo babalone, 
E non dimentico pero Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante aveva al suo modo un palagio 
Fatto di frasche e di schegge e di terra : 
Quivi, secondo lui, si po^a ad agio ; 
Quivi la notte si rinchiude e serra. 
Orlando piechia, e daragli disagio, 
Perche il gigante dal sonno si ^ferra ; 
Vennegli aprir come una cosa matta ; 
Ch' uu' aspra visione aveva fatta. 

XL. 

E 'gli parea ch' un feroce serpente 

L' ave.1 assalito, e chiamar Macometto ; 
Ma Macometto non valea niente : 
Ond' e' chiimava Gesu benedetto ; 
E liberato I' avea finilmente. 
Venne alia porta, ed ebbe cosi detto; 
Chi buzza qua? pur sempre borboltando. 
Tu'l saprai tosto, gli rispose Orlando. 

XLI. 

Vengo per farti, come a' tuo' fratelli, 
Far de' peccati tuoi la penltenzia, 
Da' monaci mindato, cattivelli. 
Come state e divina providenzia ; 



Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thoushl'st 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 slopp'd his journey on, 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed: — 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand. 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd, 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 

And most devoutly Macon s:i'll blasphemed; 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st this day given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by then from heaven. 

Since by the giant 1 was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would nought be found : 
I pray thee take hted of me, till I can 
At least return 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 bank a rock "or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 

" How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw?" 
When Alabaster heard his deep voi'-e ring. 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a si7e 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 bulkv bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but o'erthrown, he 

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 berth. 
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 prayin.g blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberlv 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 lo you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the m'serable monks — repentance; 

For Providence divine, in you and others. 
Condemns the evil done my new acquaintance. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Pel Dial ch' avete fatto a torto a quelli, 
E dato in ciel cosi queata sentenzia; 
Sappi, che freddo gia piu ch' un pilastro 
La^cato bo Fa^ssauioute e' 1 tuo Alabastro. 

XLII. 
Disse Morgante : o gentil cavaliere. 
Per lo tuo Dio non mi dir villania : 
Di grazii il nome tuo vorrei sapere; 
Se se' Cristian, deh dillo in corlesia. 
Rispose Orlando : di cotal masUere 
ConienteiOtti per la fede mia ; 
Adoro Cristo, ch' e Signor verace j 
£ puoi tu adorarlo, se ti piace, 

XLIII. 

Risp«se il Saracin con umil voce ; 

10 bo latto una strana visione, 

Che m' assaliva un serpente feroce: 
Non mi valeva per chianiar Macone : 
Onde al tuo Din che fu coufitio in croce 
Rivolsi presto la niia intenzioiie : 
E' mi soccorse, e fui libero e sano, 
£ sou disposto al lutto esser Cristiano. 

XLIV. 
Rispose Orlando : baron gius'o e pio, 
Se ques'o bnon voler lerrai nel core, 
L' anima tua ara quel vero Dio 
Che ci puo sol gradir d' eierno onore 
E s' tu vorrai, sarai compagno niio, 
E aniero'.ti con perfetto anioi e : 
Gl' idoli vostri son bu^iardi e vani : 

11 vero Dio e lo Dio de' Cristiani. 

XLV. 
Venne questo Signor sanza peccafo 
Ne le sua madre vergine pulzella : 
Se conoscessi quel Signor beato, 
Sanza '1 qual non risplende sole o stella, 
Aresti gia Macon too rinnegato, 
E la sua fede iniqua ingiusta e fella ; 
Batlezzati al mio Dio di buon talento. 
Morgante gli risposo : io son contento. 

XLVI. 
E corse Orlando subito abbracciare : 
Orlando gran carezze gli facea, 
£ disse: a la badia ti vo' menare. 
Morgante, andianci presto, respoudea ; 
Co' mouaci la pace ci vuol fare. 
De la qual cos:i Orlando in se godea, 
Dicendo ; fralel mio divolo e buono, 
lo TO cbe cbiegga a 1' abate perdono. 

XLVII. 
Da poi che Dio rallmninato t' ha, 
Ed acetlato per la sua umiltade ; 
Vuolsi che tu ancor uii umilta. 
Disse Morgante : per la tua bontade, 
Poi che il tuo Dio mio sempre omai sara, 
Dimmio del nome tuo la verilade, 
Poi di nie dispor puoi al tuo comando ; 
Ond' e' gli disse, com' egli era Orlando. 

XLVHI. 
DJsse il giganle : Gesu benedefto 
Per miUe volte ringraziato sia ; 
Sentito t' bo nomar, baron perfetto. 
Per tutti i lenifii de la vita mia : 
E, com' io dissi senipremai suggetto 
Esser ti vo' per la tua gagliardia. 
Insieme molte co<e rajionaro, 
E 'n \eTso la badia poi s' inviaro. 

XLIX. 
E per la via da que' giganii morti 
Orlando con Morgante si ragiona • 
De la lor niorte vo' che ti conforti ; 
E poi che jjiace a Dio, a me perdona ; 



'T is writ on high — your wrong must pay anotkcrt : 

From he,iven~itse!f'is issued out this sentence. 
Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
1 left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

XLII. 
Morgante, said, " Oh gentle cavalier ! 

Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
The favour of jour name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, '• So much to your ear 

1 by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ 1 adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLin. 

The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

" 1 have had an extraordinary vision j 
A s-xvage serpent fell on me alone, 

And Macon would not pity my condition; | 

Hence to Ihy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd 1 my petition j 
His timely succour set me safe and free, 
And I a Christian am disf)Osed to be." 

XUV. 

Orlando answer'd, "Baron just and pious. 

If this good wish your heart can really move, 
To the true God, you will not then deny us 

Elern.al honour, you will go above, 
And, if you please, as friends we will ally us. 

And 1 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. 
" The I^rd descended to the virgin breast 

Of Maty Mother, sinless and divine; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest. 

With' ut whom neither sun nor star can shine, 
Abjure bid Mncon's false and felon test. 

Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
To which Morgan e answer'd, " 1 'm content" 

XLVL 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew. 
And made much of his convert, as he cned, 

" To the abbey 1 will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, " Let us go," leplied; 

" I to the friars have for peace to sue." 
Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 

Saving, " My brother, so devout and good. 

Ask the abbo't pardon, as I wish you nould : 

XLVIL 

" 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 'hat your God is to be mine — your station, 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 
"Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 

A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 
Oft, perfect baron ! Inve I beard of you 

Through all the different periods of my daysi 
And, as 1 said, to be your vassal too 

I wish, for your great gallantry always." 
Thus rensouiii'e, they continued much to say, 
And on« ards 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 ycu, comforted; 
I And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 



^: 



A' monaci avein fatto mille torii j 
E la nostra scr-ttura aper'o suoiia. 
II ben reuiunerato, e '1 m;il pui.ito; 
£ mai nou lia questo Signer t'allito, 



Pert) ch' egli ama la siiisli/ia tanto, 

Che vuol, che sempre il suo giudicio morda 
Ognun ch' abbi peccalo tanto o quan'.o; 
E cosi il ben ristorar si ricordi ; 
E non saria seiiza giustizia sanio : 
Adunque al siio voler presto t' accorda : 
Che debbe ognun voler quel che vuol questo, 
Ed accordarsi volentieri e presto. 

LI. 

E sonsi 1 nostri dottori accordati, 
Pigliando tu ti uiie cnnclusione, 
Clie que' son nel ciel glorificati, 
S avessin nel pensier compa-sione 
De' miseri parent!, che dannati 
Son ne lo inferno in gran confusione, 
La lor felicila nulla sarebbe ; 
E vidi che qui ingiusio Iddio parebbe. 

LIL 

Ma egli anno posSo in Gesu ferma spene; 
E tanto pare a lor, quanto a lui pare ; 
AfFerman cio ch' e' fa, che facci bene, 
E che non possi in nessun niodo errare : 
Se pidre o madre e nell' eterne pene, 
Di questo non si possan conturbare : 
Che quel che piace a T)io, sol piace a loro : 
Questo s' osserva ne 1' eterno coro. 

LIII. 
Al savio suol bastar poche parole, 
Disse Morgante ; tu il potrai vedere, 
De'miei fratelli, Orlando, se mi duole, 
E s' io m' accordero di Dio al volere, 
Come tu di' che in ciel servar si suole : 
Morti co' morti ; or pensiam di godere; 
Io vo tagliar le mani a tuiti quanti, 
E porterolle a que' monaci santi, 

LIV. 
Accio ch' ognun sia piu sicuro e certo, 
Com' e' son morti, e non abbin paura 
Andar solefti per questo deserto ; 
E perche veggan la mia niente pura 
A quel Signor che m' ha il suo regno aperto. 
E tratto fuor di tenebre si oscura. 
E poi taglio le mani a' due fratelli, 
E lasciagli a le fiere ed agli uccelli. 

LV. 

A la badia insieme se ne vanno, 
Ove 1' abate assai dubbioso aspetti : 
I monaci che '1 fat o ancnr non sanno, 
Correvano a 1' ab:it^ tutti in frett i, 
Dicendo purosi e pien' d' affanno : 
Volele voi costui drento si metta ? 
Quando 1' abate vedeva il gigante, 
Si turbo tu.to nel primo sembiante. 

LVI. 
Orlando che turbato cosi il vede, 
Gli disse presto: abate, datti pace, 
Questo e Cristiano. e in C' isto nostro crede, 
E rinnegato ha il suo Macon fall tee. 
Morgante i moncherin niosiro per fede, 
Come i gisanti ciascun niorto giace: 
Dnnde P abate ringraziavia Iddio. 
Dicendo ; or m' hai contento, Signor niio. 

LVI I. 

E risguardava, e squidrava Moi^nte, 
La sua grandezza e una volta e due, 
E poi gli disse : famoso gigaule, 
Sappi ch' io uon mi maraviglio pine, 



A thousand wrongs unto the monks tliej bred, 
i And our true Scriplure sounde'h Ofienly, 

Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 
I Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 



« Because his love of justice unto all 
I Is such, he wills bis 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 
j Him, whom I now require you to adore. 
I All men must make his will tlieir wishes sway, 
j And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

I LI. 

"And here our doctors are of one accord, 
I Coming on this point to the same conclusion,— 
That in their thoughts who praise iu heaven the Lonl 

If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
For their unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion,— 
Their hippiness would be reduced to nouglit, 
And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LIL 

" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which'seeins o him, to them too must appear 

Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall j 
He never can in any purpose err. 

If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, 
They don't disturb themselves for him or her: 

What plea es God to them must joy inspire ; — 

Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 

" 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, 'I is in heaven obey'd — 
Ashes 10 ashes ! — meriy let us be ! 

I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 

And carry them uuto the holy monks, 

LIV. 
" So that all persons may be sure and certain 

That they are dead, and have no further fear 
To wander solitary this desert in, 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
By the Lord's grace! "ho hath withdrawn the curtain 

Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 
And lelt 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 thither 

To their superior, all in breathless rout. 
Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 

You wish to have this person in or out ?" 
[ The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
1 Too greatly fear'd, at fii-st, lo be compliant, 

I LVI. 

Orlando seeing him thus agitated, 
i Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 

He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 
And hath renounced his Macon false ; " which here 

Morgante wilh the hands corroborated, 
I A proof of both the giants' faie quite clear ; 

Thence with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
, Saying, " Thou hast contented nie, oh Lord '. " 

I LVII. 

I He gazed ; Morganfe's height he calculited, 

And more than once conremphted his size; 
And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
' Know, that no more my wonder will ariiie. 



84 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Che tu svegliessi e gittassi le piante, 
Quaud' io riguardo cir It faitezze tue: 
Tu sarai or perfetio e vero amico 
A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nimiCd. 

LVIII. 
Vn nostro apostal, Saul gia chiamato, 
Persegui molto U Cede di Cristo : 
Va giorno poi da lo spirio ioUammatOi 
Perche pur mi persegui ? disse Cristo : 
E' si nvvide allor del suo peccato 
Aiido poi predicando sempre Cristo j 
E fatto e or de la fede uua troinba. 
La qual per tutto risuoua e hmbomba. 

LIX. 
Cost farai tu ancor, Morgante mio : 
E Chi s' emenda, e scritlo nel Vangelo, 
Che maggior fesli fa d' un solo Iddio, 
Che di Dovantanove altri su in cielo : 
Io ti conforlo ch' ogui tuo disio 
Rivolga a quel Signer con ginsto zelo, 
Che tu sarai lelice in seinpiterno, 
Ch' eri perduto, e dannato all' infemo. 

LX. 

E erande onore a Morgante faceva 
L' abate, e molti di si son posti : 
Un giorno, come ad Orlando piaceva, 
A spasso in qua e in la si sono andati : 
L' abate io una camera sua aveva 
Molte armadure e certi archi appiccali: 
Morgante glieue jjiacque un che ne vede; 
Onde e' sel cinse bench' oprar nol crede. 

Lxr. 

Avea quel luogo d' acqua carestia : 
Orlando disse come buon fratello : 
Mnrginte, vo' che di piacer ti sia 
Andar per I' acqua : oiid' e' rispose a quello ; 
Conianda cio che vuoi che fatto sia j 
E posesi in ispalla un gran linello, 
Ed avviossi la verso una fonte 
Dove solea her sempre appie del monte. 

LXII. 

Giunto a la fonte, sente un gran frarasso 
Di subito venir per la foresia : 
Uaa sietta cavo del turcasso, 
Posela a 1' arco,ed alzava la fesfa ; 
Ecco apparire un gran gregge al pas=o 
Di porci, e vanno con molta tempesta; 
E arrivomo alia fontana appun'o 
Doude 11 gigante e da lor sopraggiuuto. 

LXIII. 
Mor?ante a la ventura a un sietta; 
Appunto ne 1' orecchio lo 'ncamava ; 
Da 1' allro lato passo la vetret'a ; 
Onde il cinghial giu morto gambettava; 
Un altro, quasi per fame vendetta, 
Addosso al gran gigante irato andava ; 
E perche e' siunse troppo tosto al varco, 
Kon fu Morgante a tempo a trar con 1' arco. 

LXIV. 
Vedendosi venuto il porco adosso, 
Gli ilelle in su la testa un gran punzone i 
Per moJo che gP infranse iiisino a 1' osso, 
E mono alln'o a quell" altro lo pone : 
Gli altri por;i vegiendo quel percosso. 
Si mis5on tutti in fuga pel valloiie; 
Morgante si levo il linello in collo, 
Ch' era pien d' acqua, e nou si muove un crollo. 



How you could tear and fling the trees you late didi, 

When 1 behold your form with my own eyes. 
You now a true and perfect friend will show 
Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. 
" And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 

Long persecuied sore the faith of Christ, 
Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflimed, 

' Why dost thou persecute me thus ?' said Christ; 
And then f;om 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, iny Morgante, tou may do likewise : 

He who repents — " thus writes the Evangelist — 
i Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
I Thau ninety-nine of the celestial list 
I You may be sure, should each desire arise 
! With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 

Among the happy saints for evermore ; 

But you were lost and damn'd to hell before ! " 

LX. 

And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando ttiey both stray'd. 
And saunler'd here and there, where'er they chose, 

The abbot --how'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armour was, and hung up certaiu bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 



There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
"Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." " You shall be obey'd 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

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. 

LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears. 
Which suddenly along the forest spread j 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 

And lo 1 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'ii unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay Iripp'd up near. 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, 
Asainst the giunt rush'd in fierce career, 

And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close. 
He gave him such a punch upon the head, 

As floor'd him so that he no more arose. 
Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows. 
The o her pigs along the valley (led ; 

Morgante on his neck 'he bucket look, 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 



1 ■■Uli dettc in 8U la testa un gran purzoLe." Il is punch 
tlrange tl.al Puici aliould have literally antiripated llie pun/or 
ny old friend and m.tHter, JackHonjand | ph 



carried to ils higbeaC pilrh. 



keod," or -a j,vnch in the kead," — ''T>D 
1 IB te«'a," — is the exaci and freqaenC 

ise of our best pu(rilisl», who little dream tbat thtf 

talliing the purest Tusran. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



85 



LXV. 

Da 1' una spalla il tinelb avea pos*o, 
Ihi 1' alira i porci, e spacciava il terreno ; 
E torna a la badia. ch' e pur discoslo, 
Ch' una zf>cciola d' acqua non va in seno. 
Orlando che '1 vedea tornar si tosto 
Co' porci morti, e can quel va-o pieno ; 
Maravigliossi che sia lanio forte : 
Cosi 1' abate ; e spalancan le porte. 

LXVI. 
I momci vejgendo 1' acqua fresca 
Si rallejromo, ma piu de' cin^hiali ; 
Ch' ogni animal si rallejra de 1' esca ; 
E pTsano a dorniire i breviili : 
O^nun s" affinm, e non jar che gl' iccresca, 
Accio che questa cirne n'l; s' iusali, 
E che poi secca sapesse di victo ; 
E la digiune si res'.orno a drieto. 

LXVII. 

E femo a scoppia corpo per un tratto, 
E scuffiin, che parian de 1' acqua usciti j 
Tanto che '1 cane sen doleva e '1 fatto, 
Che gli ossi rimanem troppo puliti. 
L' abate, p -i die mnito onoro ha fatto 
A tu'li, un di dopo quesli cinviti 
Detle a Morganle un destrier raolto hello, 
Che lungo tempo tenuto avea quello. 

LX\III. 

Morspnie in su 'n un prato il caval mena, 
E vuol che corra. e che facci o^ni pruova, 
E pensa che di ferro abbi la schiena, 
forse non credeva schiicciar 1' uova : 
Questo caval s' accoscia per la pena, 
E scopjiia, e 'n su la lerra si ritruova. 
Dicca Mirgante : lieva su rozzone ; 
E va pur punzacchiando co lo sprone. 

LXIX. 

Ma finilmente convien ch' e»li smonte, 
E disse : io son pur lejjier come penna, 
Ed e scoppiato ; che ne di' u, conle ? 
Rispose Orlando ; un arbore d' antenna 
Mi par piu'tosto, e la ga?»ia la fronfe : 
Lasciala andir, che la firluna accenna 
Che roeco appiede ne ven?a, Morgante, 
Ed io cosi verro, disse il gigante. 

LXX. 

Quando sera mestier, tu mi vedrai 
Com' io mi provero ne la bittaglia. 
Orlando disse : io credo tCi farai 
Come buOD civalier, se Dio mi vagliaj 
Ed anco me dormir non mirerai : 
Di questo luo caval non te ne caglia : 
Vorrebbesi portarlo in qualche bosco ; 
Ma il mode ne la via non ci conosco. 

LXXI. 
Disse il ?iean'e : io il portero ben io. 
Da poi che porter me non ha voluto, 
Per render ben per mil. come fa Dio ; 
Ma vo' che a porlo addosso mi dia ajuto. 
Orlando gli dicea: Morjante mio, 
S' al mio consiglio li sarai attenuto^ 
Ques'o caval lu non ve 'I porteresli, 
Che ti (ara come tu a lui facesti. 

LXXII. 

Guarda che non facesse la vendetia. 
Come fece gia Nesso cosi morto : 
Non so se la sua istoria hai inteso o letta; 
E' ti fara scoppiar; datti cnnforto. 
Disse Morgante : aiuta ch' io me 'I metta 
Addi>sso, e poi vedrai s' io ve lo porto ; 
Io porterei, Orlando mio gen'ile. 
Con le campaue la quel campanile. 



8 



i LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
' The hog5 on t' other, and he brush'd apace 
j On to the abbey, though by no njeans near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
I With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marvell'd to see his s'reng'h so very great ; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

I LXVI. 

I The monks, who saw the water fresh and good. 

I Rejoiced, but much more to i erceive the porkj'^ 

' 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 Hesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 
Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

I LXVII. 

As though they wisli'd to burst at once, they ate J 
And gorged so that, as if the bones hid been 

In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 
[ Perceiving that ihey all were pick'd too clean. 
j The abbot, who to all did honour great, 
j A few days afer this convivial scene. 

Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
, Which be long time bad for himself niaintain'd. 

LXVI 1 1. 
The horse Morgante ti^a meadow led. 

To gallop, aiid to put him to the proof, 
Thinkinz that he a back of iron had, 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 
But the hon-e. sinking with the pain, fell deid. 

And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. 
Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky curl " 
And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fi' to dismount. 
And Slid, " I am as lijht as any feather, 

And he has burst ; — lo this whot 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 will see 
How I approve mv courage in the fight." 

Orlindo said, •' I really think you '11 be. 
If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight; 

Nor will you napping ihere 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 mv back." 

Orlando answer'd. " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who. 

As you have dene to him, will do to you. 

LXXIL 
"Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 

As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
I don't know if the fact you 've heard or read ; 

But he will make you'burs', you may be sure." 
" But help him on mv back," Morgante said, 

" And you shall see what weight I can endure. 
In place, mv gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 
With ail the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry." 



86 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



LXXIII. 

Disse 1' abate : il campaiiil v' e bene ; 
Ma le campane voi I' avete rotle. 
Dicea Morgante, e' ne porton le pene 
Color che morti son la in quelle grolte; 
E levossi il cavallo in su le ^chiene, 
E dis-e: guards s' io sento di gotte, 
Orlando, nelle gambe, e s' io io posso ; 
E fe' duo salt! col civallo addosso. 

LXXJV. 
Era Morgante come una montagna : 
Se facea questo, nou e niaraviglia ; 
Ma pun; Orlando con seco si lagna ; 
Perclie pur era omai di sua faniiglia 
Tenieuza avea noii pigliasse mngagna, 
Un' altra volia cestui riconsiglia : 
Posalo ancor, nol portare al deserio. 
Disse Morgmte: il portero per ceito. 

LXXV. 

E poriollo, e gittoUo in lungo sfr:ino, 
E toriio a la biiiia subitamenle. 
Diceva Orlando : or che piu dimoriano ? 
Morgante, qui non facciain noi niente ; 
E prese un giorno I' abate per mano, 
E disse a quel molto discretamente, 
Che vuol parlir de la sua reverenzia, 
E doniandava e perdono e licenzia. 

LXXVI. 

E de gli onor ricevuti da questi, 
Qualche volta por:endo, ara buon merito; 
E dice : io intendo ristorare e presto 
I persi giorni del tempo pretento ; 
E' son piu di die licenzia arei chi-sfo, 
Benizno padre, se non ch' io mi pei ito ; 
Non so moslrarvi quel che dren'o sento j 
Tanto vi veggo del mio star contento. 

LXXVII. 

Io me ne porto per sempre nel core 
L' abate, la badia, questo deserto ; 
Tanto v' ho posto in picciol tempo amore: 
Rendxvi su nel ciel per me buon merto : 
(Juel vero Dio, quello eterno Signore 
Che vi serba il suo regno al fine aperto : 
Noi aspet'iam vos'ro benedizione, 
Raccomandiamci a le vostre orazione. 

IJiXVIII. 

Quando 1' abate il cnnte Orlando intese, 
Rinteneri nel cor per k dolcezza, 
Tanto fervor nel petto se gli accese ; 
E disse; cavalier, se a tua prodezza 
Non sono state benigno e cortese. 
Come convien^i a la gran gentillezza ; 
Che so che cio ch' i' ho fatto e s'alo poco, 
Incolpa la ignoranzia nostra e il loco. 

LXXIX. 

Noi ti potremo di messe onorare, 
Di prediche di lauJe e paternostri, 
Piuttosto che da cena o desinare, 
d' altri convenevol che da chiostri: 
Tu ni' hai di te si fatto inmmorare 
Per mille alle eccellenzie che tu mostri ; 
Ch' io me ne vengo ove tu audrai teco. 
E d' altra parte tu resti qui meco. 

LXXX. 

Tanto ch' a questo par contraddizione ; 
Ma r-o che tu se' savio, e 'ntendi e gusti, 
E intendi il mio parlar per discrizione; 
De' beneficj tuoi pielosi e giusti 
Renda il Signore a te munerazione, 
Da cui niaridato in ques'c selve fnsti ; 
Per le virtu del qual liberi siamo, 
E grazie a lui e a te noi ne rendiamo. 



LXXIII. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well. 
But, for the bells, you 've broken them, I wot. 

Morgante ansner"d, " Let them pay in hell 
T he penalty who lie dead in yon grot ; " 

And hoisting up the horse from where he feil, 
He said, " Now look if 1 the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if 1 have force; " — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 't is i.o prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once moie he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him fur. her the desert in.* 
Morgante said, " I 'il carry him for certain." 

LXXV. 

He did ; and stow'd lum in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then returned with speed. 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
Morgan'e, here is nought to do indeed." 

The ablnt by the hmd he took one day. 
And said, wjih great re pcct, he had a^eed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He «ish'd to have bis pardon and permission. 

LXXA'I. 

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, « hich may be blame 

Some d lys asb I should have ask'd your leave, 
Kind father, but 1 really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our slay content. 

LXXVII. 

"But in my heart I be^T through every clime 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 

So much I love you in so short a lime; 

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. 

Meantime 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, 

I know I have done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

LXXIX. 

" We can indeed but honour you with masses. 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and paler-nosten^ 

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 fosten, 

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 Io this waste: 
To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
For which we render thanks to him and yoa. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 



87 



LXXXI. 

Xu ci hai salvato 1' anima e la vita : 
Tanta perturbizion gii que giganti 
Ci detton, che la strada era sniarrita 
Da ritrovar Gesu con gli allri sanii: 
Pero troppo ci duol la tua partila, 
E sconsolaii restiam tutti quaoli ; 
Ne ritener possianiti i mesi e gli anm : 
Cbe tu non se' da vestir quesli panoi, 

LXXXII. 
Ma da portar la lancia e 1' armadura ; 
E puossi merifar coa essa, come 
Con quests c?.ppa ; e lesgi la scrittura : 
Questo gigante al ciel drizzo le some 
Per ma virtu ; va in pace a tua ventura 
Chi tu ti sia, ch' io non ricerco il nome ; 
Ma diro sempre, s' io son domandito, 
Ch' un angioi qui da Dio tus:.! mandato. 

Lxxxm. 

86 0*6 armadura o cosa che tu voglia, 
Vattene in zambra e pigliane (u stessi, 
E cuopri a questo giganie le scoglia. 
Rispose Orlando : se armadura avessi 
Prima che noi uscissim de la soglia, 
Che questo mio conipagno difendessi : 
Questo accello io, e sarammi piacere. 
Uisse 1' abate : venite a vedere. 
LXXXIV. 

E in cerfa cameretta entrati sono, 

Che d' armadure vecchie era copiosa : 
Dice I' abate ; tutte ve le dono. 
M'>rgante va rovistando ogni cosa ; 
Ma solo un certosbergo gli fu buono, 
Ch' avea tutra la maglia rugginosa : 
Maraviglinssi che Io cuopri appunto ; 
Che mai piu gn-in forse gliea' era aggiunto. 
LXXXV. 

Questo fu d' un gigante smisurata, 
Ch' a la badia fu morto per antico 
Dal gran Milon d' Angrante, ch' arrivato ; 
V era, s' appunto ques'a istoria dico ; 
Ed era ne le mura istnriato, 
Come e' fu morto questo gran nimico 
Che fece a la badia gia lunga guerra : 
£ Miloa v' e com' e' 1' abbatte in terra. 

LXXXVI. 

Veggendo questa istoria il conte Orlando, 
Fra suo cor disse : o Dio, che sii sol tutto, 
Come venne Milon qui capilando, 
Che ha questo gigante (|ui distrutto ? 
E lease certe lettre lacrmiando, 
Che non pnte fenir piu il viso asciutto, 
Com' io aiio ne la seguente is'orii : 
Di mal vi guardi il Re de 1' alta gloria. 



LXXXI. 

" Vou saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants cau ed 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 ; 

Bui months and years you would not stay in sloth, 

Nor are you forni'd to wear our sober cloth , 

LXXXII. 
" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeea. 

With these as much is done as with this cowl ; 
In proof of which the Scriptures you may read. 

This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
By your compassion : mw in peace proceed. 

Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 
But, if 1 'ra 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 cbooge, 
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 turned 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 cIo>et, where the wall 

Was cover'd with old arnwur like a crust, 
The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 

Morgante rummag'-d piecemeal from the dust 
The whole, which, save one cuinss, was too small, 

And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 
They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 
1 Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 

j LXXXV. 

1 'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 

I By the great Milo of Agranle fell 

Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wall'was figured well; 

In the last momen' of the abbey s foe, 
j Who long had waged a war implacable : 

Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 
I And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 

I LXXXVI. 

Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 

In his own heart, ''Oh God, who in the sky 
Know'st all things 1 how was Milo hither led ? 

Who caused the giant in this place to die ? " 
And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 

So that he could not keep his visage dry,— 
As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
From evil keep you the high Ki\ig of glory ! 



THE GIAOUR: 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



"One fatal remembrance - 
It9 blealt sh^de alike n'e 
To wtiJLh Life notliing ( 
For wliicb joy hath oo 1 



• one sorrow that throws 
our joys and our woes — 
irker nor brighter ran brin^. 



MOORE. 



TO 

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., 

AS A SUGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN 

OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, I 



AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED 

AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

London, May, 1819. B'i'RON. 



88 



THE G I A O U U. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is 
founJed upon circumstances now lesj cuninion in the 
East thiin rorineriy ; eillii-r because Ihe ladies are more 
circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the 
Christians have better foit\ine, or less enterprise. The 
slory, «hen entire, canlained the adventures of a female 
slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into 
the sea for infideli y, and avenged by a young Vene- 
tian, her lover, at the time tbe Seven Islands were pos- 
sessed bv the Republic of Venice, and soon after the 
Arnauls'were beaten back from the Morea, which I hey 
had ravaged for some time sub equent to the Russian 
invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being re- 
fused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment 
of that enterprise, and to the desolation of Ihe Morea, 
during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was 
unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. i 



THE GIAOUR. 



No breath of air to break Ihe wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb "J which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward veering skiti, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain j 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
V^hich, 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 ni.any a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave : 
And if at times a transient breeze 
Break Ihe blue crystal of Ihe 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, 
SulUna of the Nightingale,3 
The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tnle : 
His queen, Ihe garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 
Far from Ihe winters of the west. 
By every breeze and season blest. 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 



1 An event, in vrhicli Lord Byrr.n was personally cm- 
cerned. undnubledly eupplied X\i-. groundwork of Ihm tale; 
but for the Btory, bo rircumstantially-put forth, of his 
having himself l>een the lover of this female slave, there 
is no foundation. The girl whose life the poet caved at 
Athens was nut, we are aseured by Sir John Hothouse, 
an ohje.t of his Lordship's allaihment, but that of h - 
Turkish servant.— E. 

2 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the hepulrhie of Themistocles. — ["There are," 
savs Cumberland, in his Observer, " a few lines by Plato, 
upon the tnmh of Themisloiles, which have a tiiru of ele- 
gant and pathetic simplicity in them, that deserves a bet- 
ter translation than I can give: — 

• By the sea's marpin, on Ihe watery strand, 
Thy monument, Thpnn'.stocleR, shalUland : 
By this directed, to thy Hatl»» shore 
The merchant shall convey hl« freighled store ; 
And when our fleets are summoned to the fight, 
Athens shall conquer with thy tomb in sight.'" — E.] 
9 The attachment of the nightinsale to the rose Is a 
well-known Persian fable. If 1 mi.slake not. Ihe "Bulbul 
of ■ thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 



And grateful yields that smiling sky 

Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 

And many a summer flower is there, 

And many a shade tint love might share. 

And many a grotto, meant for rest, 

Thit holds the pirate for a guest ; 

Whose bark in shel ering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 

Till Ihe gay mariner's guiiar* 

Is heard, and seen Ihe evening star ; 

Then stealing with the muffled oar, 

Far sh ided by the r cky shore, 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey. 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — ihat where Nature loved to trace^ 

As if for Gods, a dwelling place. 

And every charm and grace hath mix'd 

Within the paradise she tix'd. 

There man, enaniour'd of distress, 

Should mar it into w ilderness. 

And trample, brute like, o'er each flower 

That ta^ks not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the cullure of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land. 

But springs as to preclude his care. 

And sweely woos him — but to spare ! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside, 

There passion riots in her pride. 

And lust and rapine wildly leign 

To daiken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as Ihnugh the fiends prevail'd 

Against Ihe seraphs they assaii'd. 

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell; 

So soft Ihe scene, so form'd for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 

He who hath bent him o'er Ihe dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
The first dirk day of nothingness. 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's eft'acing 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 thit streak 
The languor of Ihe placid cheek. 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
AVhere cold Obstruction's apathy 5 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for thfese and these aloi:e. 
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 i-i Ihe 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. 



4 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Gr«ek 

sailor by night: wiih a steady fair wind, and dining a 

calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often bj 

dancing. 

6 " Ay, hut to die and go we know not where. 

To lye in cold obstruclinn ? " 

Measure for Measure, Act il. sc. 2. 
6 I trust that few of my readers have ever had an 
pnrtunily of witne«sins what is here attempted in 
scription ; hut those who have will probably retain e p< 
ful remembrance of Ihat singular beauty which pervades, 
with few exceptions, the features of the dei>d, a fw hours, 
and but for a few hours, after '■ the spirit is not there.'" 
It is to be ri-marked in cases of violent death by pun- 
shot wounds, the expression is always that oT languor, 
vshatever the untural energy of the suflerei's character; 
hut in death from a stab the countenance preserves its 
traits of feeling or ferocity, uud the mind its biaa, to tbe 



THE GIAOUR. 



80 f 



Hers is Ihe loveliness in de^th. 
Thai parts not qui e with pining breath; 
But beauty with that feirful bloom, 
1 hat hue which haunts it to Ihe tomb, 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded h<!o hoveling round decay, 
The farewell beam of Feeling past away • 
Spark of that tianie, perchance of heavenly birth. 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherisb'd earth ! 

Clime of the unforgolten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty! can i' be, 
That this is all remains of Ihee? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave: 

Say, is not this Thermopylae? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce whit sea, what shore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salimis! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snitch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And lie who in the strife expres 
Will add to theirs a mme of fear. 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will ra'her die than shame: 
For Freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled ofi is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it ma::y a deathless age 1 
While kings, in dusty daikuess hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though ihe general doom 
Hath swepi the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy Muse to s ranger's eye 
The graves of those ihat cannot die ! 
'T were long to tell, rnJ sad to trace. 
Each step from splendour to disgrace ; 
Ei:ough — no foreiin fne could quell 
Thy soul, till from'it=elf i! 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 williin thy va'lleys bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to Ihe grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,t 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
W'ithout even savage virtue blest, 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighbouring ports Ihey waft 
Proverbial wiles, nnd ancient craft; 
In this the subtle Greek is found. 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might Liberty invoke 
The spirit to Ks bond.ige broke, 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail. 
Yet this will be a mournful tale. 
And they who listen may believe. 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 



Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing 
Slirt on Ihe fisher's eye like boat 
Of island pirate or M'ain .le; 
And fearful for his light caique, 
He shuns the ne-ir but dtmbtlul creek: 
Though worn and weary wi-h his toil. 
And cumber'd » ith his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leoiie's"sifer shore 
Receive; him by the lovely light 
That best becomes au Eastern night 

****** 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed? 
Beneath the clat ering iron's sound 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound foi bound ; 
The foam Ihat streaks the cou ser"s side 
Seems galherd from the ocean-lide : 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
There "s none within his rider's breast; 
And thoush to-mo rnw"s tempest lower, 
T is calm'er than thy heart, young Giaour!* 
I know thee not, I loa he thy race, 
But in thy lineimen s I trace 
What tinie shall strengthen, not efface: 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor like thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem 'thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or sbuib 

On — on he histen'd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight. 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast. 
And long upon my sartled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears ;he steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o"cr the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from niine eye; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
And not a star but shines loo 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 miment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still; 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike,3 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeaL 
To night, set Rhainazani's sun ; 
To-night, the Bairam feast 's begun : 
To-night— but who and what art thou 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And what are these to thine or thee. 
That thou should'st either pause or flee ? 

He stood — some dread was on his face. 
Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
It rose not with the reddening fiush 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush, 



1 Athena is the propiTty of U • Kislar Aea (Ihe slave of , 
the sera'lio and guardian of the women), who app-iintslhe 
Waywnde. A pander and eunuch — these are not polite, ' 
yet true tppellations— now govsrnt the goscrnur of^ 



2 In Dr. C'arke's Travels, this word, whirh means Infi- 
del, is always written according to its English pronuncia- 
tion. Djour. Lord Byron adopted the Italian spelling usual 
among the Franks of the Levant. — E. 

3 "Tophaike," mneket. The Bairam Is announced by 
the cannon at sunset: the illumination of the mosque*, 
and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with tall, 
prcclaim it during the sight. 



8* 



90 



THE GIAOUR. 



But pale as marbleo'erthe tomb, 

Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 

His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And ^ternly shook his hands on high, 

As doubling to reuin or fly : 

Impatient ot bis flight delay'd, 

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade i 

That sound had burst his waking dream, 

As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 

1 he spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 

Awav, away, for life he rides: 

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed i 

Springs to the touch hh startled steed ; 

The rock is doubled, and the shore 

Shake-s with the clattering tramp no more: 

The crag is won, no more is seen 

His Chris ian crest and haughty mien.» 

>T was but an insant he restrain'd 
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ; 
>T was but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
But in that ins'ant o'er his soul 
Winters of Memory seem"d to roll, 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hiles, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years : 
What felt he then, at once oppiest 
By all that most distracts the breast ? 
That pause, which ponder d o'er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date 1 
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 I 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb ; 
He came, he went, like the simoom,3 
Thai harbinger of fate and gloom, 



Jerreed, or Djerrid. a blunted Turkish javelin, whirh 
darted fn-m horsebaik with great Inne and precisjon. 
"a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I known 
if it can be called a min/y one. since the most expert in 
the art are the Black Eunuch- of Constantinople. I Ih.nk. 
next to these, a Mamlonk at Smyrna was the most skilful 
that Cime within my observation. 

2 Every gesture of the impetuous horseman ia full of 
anxielv and passion. In the midst of his career, whilst in 
full view of the astonished spectator, he suddenly checks 
hia steed, and rising on his stirrup, surveys, vulh a look 
of a°ouising impatience, Ihedistant city illuminated for the 
feast of Bairam ; then pale with anger, raises hin arm as 
if in mena' e of an invisible enemy; but awakened fmrn 
his trance of passion t>y the neighing of his charger, again 
hurries forward, and disappears. —GEORGE KLLIS. 

3 The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living. and 
often alluded to in eastern poetry. [Abyssinian Bruce gives, 
perhaps, the liveliest account uf the appearance and elTecIs 
of the sufTucating blast of the Desert :-" At eleven 
o'clock," he says, "while we contemplated with great 
pleasure the rugged lop of Cliiggre, to which we were fast 
approaching, and where we were to solace ourselves witti 
plenty of good water, Idris. our giiide,cried out with aloud 
Toice, ■ Fall upon y.jur faces, for here is the eimooin." I 
saw from the south-east a haze come, in colour like the 
purple part of the rainbow, but not so compressed or thick. 
It did ni>t occupy twenty yards in breadth, and was about 
twelve feet high from the ground. It was a kind of blush 
upon the air. and it moved very rapidly ; for I scarce could 
turn to fall up<in the ground, with my head to the north- 
ward, when I felt the heat of its current plainly upon my 
face. We all lay flat on the ground as if dead, till Idris 
told na it was blown over. The meteor, or purple haze, 
which I saw was. indeed, passed, but the light air, which 
•till blew, wa» of a hta*. to thteaten suffocation. For my 



Beneath whose widely-wasting I reath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled. 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely spider's thin grey pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
The bat builds in his harem bower, 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-tower; 
The wild-dog howls o"er the fountain's brim 
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim ; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
Wheie the weeds aijd the desolate dust are spread. 
'T was swee' of yore to see it play 
And ch.ase 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 sv^■eet, when cloudless s'ars were bright, 
To view the wave of watery light, 
And hear its nielody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
Around the verge of that cascade ; 
And oft upon his mother's breist 
That sound had harmonized his rest; 
And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song; 
And sof er scem'd each melting tone 
Of Music mingled with i s own. 
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age rejiose 
Along the brink at twilight's close : 
The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 
The blood that warni'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 quench'd in silence, all is still. 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 

Though raves the gust and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert smds '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 siy, '' All are not gone ; 

There lingers Life,'though but in one" — 

For many a gi'ded chamber 's there. 

Which Solitude might well forbear; 

Within that dome ns \et Decay 

Hath slowly woik'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate. 

Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; 

Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred "bread and salt,"* 

Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, th t refuge unto men, 

Is Desolation's hungry den. 
The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre '. » 

******* 

part, I found distinctly in my breast that I had imbibed a 
part of it: nor was I free of an asthmatic sensation .ill 
had been some months in Italy, at the baths of Porella, 
near two years afterwards." — See Bruce's Life and Tra- 
vels, p. 470. edit. 1630. — E.) 

4 To partake of food, to break bread and salt with yoor 
host, ensures the safely of the guest : even though ao ene- 
my, his person from that moment is sacred. 

5 I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are 
the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and to say truth. 



r 



THE GIAOUR. 



91 



I hear the sound of coming feet, 
Put not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — each lurban I can scan, 
And silver sheathed a aghan ; i 
The foremost of the band is seen 
An Emir by his garb of green : * 
" Ho ! who art thou ? " — " This low salam 3 
Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 
"The hnrthen ye so gently bear, 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doub'less, holds some precious freight, 
My humble baik 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 scilterd by, 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channeird waters dirk and deep. 
Rest from your task — st — bravely done. 
Our ciurse has been right swifily run ; 
Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of— * # # 

* * * * * *'♦ 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank. 
The calm was rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, melhougtit 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishinj from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Known but to Genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 

****** 

As rising on its purple wing 
The injectqueen* of eastern spring, 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads liim on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye: 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hilh lost its charm by being ought. 
For every touch that woo'd its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'T is left to fly or fall alone. 



vfry penerally practistd by hi« disriplea. The first praise 
that can Ik beslowe.1 on a chief, is a panegyric on his 
bounty; the next, on bis valour. 

I The ataehan, a long dacger vcom with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among 
the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

2 Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's numer- 
ous pretended descendants; with them, as here, faith (the 
family inheritance) is supprsed to supersede the necessity 
of good works : they are the worst of a very indifferent 
brood. 

•• Salam aleikoum ! aleikonra salam ! " peace be with 
yon; be with you peace — the salutation reseived for the 
faithful: — to a Christian, "Urlarula," a good journey: or 
ban hireeem, saban seruia:" good morn, go<.d even; 
and sometimes, "may your end be happy ; " are the usual 
ulntes. 

4 The blue-winged b itlerfly of Kashmeer, the most rare 
■•d beautiful of the sptciea. 



With wounded wing, or bleeding breasi. 
Ah ; where shall either viciim rest? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or Beauty, bligh'cd in an hour. 
Find joy within her broken bower? 
No : gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die^ 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own, 
And every woe a tear can claim 
Except au erring sister's shame. 



The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the Scorpion gitt by tire. 
In circle narrow ing a^ 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 inio her desperate brain : 
So do the daik in soul expire, 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; 
So writhes the mind Remorse ha:h riveo, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven. 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! » 



Black Hassan from the Harem flies, 
Nor bends on woman's fomi 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. 
Do;h Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away 
When RhamaTaii's 6 last sun was set, 
And flashing fiom each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
'T was then she went as to the balli, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath; 
For she was flown her master's rage 
In likeness of a Geordan 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 sa fond, ?o fair she seem'd. 
Too well he trus'ed to the slave 
Whose treachery de erved a g'ave: 
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 Iheir charze too well ; 
But others say. that on that night, 
Bv pale Phin'gari's 1 frenibling lizht. 
The Giaour upon hh jet-black sleed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore. 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

****** 



5 .'Vllnding to the dubious s»icide of the scorpion, so 
placed forexperiment by gentle philosnphem. Some main- 
lain that the pnsition of the sting, when firned towards 
the head, is merelv a cnnvuUive movement: but others 
have actually brought in the verdict "Felo de se." The 
sccrpions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the 
question; as, if once fairly estahlisheil ns insect Catos. 
they will probably be allowed to live na long as they think 
proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypo- 
thesis. 

6 The cannon at sunset close the Bhacaan. 

7 Phingari, the monn. 



92 



THE GIAOUR. 



Her eye's dirk charm 't were vain to tell. 
But gaze on that of '.he Gizelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, a> UD^isbin|ly dark, 
But Soul beara'd f jrih in every spark 
That darted from beneilh the lid". 
Bright as the jewel of Giaiiischid.i 
Yea, Soul, and shiuld our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alh 1 I would answer nav ; 
Th-'ugh on Al-Sirafs - arch I'stood, 
Which to:ters o'er the fiery flood, 
With Paradise wihin my view, 
And all his Houris bee koning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's ghnce could read 
And keep that portion of his creed, 
^Vhich saifh that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 3 
On her might Muftis gize, and own 
That through her eye the Immortal shone j 
On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
The youug pomegranate's « blossoms strew 
Their bloom in blushes ever new j 
Her hair in hyacinthine •' flow, 
When left to roll its folds below, 
As midst her handmiids in the hall 
She stood superior to them all, 
Hath swept he marble where her feet 
Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet 
E-e from the cloud that give it birth 
It fell, and ciught one stain of earth. 
The cygnet nubly walks the water ; 
So moved on earih Circas'^ia's daughter, 
The bvelies! bird of Franguestani 6 
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 th't bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance. 1i:l Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the chirnii it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Herma'e — stern Hassan, who was he? 
Alas 1 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 aud ataghan ; 



1 The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sullan Giamsrhid. the 
embellisher of IsUkhar; fiom its splcDdnur, named Sch>-b- 
gerag. "the tnrih of nigtll : " also - the cnp of Ihe s 
Sec. In the first edition, "Giamsrhid " was written 
word nf three syllables; bo D'Herbelnt has it; but 1 
told Richardson reduces* ii to a dissyllable, and w 
'Jamshid." I have left in the text Ihe orthography of 
ihe one with the pronunciation nf Ihe other. 

3 Al-Sirat, Ihe bridge of death, narrower than the 
thread of a famished spider, and sharper than the edge of 
(ord, over which the Mussulmans must stale into 
Paradise, to which it is the only entrance; but this is not 
worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, 
as may be expected, the onskilfol and tender of f,»I con- 

" e to tumble with a ** facilis descensus Avern:.** not 
r pleasing in prospect to the next pnssenger. There is 
a shorter cut downwards for the .tews aud Christians. 

3 A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third of 
Paradise In well-behaved women: but by far the greater 

iber of Mtissulmana interpret the text their own way, 

and exclude their moieties from heaven Being enemies 

Platonics, they cannot discern "any fitness of things" 

in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be super- 

eded by the Houris. 

4 An oriental simile, which may, perhaps though fairly 
rmlen, be deemed •' pli;s Arabe qj'ro Arabic." 

6 Hyacinthine, in Arabic •' Sunbul ; " as common a 
tlidnght in the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 
8 *• Fraogaestau," Circajsia. 



The chief before, as deck'd for war, 

Bears in his belt the scimitar 

Stain'd with the best of Armut blood. 

When JD the pass ihe rebels stood, 

And few return'd to tell tbe tale 

Of what befell in Parne's vile. 

The pistols which his girdle bore 

Were those that once a pasha wore, 

Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd withj 

Even mbbers treiible to beh"ld. 

T is Slid he goes to woo a bride 

Wore true than her who left his side; 

The faithless slave that broke her bower, 

And, worse Ihau faithless, for a Giaour 1 



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 Iniering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 't were vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord. 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here miy he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And wi;h forbidden wine may stain 
The t>owl a Moslem must not drajn. 



The foremost Tartar 's in the gap 
Consjiicuous by his yellow cap ; ' 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly tjjrou^h Ihe long defile : 
Above, the liiountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak. 
And theirs may be a fe.Tst to night, 
Shall tempt them down ere mo'rrow's light j 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam. 
And left a channel bleak and bare. 
Save shrubs thit spring to perish there ; 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite grey. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hdh beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 



They reach the grove of pine af last j 
" Bismillah ! t now the peril 's past ; 
For youder view the opening plain, 
And'there we 'II prick our steeds amain :" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Taitar biles the ground ! 

Scirce had they lime to check the rein. 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound j 

But three shall rever mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The d> ing ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent. 
Some o'er their courser's harness least, 

Half sheller'd by the steed ; 
Some fly beneath the nearest rock. 
And there await the eomin" shock. 

Nor tamelv stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stem Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to lijht. and keeps his course. 
Till fiery flashes in (he van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured tbe only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 



7 **Tn the name of God;* 

the chapters of the Koran I 
thanksgiving. 



the commencement of 
iit one, aud of prayer ■ 



THE GIAOUR. 



93 



Then curl'd his very beard i with ire, 
Aad glaied his eye with fiercer fire ; 
1 " 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 vissils to submit ; 
But Hassan s frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more llian hostile sword, 
Nor of bis little baud a man 
Resi;n'd carbine or atagban, 
Nor raided the craven cry, Amaun ! 2 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
And. issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
" 'T is he ! 't is he 1 1 know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye 3 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet black barb ; 
Though now array'd in Amaut garb. 
Apostate from his own vile faith. 
It shall not save him from the death : 
T is he '. well met in any hour, 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour ! " 

As rolls the river info ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure colunm proudly gleaming. 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and minslins flood. 
While eddying whir], and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash. 
The lightninsrs of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
ThU5 — 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 dealhshot hissing from afar; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war. 

Reverberate along thit vale. 

More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Though fe»v the numbers — theirs the strife. 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But Love itself could never pant 
For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
W:ih half the fervour Hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fijbt they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death 1 



With sabre shiver'd to the hilt. 
Yet dripping wi'h the blood he spilt ; 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand j 



1 A phenomenon not unrommon with an angry Mussul- 
inao. In 1809, the Captain Parha's whinltera at a diplo- 
matic audienre were no less lively with indignatiou than 
a tiger cat'n, to the horror of all the dragomans; the por- 
trntouD mustachiog twisti-d. they sto<.<l erect of their own 
accort, and were expected every moment to change their 
coloor, but at last condewended to aubwide, which, proba- 
bly MTed more heads than they contained hairs. 

I ' Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

3 The "evil eye," a common superKtition in the Levant, 
•ad or which the imaj-inary effects are yet very siogular 
00 thOK who conceive themselves affected. 



His turban far behind him roll'd. 

And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 

His flojr.il g robe by falchion orn. 

And crimson as those clouds of mom 

That, streak 'd wi h du^ky red, portend 

The day shall have a stormy end ; 

A stain'on every bush that bore 

A fragment of his palampore,* 

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven. 

Hi- back to eanh, his face tn heaven, 

FdU'n Hassan lies— his unclustd eye 

Yet lowering on his enemy. 

As if the hour that seal'd his fate 

Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 

And o'er him bends ihit foe with brow 

As dark as his that bled below. — 



" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
He call d on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
I walch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to sei, e ; 
My wrath is wreckd, the deed is done. 
And now I go — but go alone." 



The browsing 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 gra e of his steepest tower: 
" Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not'lhe Bridegroom his promised gift? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false repros'-h 1 yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our i earest 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 1 deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess !.hall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 
The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
But scarce upheld his fainting weight: 
His swarthy visage spake di-tress. 
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 I 
His calpac s rent— his caftan red — 
" Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed : 
Me, not from mercy, d id they spare. 
But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave ! whose b'ood is spilt : 
Woe to the Giaour ; for his the guilt. ' 

******* 

A turban e carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 



4 The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. 

5 The ralpar ia the solid cap or rent re part of the head- 
dress; the shawl is wound roi:od it, and form? the turban. 

6 The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, de<-orate the 
tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the 
wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pasasimilar 
mementos; and on inquiry you are informed that tbej 
record some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 



! \ 



94 



THE GIAOUR. 



Whereon can now be scarcely rend 

The Koran \erse that mourns the dead, 

Point out the spot where Hassan fell 

A victim in that lonely dell. 

There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 

As e"er at Mecca bent the knee ; 

As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 

Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 

In orisons resumed anew 

At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " » 

Yet died he by a stranger's hand. 

And stranger in his native land ; 

Yet died he as in arms he stood, 

And unavenged, at least in blood. 

But him the maids of Paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite. 
And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they vave,"* 
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* scythe ; 
And from its torment 'scipe alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' * 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 5 sent. 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent ; 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blond of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they vet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire. 



1 "Alia Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's 
call to iirafer from the highest gallery on the exterior of 
the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a 
nne voire, which is frequently ttie case, the effect is solemn 
and lieautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. 

a The following is part of a battle song of the Turks: — 
•1 1 see — I see a ilark-eved girl of Paradise, and she waves 
a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud, 'Come, 
kiss me, for I love thee,' " &c. 

3 Monkir and Nekir, are the inquifitors of the dead, be- 
fore whom the corpse undergoesa slight noviciate and pre- 
paratory training for dannnalion. If the answers are none 
of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped 
down with a red-hot mace till properly seasoned, with a 
variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels 
is no sinecure; there are but two, and the number of or- 
thodox deceased being in a small proportion tothe remain- 
der, their hands are alviayg full. See Relig. Ceremon. and 
Sale's Koran. 

4 Eblis. the Oriental Prince of Darkness. — [D'Herbelof 
supposes this title to have been a corruption -'f the Greek 
Aia/JoAoC. It vtas the appellation conferred by the .\ra- 
bians upon the prince of the apostate aneels. According 
to Arabian mythology, Eblis had suflTered adegradation from 
his primeval rank for having refused to worship Adam, in 
conformity to the supreme command; alleging, in justifica- 
tion of his refusal, that himself had been formed of ethe- 
real fire, whilst Adam was only a creature of clay. See 
Koran. — E.] 

5 The Vamp-re superstition is still general in the I.e- 
»aot. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
••Vrourolochas," rs he .alls them. The Romaic term is 
"Vanloulac'iR." I recollect a whole family being terrified 
bv the scream of a child, which they imagined must pro- 
ceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never men-ion 
the word without horror. I find that • BroucoLkas is an 
oW lee timate 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 

j the word I mention. 



As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
1 by flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
"The youngest, most beloved of all. 
Shall bless thee with a Jalher's name — 
'I hat word shall wrap thy heart in fiame t 
Yet must thou end tliy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
And the last glassv glance must view 
Which freezes o er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhallow'd hand shall tear 
1 he tresses of her yellow hair. 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn, 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip* 
Thy gnashinz tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thv sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 



' How name ve von lone Calover ? 

His features 'I have scanned belore 
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 wi h inward pain, 
1 could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same' d^rk spirit now, 
As death were stanipd upon his brow. 

" 'T is twice three years at «ummer 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 alrne, 
His faith and nee alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynini 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 'he sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thusour abbot's favour bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
Or pent within our i enance 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, 
Wrones avensed. 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 wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
1 hat glares beneath bis du^ky cowl : 
The flash of that dilatirg eye 
Reveals too much of times gone by ; 



6 The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the M» 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire The 
, stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foufeedeti 
I are singular, and some of them most inert<?iM|r attested 



THE GIAOUR. 



95 



Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue. 

For in it lurks that nameless spell, 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendency ; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake, 

But cannot fly the gazing snake, 

Will others quail beneath his look. 

Nor 'scape the glance iliey scarce can brook. 

From him the half-ati'righted Friar 

When met alone would fain retire. 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And when he doth 't is sad to see 

That he but mocks at Misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver! 

Then fix once more as if for ever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face: 

Time hath not j^et the features fix'd, 

But brighter trails with evil mix'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded. 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded : 

The common crowd buf 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 stain. 

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 sti'anger's eye 
Each ivied arch, fnd 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 Inne 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 pile 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 beard 

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 ! 

Siint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 

Else may we dread the wrath divine 

Made manifest by awful sign. 

If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he wc re ; 

By ^I my hope of sins forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven! " 



To love the softest hearts are prone. 

But such can ne'er be all his own ; 

Too timid in his woes to share, 

Too meek lo 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 witbin the furnace-flame. 

It bends and melts — though still the same; 

Then teniper'd to thy want, or will, 

'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 

Or blade to bid thv 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 — 't were 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 revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay ! 
It is as if the desert bird,» 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream. 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rerd her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wre'ched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void. 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The was'e of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cUud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of windi 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 tear, 
Has been thy lot from youth to age; 
And thou wilt bless thee f.^orn the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroU'd, 
Such as thy penitents unfold, 
Whose secret sms and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
My days, though few, have pass'd below 
In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I 've 'scaped the weariness of life: 
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
I loathed the languor of repose. 



1 The pelican i», I bplieve. the bird no libelled, bf tM 
Imputation of feeding her cliirkenB with her blood. 



96 



THE GIAOUR. 



Now nothing left to love or hate, 
No more with hipe or priJe el iie, 
1 'd Mther be the thing that crawls 
Most noxious o'er a dunicon's walls, 
Than pass my dull, uiivarying days, 
Coudeniii'd to meditate and gaze. 
Ytt, lurks a wish within ray 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 
Thouih better to have died with those 
Thanbear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirit shrunk not to sustain 
The searching Ihioes 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. 
1 've braved it — not for honour's boast; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their wray. 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that 1 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'st thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but whst the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let life go to Him who gave : 
I have not quiil'd to danger's brow 
When high and happ/ — need I now ? 
****** 
« I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
'T was shed for her, who died for me. 
It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 

Nav, start not — no — nor bend Ihy knee, 
Nor 'midst my sins such act record ; 

Thou wilt absolve me from the deed. 

For he was hostile to thy creed ! 

The very name of Nazarene 

Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 

Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 

Well wielded in some hardy hands, 

And wounds by Galileans given. 

The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 

For him his Houris still might wait 

Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 

I loved her — love will find its way 

Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 

And if it dares enough, 't were hard 

If passion met not some reward — 

No matter how, or where, or why, 

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 

Yet sometimes, with remor>e, in vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 

But look — 't is wri'ten on my brow ! 

There read of Cain the cui!e and crime, 

In characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 

Not rtiine the act, though t 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 : 

Mowe'er deserved her doom might be. 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 



To me she gave her heirt. that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 

And I. alas '. too late to save ! 

Yet all 1 then could give, I gave, 

'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 

His death sits ligh'ly ; but her fate 

Has made me — what thou well niayst hate 

His doom was seald — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in vvhose daikly boding ear i 
The deathshot 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 — 
1 gazed upon him where he lay. 
And watch'd his spirit ebb av/ay : 
Though pierced like pard bv hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I 'feel. 
I search'd, but vainly seirch'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what hid Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dyinz face ! 
The late repentance of that hour. 
When Penitence hath lost her power 



1 This superstition of a second-liearing (for I never 
Willi downright serondtigtit in the East) fell nuce or 
my own observatitn. On my lliird journey to Cape 
Colonna, early in JSll, as we passed tlirough the defile 
tliat leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colnnna, 
I obaerved Dervish Tahiri riding rattier out of the patli, 
and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode 
op nnd inquired. 'We are in peril," he answered. 
" Wliat peril? we are not now in Albania, nor In ttie 
passes to Ephesus. Messaliinghi, or Lepanto; there are 
plenty of us, well arrned, and the Choriates have not cour- 
age to be thieves." — "Tiue, AfTendi, but nevertheless 
the shot is ringine in my ears." — "Thesliot! d 
tophailie lias been fired this morning. " — "I hear it 
withstanding — Bnm — Bom — as plainly as I hear your 
lice." — "Psha! " — "As you please, Alfendi; if it it 
ritten, so will it be."— I left this quick-eared predesti 
irian. and rode up to Ba^ili, his Christian cnmpatrint, 
hose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means rel- 
ished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- 
mained some bunra. and returned leisurely, saying a 
variety nl brilliant things, in more languages than Rpniled 
the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Ron 
Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, 
arious conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussn'.man. 
While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Der- 
sh was occupied about the columus. I thought he was 
de.-anged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had 
become a " Pa.'(io-ea««ro " 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 
8 troublesome faculty o{ forehtarinf. On our return 
to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore 
some davs after) of the intended attack of the Mainole 
mentioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in tl 
notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains 
question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, ai 
marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, wil 
other circumstances, we could not dcubl of *i« having 
been in "villanous company." and ourselves in a Iwd 
neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, 
I dare say is now hearing more musketry than ever will 
be fired, to the great refreshment of the ArnauuU 
Berat, and his native mountains. — I shall mention o; 
trait more of this singular race. In March. 1811, a re- 
markably stout and active Arnannt came (I believe thf 
fiflieth on the same errand) to olTer himself as an atten 
dant, which was declined: "Well, AITendi," quoth he 
'• may you live : — you would have found me useful, 
shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow; in the win 
ler I return, perhaps von will then receive me."- Der- 
vish, who was present, remarked as a thing of course, 
and of no consequence, "in the mean time he will join 
the Klephtes" (robbers), which was true to the lette 
If not rut off. they comedown in the winter, and pass it 
unmolested in some town, where they are often a* well 
known as their exploits. 



THE GIAOUR. 



97 



To tear one terror fp5m the grave, 
And will noi soothe, anJ canuot sav 



" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 

Their love cau scarce deserve the name; 
But mine was like the lava flood 

That boils in iEtnVs breast of flame. 
I cannot pra e in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beau y's chain : 
If chan^iii^ cheek, and scorching vein, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and madd'niiig brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel. 
And all that I have lelt, and feel, 
Betoken love— that love was mine, 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'J' is true, 1 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 beeii bless'd. 
Shall I the doom 1 sought upbraid ? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
So would I live and love agiin. 
I grieve, bu' not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
Ah ! had she bu' an earthly grave, 
This bre iking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a fotiii of life and light. 
That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose, where'er I lurn'd mine eye, 
The Morniug^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 waf's the mind above, 
But Heaven itself descends in love; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought j 
A Ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the snul '. 
I grant viy I ve imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say. hers wai not guilt ! 
She was my life's unerring llzht : 
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ? 
Oh ! would it ^hone to lead nie slill. 
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 j 
In phrenzy then their fae accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dre\d from outward blow : 
Who falls fr-.m all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what aby s. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too « as 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 dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath n.an to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake. 
The swan that swirns upon the lake. 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool -till prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with Ixiasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 



But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beueath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray 'd. 
Such shame it least was never mine — 
Leila ; each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
My liope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds 1 dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very dimes that mar mv yo'ith, 
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 1 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 ; 
T hou seest I soon shall part from hence: 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that 's done canst t/tcu undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief.* 
My soul's estate in secret guess : 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When Ihou canst bid' my Leila live. 
Then will I sue thee to'iorgive ; 
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 ca'mer 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, 
Tet dear to him my blighted name. 
'T is strange — he prophesit-d my doom. 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the white 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodiugs came pass. 

And he will start to hear ineir 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 fal'ering tongue liad tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away. 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame? 
I do not ask him not to mourn. 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 



1 The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to liB»l iti 
■o little elTett upon the patient, that it could have no ht 
from the reader. It may l>e suftirient to say. that it 
of H customary lenpth (as may be perceived from the in 
ruptiona and uneasiness of the palient), and waa dcliTtnd 
in the usual tone of nil orthodox preachere. 



9S 



THE GIAOUR. 



And what than friendship's minly tear 
Mky better ^race a brother's bier ? 
But bear this riug, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
The wilher'd frame, the ruiu'd mind, 
The wrack by pnssion left behind. 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leal, 
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 1 the dreamer first must sleep, 

I only wa'ch'd, aud wish"d to weep ; 

But could not, for my burning brow 

Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 

1 wish'd but for a single tear, 

As something welcome, new, and dears 

I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 

Despair is stronger than my will. 

Waste not thine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 

I would not. if I might, be blest ; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

T was then, I tell thee, father! then 

I saw her ;• yes, she lived ag:un ; 

And"shining'in her white symar,i 

As through yon pale grey cloud the star 

Which now I gaze on, as on her, 

Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 

Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 

Tomorrow's night shall be more dirk ; 

And I, before its rays appear. 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

I wander, father ! for my soul 

Is fleeting towards the final goaU 

I saw her, friar ! and I rose 

forgetful of our former woes ; 

And rushing from my couch, I dart. 

And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 

I clasp — whit is it that I clasp ? 

No breathing form within my grasp, 

No heart that beats reply to mine. 

Yet. Leila I yet the forrn is thine ! 

And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch f 

Ah '■ were thy beauties e'er so cold, 

1 care not ; so mv arms enfold 

The all they ever wish'd to hold. 

Alas 1 around a shadow prest. 

Thev shrink upon my lonely breast ; 

Yet still 't is there ! In silence stands, 

And beckons with beseeching hands ! 

With braided hair, and bright-black eye — 

1 knew 't was false — she could not die ! 

But he is dead ! within the dell 

I saw him buried where he fell ; 

He comes not, for he cannot break 

From earth ; why then art thou awake? 



They told me wild waves rolled abora 
The' face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 't was a hideous lale ! 
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 moro 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shnpe or shade ! whate'er thou art. 
In niercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 



" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
1 breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

Aiid thank thee for the generous tear 
This elazing eve could never shed. 
Then"lay roe 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 pijs'd — nor of his mme and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the fither must not say 
Who shrived liim on his dying day: 
This broken tale wns all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew. 



' Symar,' 



I shroud. 



2 Tlie circumstance to whicli tlie above story relates 
was nnt very uncommou in Turkey. A few yi:irs ago the 
wife of Muchlar Pacha complained to his father of hisson's 
floppnstid infidelity; he asked with whom, aud tfhe had the 
barbarity t(i give in a listofihe twelve handsomest women 
in Tanioa. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, 
drowned in the lake the sime night '. One of the gui 
who was present informed roe, that not one of thevict 
uttered a try, nr showed a symptom of terror at so sudden 
■ "wren>h from all we know, from all we love." The 
fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sarrifice, is the 8u1>. 
ject 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 forgotten. I heard it hy accident recited 
by one of the cofTee-house story-tellers who a!x)und in the 
Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The addi- 
tions and interpolations by the translator will be easily 
distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern i 
gery; aud I regret that my memory has retained so few 
[fragments of the original. For the contents of sora 
' the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelo', and partly 
' to that raoet Eastern, and, as .Mr. Weber justly entitles i 
"sublime tale," the "r'aliph Vathek." I do not know 
from what source the author of that singular volume may 
have drawn his materials; some of his incrdents are to be 
found in the "Bibliotheque Orientate;" but for correct- 
ness of costume, beauty of description, and power of 
imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations; and 
bears such marks of originality, that those who fcavs 
visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to 
be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 
Rasselaa must bow before it; his " Happy Valley " wiU 
not bear a comparison with the "Hall of Eblia." 



Canto I.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS: 

A TURKISH TA LE.» 



99 I 



* Had we never loved so kindly. 
Had we nerer ImvmI bo blindly. 
Never met or never parled, 
We had ae'er been btcken-bearted." 

BURNS. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE 

IS IKSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD 

AND RESPECT, 

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED 

AND SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 
I. 

Know ye the land where the cypress aud myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in tlieir clime ? 
Where the rasie of the vulture, the love of the turtle. 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime r 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the tlnwers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with per- 

fume, 
Wax faint o'er (he gardens of Gul ^ in her bloom; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
Aud the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
•T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the Sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 3 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they be ir, and the tales which 
they tell. 

n. 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaitinz each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or euard his rest. 
Old GiafEr sate in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And thoujh the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betravs to slanders by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride. 



1 "The Bride of Abydos" was published in the begin* 
clog of December, 1613. — E. 
fOuI," the rose. 

t " Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, 
Witli whom rerenge Is virtue." — 

YOUNG'S Rtvenre. 



His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 



"Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train < 
pear'd — 

'« Now call me the chief of the Harem guard," 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting Ihe'sire's award. 

" Haroun — when all '.he crowd that wait 

Are pisi'd bevond the outer ga'e, 

(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 

Mv child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 

Hence, lend my daughter from her tower; 

Her fate is fix'd this'very hour : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught ! " 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more nn;st slave to despot say — 
Then to the lower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father '. for feir that thou should'st chide 

Mv 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 hi^ 

Were irks-me— for whaie'er my mood. 

In sooth I love not solitude ; 

I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
And, as thou knowest that for me 
Styoa tu'us the Harem's grating key, 
Before the euardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and he-aven our own I 
"There lineer'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnouns tale, or Sadi's song ; ♦ 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour » 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour. 
To thee, and to mv duty true, 
Warnd bv the sound, to greet thee flew 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, Father, rase not — nor forget 
That none can pieice that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV, 

« Son of a slave » — the Facha said — 
•'From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 



4 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and J Jliet of the 
Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 
I 6 Tambour. Turkish dram, which sounds »t 
soon, and twilight. 



100 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto I. 



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 Row, 

And watch unfuldinj roses blniv. 

Would that yon orb, who<e matin glow 

Thy lisiless eyes so much admire. 

Would lend thee s 'melhin^ of his fire ! 

Th'ju, who wciuld'st see this batilement 

By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 

Nay, tamely view old Stamb'il's wall 

Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 

Nor strike one stroke for life and death 

Asainst the curs of Nazareth ! 

Go — let thy less than woman's hand 

Assume the distaff — not the brand. 

But, Haroun 1 — to my daughter speed : 

And hark — of thine own head take heed 

If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 

Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string ! " 

V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — reptoach'd with fear I 
Those gibes had cost another denr. 
Son of a slave '. — and voho my sire ? " 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
And glances ev'n of more than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giafiir sazed upon his son 

And startdd ; for wilhin his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done j 
He saw rebellion there bejun : 

" Come hither, biy — what, no reply ? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
But if thy beard had manlier length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to' see thee breik a lance. 
Albeit agiinst my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's" eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye returned him glance for glance. 
And proudly to his sire's was raised. 

Till Giaffir's quaii'd and shrunk askance — 
And why — he fel', but durst not tell. 
" Much 'I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his bir:h, 
And — but his arm is little worth. 
And scircely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or anelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where mtn contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or lone : 
No — nor the blood so near mv own. 
1 hat blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab ' to my sijht. 
Or Christian crouching in the fiiht — 
But hirk : — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: 
She is the otfspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n 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 coal"d in lime to save — 

Such to my longing siiht art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrme 
More thanks for lif -, thin I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth and bless thee now." 



VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind. 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was s'amp'd ui on her mind — 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling j 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transceiidant vision 

To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heirt mee s heart agiin in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the praver which Childhood waft< above; 
Was she — the diughter 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 nne spark of Beauty's hea'venly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight. 
His changing cheek, his sinking heirl confess 
The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika-^such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace. 
The mind, the Mus'c ^ breathing from her face, 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
And oh ! thit eye was in itself a Soul ! 
Her graceful arms in meekness bending 

Across her gently-budding breast ; 
At one kind word those arms t-xtending 

To clasp the neck of him who blest 

His child caressing and cirest, 

Zuleik 1 came — and Gisffir felt 

His purpo?e half within him melt; 

Not that against her fancied weal 

His heart though siern could ever feel ; 

Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 

Ambition tore the links apart. 

VH. 
"Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When 1 forget my own distress, 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell ; 

Another I and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman 3 
Unchanged, unchangeible hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 



2 This expression has met with objections. I will not 
refer to " Him who hath not Music in hia soul," 
merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the 
feaiures of the woman whom he believes lo 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 ns 
both. For an eloquent passape in the latest work of the I 
first female writer of this, perhaps of any, age, on the anal- 
ogy (and the immediate < omparison excited by that anal'igy) 
between "paintiiii; aud music," see vol. iii. cap. 10. De 
I'Allemagne. And is not this connection still stronirer with 
the orieinal than the copy? with the colouring of Nature 
than of Art 7 Afler all, this is rather to be felt than de- 
scribed ; still 1 thick there are some who will understand 
it, at lea.»l Ihey would have done had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose speaking harmony sugeested the idea; for 
this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, 
that mirror which Affliction daxhes lo the ea;vn,an.| look- 
ing down upon the fragments, only beholds U£ reflection 
mollipliedl 

S Carai-man Ogloii. or Kara Osman Oglou, 1< the prin- 
cipal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those 
who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition 
of service, are called Timariota : they serve St Sfshis, ac- 
cording to the extent of territory, and bring a certain num- 
ber into Ihe field, generally cavalry. 



Canto I.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



101 



Will laugh to scorn the dea'h-firman, 
Which oihers tremble bu' to --can, 
And teach the mes en^e i what fate 
Th2 bearer of such b^on nny wait. 
AiiJ noiv thiu knnw"st thy fathers will; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
T was niiue lo teach obedience still — 

The way to love, thy lord may show." 
VIII. 
c silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fi.l d with lears 
Thit stifled feeling daie not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pile, as through her ears 
' Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So swret the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pily scarce can wish it less ! 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remeniber'd, mark'd it not ; 
Thrice clapp'd his harids,^ and call'd his steed, 

Resign'd his gem-adornd chibouque,* 
And mounting featly for the mead. 

With Maugrabec'' and Matnaluke. 

His way aiiiid his Delis tcok.s 
To witness uiiiiy an active deed 
With sabre keen, or b'unt jerrecd. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Harem'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 fell 6 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Normask'd the javelin-darling crowd. 
Nor heard their OUahs i wild and loud — 

He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
X. 
No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 

1 When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the sin- 
gle nifssenger, who is always the first bearer of the order 
for his death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or 
six, one after the other, on the same errand, by command 
of the refractory patient; if, on the contrary, he is weak 
or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan's re»peclable signature, 
and is bnwstruug with great complacency. In 1810, seve- 
ral of these presents were exhibited in the nirhe of the 
Seraglio gate; among others, the head of the P::iho of Bag- 
dat, a brave ynuog man, cut off by treachery, after a des- 
perate resistance. 

a Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks 
hale a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no 
bells. 1 

3 "C'hihouqne," the Tnrkisn pipe, of which the amber 
mouth piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the 
leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possessiOQ of the 
wealthier orders. j 

4 '■ Maiigrabre," Moorish mercenaries. I 

5 "Delis," bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cav- 
alry, and always begin the action. 

6 A twisted Ibid n! /elt is used for scimitar practice by 
the Turks, and few but Mussulman armi can cut through 
it at a sir4»le stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used for 
the same purpose. The jerrced is a game of blunt jave- 
lins, animated and graceful. 

7 "Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the "I.eilie»," as the Spanish 
poels call them, the sound h Ollah ; a cry of which the 
Turks, for a silent people, are snmewh it profuse, particu- 
larly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in 
iMltle. Their nnimalioo in the field, and gravity in the 
chamber, wilh their pipes sod comboloios, form an amus- 
ing contrast. 



Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale mute, and mournlully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye w is'turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart coufess'd a gentler flanic : 
But yet that heart, alaim"d or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
'• How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the mom. 

And watch'd his eye— it still was ftx'd : 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian A'ar-»ul's8 perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roofs and marble floor; 
1 he drops, that through his glittering vert 
The playful girl's appeal address'd, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom fiew. 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must uot be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee 1 " 
She saw in curious order set 

The f lirest flowers of e-astern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them ye^ 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed J 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim s feet : 
" This rose to calm my brotbei's cares 
A message from the Bulbul i' bears ; 
It says to night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song; 
And though his note is somewhat sad. 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
Wilh 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 knowst thou not who loves thee be»t? 
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more tluan dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 
Come, by thy head upon my breast. 
And I will kiss thee into rest. 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Ev'n from my fabled night in^e. 
I knew our sire at times was stern. 
But this from thee had yet to learn ; 
Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah I deem I risht ? the Pacha's plan — 
'J'his kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swe 'r 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 net have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I couM bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah ! were 1 sever'd from thy side. 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide? 

8 " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest 

9 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather w.alls, of the Mm 
sulman apartments are generally pninted. in great houses 
with one eternal and highly colnured view of Conslanti 
nople, wherein Ihe principal feature is a noble contempt H 
perspective; below, arms, scimitars, dec. are in genera' 
fancifully and not inelegantly disponed. 

10 II has been much doubted whether the notes of thi» 
"Lover of the rose'' are sadormeriy; and Mr. Fox's re- 
marks on the subiecl have provoked some leirned con 
versy as to the opinions of Ihe ancients on the subject. I 
dare not venture a conjecture on the point, though m li'" 
inclined to the "eriare mallem," dec. >/ Mr. Fox mm I 
taken. 



9» 



102 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto 



Years have not seen, Time shall not see, 
The h^mr tliat tears mv soul from Ihee: 
Ev'n Azrael.' from his deadly quiver 

Wheii Hies that shafi, and "hy it must, 
That parts all else, slinll doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust :" 

XII. 

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt j 
He raised the mud from where she knelt ; 
His trance vv is ?one — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late eonceiPd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the li^lit of its billows ; 
As the bolt burs's on h:;ii 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flish'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 
Ey graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to mire convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
" Now thou art mine, f >r ever mine, 
With life to keep, ind scarce with life resign; 
Now thou art mine, thit sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, foiiuly, wiselv hast thou done ; 
That vow hath s:ived more heads than one : 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
Thnt clusters round thy forehead fair. 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar.2 
This morning clouds upon me lowerM, 
Reproaches on my hcid were shower'd, 
And Giaffir almost mIIM 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. 
Hs son, indeed '. — yet, thanks to fhee, 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
But let our plighted secret vow 
Be only known to us as now. 
I know the wretch wh • dares demand 
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand : 
More ill got wealih. a meaner soul 
Holds not :i Mus5e!iniV3 control: 
Was he not bred in Egripo ? •» 
A viler nee let Israel show ! 
But let I hat pass — to none be told 
Our oath ; the rest shall 'ime unfold. 
To me and mine leive Osman Bey ; 
I 've pi.rtisans for peril's day : 
Thmk not I am what I appear ; 
I 've =rms, and friends, and vengeance near." 

xin. 

«' Think not thou art what thou appearest '. 

My Selim, thou art sadly chanzed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 



1 " Azrael," the angcI of death. 

2 The treamires of the Pre-Adamite Sultans. See 
D'Heilx-lnt. article Islatiar. 

8 " MuKselim," a Kovernor. the noxt in rank aOer a 
Piiha ; a Way w xle is the third; and tlien come the 
A?a». t 

4 "Egripn." Ine Negropnnt. According to the prnverb, 
the Turku of Egripo, the Jews nf Salonua, and the Greeks 
of Athens, are the worst of their respectiTe raees. ) 



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 lo live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 
Like Ibis — and (hi-. — no more than this, 
For, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame: 

What fever in thy veins is hushing? 
My own have nearly ciught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thv 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 lequire ? 
But. Selim, thou must answer why 
We need so much of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot dre-im nor tell, 
But be It, since tlinu siy'st 't is well ; 
Yet what thou mean's' by ' arms ' and ' friends,' 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have beard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word: 

But surely he would leive me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been > 
What other hath Znleika seen 
From simi.le childhood's earliest hour? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts with life begun. 

Say, why mu-t i no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
To meet the g:i7e 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 bv that decree. 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anjuish. thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne"er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge nie to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haujhty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so ofleii storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ouehtl 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weiahs like tin. 
If then such secrecv be crime. 

And such it feels while lurking her*; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me vet in time. 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar.s 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?" 

XIV. 

" Znleika — to thv tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet: 

And now wnh him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, stale. 

There 's fearful news from Danube's bancs, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter 'way 

Such cos;ly triumph to repay. 



who 



Canto II.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



103 



But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn-d the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selini come: 
Then softly from the Harem creep 
Where we may wander by the deep . 
Our garden-battlements are steep; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shall thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before: 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Harem key." 

" Fear thee, mv Selim I ne'er till now 

Did word like 'this " 

" Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have sonie^ and hope of mn,e reward. 
Tonight, Zuleika, thou shall hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear: 
1 am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
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 alofl 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 e)'e 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. 

H. 
The winds are high, and Helle's tide 

Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And Night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedeiv'd in vain. 
The desert of old Prinm'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 1 

in. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press 'd the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn. 

To trace again those fields of yore. 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own "broad Hellespont" > still dashes, 

1 Tlie wrangling about this epithet, " the hroad Helles- 
pont ** or the ■•boundless Hellespoul," whether it nteaos 
one or the other, or what it means at all, has been lieyond 
all poBBtbility of detail. I have eTen heard it disputed nn 
the spot; and not foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the 
controTersy, amused myself with swimming across it in 
the mean time; and prob.ably may again, before the point 
is settlei. Indeed, the question as to the truth of 'the 
tftle of Troy divine" still continues, mmh of it reslinp 
upon the tahsmanic word '' ttrttpos : " probably Homer 
had the game notion of distance that a coquette has of 
time ; and when he talks of Imundless, means half a mile ; 
us the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal at- 
tachment, simply specilies three weeks. 



Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 



The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theuet 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Ammon's son ran proudly round,* 
By nations raised, by mor.archs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameles-> barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narroir I 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath ; 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; 
But Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 

V. 

Late, late tonight will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear ; 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; » 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,* 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text. 
Could smooth this life, and win the next; 
And by her comboloio ' lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from'time; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute. 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room: 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 
What dolh she hence, and on so rude a night? 

VI. 

Wrapt m the darkest sable vest. 
Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 



2 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Cani- 
calla in his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned 
a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new Palroclan 
games. I hove seen tne sheep feedir^ on the tombs of 
Aesietes and Antilochus: the first is in the centre of the 
plain. 

I 3 When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfan 
which is slight but not disagreeable. 

' 4 The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or er.clos 
in gold tKJxes, containing scraps from the Koran, wo 
round the ne.k, wrist, or arm, is still UDivcr^al in t 
East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second cap. 
the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, and 
is engraveil in this manner, and worn hy the pious, as the 
most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 

5 "Comholoio " — a Turkish rosary. Tne MSS.. par- 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
illuminated. The Greek females are kepi in utter iijno- 
ranie; but manv of the Turki-h girls are highly accom- 
plished, though ■ not actually qualified for a ChrisfliB 
coterie. Perhaps some of our own " hlues " might not be 
the wortie for bUachinf^ 



104 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto IL 



To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selini dear, 
With can ious steps the thicket threading, 

And starting oft, as through the ghde 

The gust lis hollow moanings made. 
Till on the smoother pathway treadiug, 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And 1 hough her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side? 

How teach hej- tender lips to chide ? 

vn. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, tut enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she woi.'i to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dreanrd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdained to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was .-.ecure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss 
Wi.hout her, most beloved in this '. 
Oh ! who so de;ir with him could dwell 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 

VIII, 
Since last she visited the spot 
Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 
It might be only that the night 
Disguied things seen by better light : 
That brazen lamp but dinJy threw 
A ray of no celestial hue ; 
But in a nook within the cell 
Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
There arms were piled, not such as wield 
The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 
And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
Ah 1 how without cau 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 
HerSelim — *'0h; 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 woithy of a diadem. 
No longer giitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder lonsely hung 
The cloak of whie, the thin capo e 
That decks the wanderir.g Candiote ; 
Benea'h — his golden plated vest 
Cluns like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wnund 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake ill his eye, and tone, and hand. 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiougee.! 

X. 
" I said I was not what I seem'd ; 

And now thou see'st my words wers true : 



1 "Galinnsee" — or Galirngi.a sailor, that is, n Tarkish 
Bailor; the (ireeks navipatp, the Tiirlts work Ihc puns. 
Their dress is picturesque; and I have seen the Cnptain 
Pacha more than onre wearing it as a liind of ijiccf. Their 
Ieg», however, are generally naked. Tlie buskinsdeseribed 
in the text as sheathed behind with sitter are those of an 
Amaut robber, who was my host (he hod quitted tlie pro- 
fession'/ at his Pyrgo, near Gastnuni in the Morea; they 
were plated in seolet one over the other, like the bsek of 
»D arin&dillo. 



I have a tale thou hast not dream'l, 

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 1 speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove; 
But fii-st — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 

XI. 
" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God ! am ! left alone on eirlh 
To mourn — I dare not cur-e — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill; 
But know Hie all I w,as before. 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
My breast is ofter'd — lake thy till ! 

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 J 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child. 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — would'st thou save 
Mv life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave I " 

XII, 
*' My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thine : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran a 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, 
Tliat tie is w'iden'd, not divided. 

Although thv Sire 's mv deadliest foe. 
Mv father was' to GiafTirall 

That Selim late w,as deem'd to thee; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spued, at least, my infancy; 
And luU'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 : 8 
He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, 

That gmws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood' in every vein 



generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst 
those in my possession is one with a blade of singnlarcon- 
struction; it is very broad, and the edge notched into ser- 
pentine rurv,-s like the rifple of water, or the wavering of 
flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible 
use such a figure could add: he said, in Italian, that hediri 
not know; hut the Mussulmans had an idea Ihal those of 
this foim gave a severer wound : and liked it because i 
was " piu ferore." I did not much admire the reason, but 
bought it for its peculiarity. 

3 It is to be o^ee^ved. that every allusion to any thing or 
person ige in Ihe O'd Testament. such as the Ark, or Cain, 
is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew: indeed, 
the former profe,s« lo be much better acruainted with the 
lives, true ai;d fabulous.of the patriarchs, hai. is warranted 
In our own sabred writ; and not content with Adam, they 
have s biography of Pre-Adnmites. Solomon is the n 
arch of oil necromancy ami Moses a prophet inferior only 
to Christ and Mahome.. Zuleika is the Persian name of 
Potiphar's wife; snd her amour with Joseph constitutes 
one of Ihc finest poems in their language. It it, tb 
fore, no violation of costume to put the name of Call 
Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 



Canto II.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



1D5 



Is boiling ; but for tby dear sake 
No present vengeance «ill 1 take; 

Though here 1 must r.o mnre remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika'. bear 
How Giiifir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII, 

"How first their s'rife to rancour grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters lillle if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughllesi, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Bemember'd yet in Bosni -c song, 
And Paswan'a ' rebel hordes attest 
How little love they hire such guest : 
His d-ath is all I need relate, 
The stern etfect of Giafiir's hale ; 



XIV. 

" When Paswan, afler 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 hish comniaiid, 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They ^ave their horse-tails!* to the wind, 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pirch'd, their post assign'd; 

To one, alas 1 assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 

By GiaflSr's order drujg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaveiu 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

H^ 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 a'tendant bore ; 
He drank one draught.s nor needed more! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika. d ubt. 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

" The deed once done, and Paswan"s feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Atidallah'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'J 
His ill-»ot 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 c-mnot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 



1 Paswan Oslr.a, the rebel of Widin : who, for the last 
years of his life, set the wtiole power of the Porte at defl- . 
aoce. 

2 " Horse-tail." the standard of a Pacha. | 
9 Oiafflr, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not i 

sure vjhich, was actually taken ofTby the Albanian Ali.in 
the manner described if the text. Ali Pacha, while I was | 
in the country, married the daughter of bis victim, sime 
years after the event had taken place at a hath in Sophia, 
or Adriaiiople. The poison was mixed in thcrnpofrofree, 
which is presented before the sherbet by the bath keeper, 
after dreasing. 



XVI. 

" Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break hi-> bread are true. 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few : 
Thev only wan! 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 ? ahs I ton late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd. 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sale. 
He led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my bir h secured 

From all and e;ich, but most from me | 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he loo from Rouroelie 
To this our Asiatic side. 
Far from our seats by Danube's lide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feel* 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt jus; Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools,"accomplices — no friends ! 

XVTI. 
" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all trulh to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Tet is it one I oft have worn. 

And long must wear: this Galiongee, 
To whom Ihy plighted vow is sworn. 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale: 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rufged knaves 

Is fill'd — once quatf'd, they ne'er repine : 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves; 

They 're only infidels in wine, 

yv'iii. 

" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 

And taun'ed to a wish to roam ; 

And listless left — for Gi >/hr's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Thoueh oft — Oh, Mahomet ! ho w ofl ! — 

In full divan the desrot scofl'd. 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or Ihi- brand : 

He ever went to war alone. 

And pent me here untried — unknown ; 

To Haroun's care uilh women left, 

Bv hope ui.bles', of fame bereft. 

While thou — whose sof ness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Brus,i's walls for safely sent, 

Awaitedsl there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluatgish yoke. 
Hi captive, though with dread resigning. 

My thi-aldom for a season broke. 
On promise to re'urn before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
T is vain — my tonsue can not impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 



106 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto II. 



When first this liberated eve 
Survey'd Earth Ocenn, Sun, and Sky, 
As It my spirit pierced them ihroujh, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay, Heaven itself was mine! 

XIX. 

" The shallop of a trustv Moor 
Convey'd me from ihis idle shore; 
1 Hiigd to see ihe isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw ihem all ; l 

But when and where I join'd the crew, 
With whom I 'm pledjed to rise or fall, 

When ail that we design to do 
Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale 's complete. 

XX. 

" 'T is tnie.they are a lawless brood. 
But rough in form, nor mild in moodj 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them haih 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 'I'error's eyes ; 
Friendship for eicli, and failh to all. 
And venjeance vaw'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting insTuments 
For more than e'en my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom o'f the ciutious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire. 

The last of Lambro's 2 patriols there 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And ofi around the civern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch Ihe Rayahs 3 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equ.l rights, which maji neer knew ; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay ! let me like Ihe ocean-Patriarch * roam. 
Or only know on land the Tariai's home \ s 
My lent 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 Ihe gale. 
Bound wheie ihou 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 Ihe rainbow to the slornis of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away. 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 

1 Tlie Turkish notiorB of almost all islands are confined 
to tlie Archipelago, the sea alluded In. 

2 Lambro Cai)7.a)ii, a Greek, famous for his efTorta, in 
1769-90, for the independenre of his couiilrv. Aband.ined 
by the Russians, he becami' a pirate, and the Arthipclr.po 
was the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still 
alire at Petershure. He and Riga are the two most cele- 
brated of the Greek revolutionists, 

3 " Rajrahs," — all who pay Ihe capitation tax. called 



Ihe 

4 The 



ch.' 



I one of the few with which the 



of vnyaees 
Mussulmans profess much acq>iaint;ii)ce. 

& The wandering life of Ihe Ar ibs. Tartars, and Turko- 
man!-, will he found well detailed in any b:mk of Kastern 
tra»el». Thiit it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, can- 
not be denied. A young French renegade lonfessed to 
Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, pallop- 
iag in the deseil, without a sensation approaching to rap- 
ture which was indescribable. 



Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 

To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 

Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; 

Dear — as bis native song to Exiles ears. 

Shall sound each tone thy long loved voice endear*. 

For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 

Blooming as Aden 6 in ils earliest hour. 

A thousand swords, with Selim's heirt and band, 

Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy conuiiand 1 

Girt by my band. Zuleika at my side, 

The spoil of nalio..s shall bedeck my bride. 

The Harems languid years of listless ease 

Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these i 

Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 

Unnumbered perils, — but one only love! 

Yet well my toils shill ihat fond breast repay, 

Though for.une frown, or falser friends betray. 

How deir the dream in darkest hours of ill, 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still! 

Be but thy s^ul, like Selim's, firmly showu; 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; 

To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 

Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide; 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Yet there we follow but the bent as ign'd 

By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 

Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests ceaae i 

He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 

I like the rest mu,t use my skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 

Power sways but by division — her rcsourcs 

The blest alternative of fraud or force I 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 

When cities cage lis in a soci il home : 

There ev'n thy soul miicht err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not pirt ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or %voe, 

Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lip of Luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! — nnt Zuleika's name ! 

But life is hazard at the Lest ; 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 Ihe favouring gale, 

Which Love to night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile h.ath blest. 

Their steps slill roving, but thtir hearts at rest. 

With thee :ill toils are sweet, each clime hath charms 

Earth — sea alike — our «orld within our arms! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck. 

So that those .arms cling closer round my neck: 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be. 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art : 

There lie Ihe only rocks our course Ciin check ; 

Hoe moments n.'enace— fAere are years of wreck ! 

Bui hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shapK 

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 ; 

Yea— foes — to me will Giaffir's hale decline! 

And is not Osman. who would part us, thine ? 

1 XXL 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 
j Return d in time mv guard to save; 

Few beard, none lok. tint o'er the wave 
' From isle to isle I roved the while: 

And since, though parted from my band 

Ton seldom now I leave the land. 

No deed they 've done, nor deed thall do, 

Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 



Canto 1 1.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



107 



I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'T is fit I oitener share the toil. 
But now to-> liing I 've held thine ear; 
Time pres-es. Hoata my birk, nnd here 
We leive behind but hate and fe,ir, 
To-morrou- U.>niaii with hi- trail 
Arrives — to-ni;;ht mus: breik iliy chain: 
And would'st thou save Ih it haujh'y Bey, 

Perchance, his life who gave hee thine, 
With me this hour away — away 1 

But yet, thiugh Ihiu ait plighted mine, 
Would'st thou recall thy willing vo"* 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest 1 — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head ! " 

XXII. 

Zule'ka, mute and motionless. 

Stood like that statue of distre^s, 

When, her last hope for ever gone. 

The mother hardeii'd into stone ; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her lip. or even her eye, 

Essay'd to spe:ik, or look reply. 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far tlash'd on high a blazing torch ! 

Annther — and another — and another — 

"Oh! fly — no more — vet now mv more th; 

ther!" 
Far, wide, through everj- thicket spread, 
'I'he fearful ligh's are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is reidy with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, re urn, and wheel 
With searchmg tiambeau, 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 — " 'T is come — soon past 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last: 

But yet my bind not far from shore 
May hear this sigml, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash . 

No matter — yet one efl'orl more." 
Forth to the cavern mouili he slept; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wcpt, 

Despair benumli'd her bre.ast and eye! 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see medie; 
That sou id halh drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war! 
Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet i retire: 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rase 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 s'eel ? 
No — as each crest save Aii may feel ! " 

XXIV. 

One hound he made, and gain'd the sand ; 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prjing band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarmin" circle of his foes : 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave: 
I His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
Uis 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 biy, 
Their sabres glitier through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They s ruggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 'I is but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the « aler. 

XXV, 

Escaped from sho', 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 soushi in vain? 
That pause, thnt falnl gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover's hope remain! 
His back was to the c'ashing spny ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
" So may the foes of Giailir fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang? 

. Whose bullet through the nightair sang, 

"'"^ Too nearly, deadly "aim'd to err ? 
I 'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer! 
The father slowlv rued thy hate, 
The son halh found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the seafoam troubling— 
If auzht I is lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows choked the tone ! 

XXVI. 

Morn slowly mils the clouds away; 

Few trophies of the fight are there! 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
'J hat strand of strife may bear, 
And fragnien's of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps staiiip'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 
May then! be niaik'd ; nor tar remote 
A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The be ich where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain: 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ve ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
Go, seek them where the >urges sweep 
Their burthen round Sizaeum's steep 

And cast on I.emnos'shore : 
j The sea birds shriek above the prey. 
O'er which their hungry benks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow. 
His head heaves with tlie heaving billow, 
I That hand, whose motion is not life, 
I Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
I Flung bv the los ing tide on high, 
I Then'levell'd with the wave — 
' What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave? 
I The bird that tears that prostrate form 
I Halh only rohb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
I Had bled or wept to see him die. 
Had seen those sc.atler'd limbs composed. 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone,' 
That heart hith burst — that eye was closed — 
Yea — closed before his own ! 



1 A tarbao is carved in etone abC .-e the fcrave* of i 
only. 



108 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



[Canto II. 



XXVII. 

By Belle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 

And woniau's eye is wet — man's cheeli is pale : 

Zuleika '. last ot Ginffir's race, 
Thy desiiii'd lord is come loo late: 

He sees not — ne'er sh 11 see thy face ! 
Caij he not hear 

The loud VVul wulleh » warn his distant ear? 
Thy liandmiids weepin; at the gile, 
The Koran chmlers of the hymn of fate. 
The silent sbves 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 feaiful mnment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 

He was thy hope — thy joy —thy love— thine all, 

And that la^it liiought on him thou could'st not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 

Burst forth in one wild cry and all was still. 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 



Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hale, revenge, remorse! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than Madness lies ! 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies; 
Thought of the gloomv dav and ghastly night. 
That dreads the darkness, nnd yet loathes the light, 
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart 1 
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 d'ost spread . 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thv sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy Daughter 's dead ! 
Hope of thine age. thy twilight's lonelv beam, 
The Star hath set that shone on Belle's slre-am. 
VV^hat quench d its ray?— the blood that thou bast 

shed 1 
Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair: 
'•Where is my child?" — and Echo answers — 
"Where? "2 

XXVIII. 

Within the place of thousmd tombs 

That shine beneath, while dirk above 
The sad but living cypress glooms 

And withers not, th'ugh branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief. 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 



1 The dealh-«ong of the TnrkiRh women. The " ailent 
slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint iu public. 

2 "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, 'The 
friends of mv youlli, where are they ? ' and an Echo an- 
dwered. 'Where are they?'" — From an Arabic MS. 
The alxive quotation (frnra whirh the idea in the text is 
tkken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is 
jiven in the first annotation, p. 67., of "The Pleasures 
ot Memory:" a poem so well known ai to render a refer- 
coce slmwt euperQucus; but to whose pages all will be 
dcli(hted to recur. 



It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white — iO flint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leives nn high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail. 
And hands more rude than wmtry sky 

May wring i! from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well nny maids of Helledeera 
That this can be no earthly tlower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, th:>ugh 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 Bouri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat. 

Though mournful, pours not such a strains 
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 sorroiv so unmix'd with dread. 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and n ell ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high. 

Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe, 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive. 

Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllables its sound 

Into Zuleika's iiame. 
'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. 
1 here late was laid a marble stone; 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone! 
It W.1S no mortal arm that bore 
That deep fix'd pillar to the shore; 
For there, as Helle's legends fell, 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And tf)ere 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 flourish'd ;'flourishe(h this hour. 

Alone and dewy, cddly pure and pale ; 

As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale ! 



3 "And airy tongues that stiUable men's names." — 
MILTON 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form 
nf birds, we need nft travel to the East. Lord Lyltleton's 
ghost i-tory, Ihe belief (f the Durhess of Kendal, that 
George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven 
(see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other instances, 
bring this nuperstition nearer home. The most singular 
was the whim nf a Worresier lady, who. believing her 
daughter to exist in Ihe shape of a sincing bird, literally 
fiiruibhed her pew in Ihe ralhedial wilh cages full of Ihe 
kind : and as she wa" rich, and a benefactress in beautify- 
ins Ihe church, no objection wa* made to her baimlcM 
fully. For this anecdote, sec Orford's Letters. 



Canto I.J 



THE CORSAIR. 



109 



THE CORSAIR: 

A TALE.' 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. i 

£fy dear Moore, — 1 dedicate to you the last produc- 
tion with which I shall trespass on jjulilic patience, 
and your indulgence, for some years ; and 1 own that I 
feci anxious to avail myself of this latest and only op- 
portunity of adorning my pages with a name, conse- 1 
crated by unshaken puljlic principle, and the most ] 
undoubted and various talents. While Ireland rauks ; 
you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you i 
stand alone the lirst of her bardi in her estimation, and ) 
Britain repea's and ratifies the decree, permit one, 
whose only regret, since our fir-t acquiintance, has I 
been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add I 
the hunible but sincere suffrage of frieiidshi;', to the ' 
voice of more than one nation. It will at lejst prove 
to you, that I have neither forgotten the gralifica ion 
derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
of its renew;v!, whenever your leisure or inclination 
allows you to atone to your frienids for too long an 
absence. It is said among those friend^, I trust truly, 
that you are engaged in the composition of a poem 
whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do 
those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your 
own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her 
sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may 
there be found; and Collins, when he denominated 
his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how 
true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagi- 
nation will create a warmer 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 fxr proved your title more clearly 
than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all 
men are supposed to be liuent, and none agreeable? — 
Self. 1 have written much, and published more than 
enough to demand a longer silence than I now medi- 
tate ; but, for some years to come, it is my intention 
to tempt no further the award of "Gods, men, nor 
columns," In the present composition I have attempt- 
ed not the most difficult, but, perliaps, the best adapted 
measure to our language, the good old and now neglect- 
ed heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps 
too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess, 
it is the measure most after my own heart : Scott 
alone, of the present generation, has hitherto com- 
pletely triumphed ovor the fatal facility of the octo- 
syllabic verse ; and this is not the least victory of his 
fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, Milton, 
Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that 
shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and 
barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic 
couplet is nol the most popular measure certainly ; but 
as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
v hat is called public opinion, 1 shall quit it wiiiiout 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions who-,e former circulation is 
part of my present, and will be of my future regret. 

With re^rd to my story, and stories in general, 1 
should have been glad to have rendered my persomges 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 

1 "Tlie Coreal." was begun on the 18th, and finished 
OD the 3lBt, of Decemlier, J813; a rapidity of compnsition 
wliich, takintr into conaideralion the extraordinary t)eauty 
of ttie poem, is, perhaps. uDp»rallc «U in the literary his- 
tory of the country. — K. 



responsible for their deeds and qualifies than if all bad 
been persnnal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of '• driwing from self," the pictures are 
prob^'bly like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagin- 
ing ; but 1 cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps 
amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the pre- 
sent instance, when I see sevenl birds (far more de- 
serving. 1 allow) in very reputable plight, and quite 
exempted from all participation in the faults of those 
heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little 
more morality than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but 
no — I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive 
personage; and as to his identity, those who like it 
must give him whatever '' alias" they please. 

If, however, it were w orth while to remove the im- 
pression, it misht be of some service to me, that the 
man who is alike the delight of his readers and his 
friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, 
permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
Most truly, 

And atfectionately, 

His obedient servant, 

BYRON. 

January 2, 1814. 



THE CORSAIR.' 

CANTO THE FIRST. 

M nessun maggior dolore, 

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 

Nella miseria, " 

DANTE. 



I. 

" O'er the glad waters of the dxrk 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 lir.iils to their sway— 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and jov in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o"er the heaving wave J 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please— 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath fried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the Nvaters wide, 
The exulting sense— the pulse's maddenine play, 
That thrills the w;inderer of that trackless way f 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn whit 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 ? 

2 The time in this poem may eeem ton short for the 
occurrences, but the whole of the Egean isles are within 
a few hours* Bail of the continent, and the reader must be 
kind enough to take the wind as I hove orten found it. 



\r?v. 



110 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto i 



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 cnarmury of decay, 

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 

Heave bis thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 

Ours — the fre>h turf, and not the feverish bed. 

While gasp bv gasp he falters forth his soul, 

Ours wiih one ping — one bound — escapes control. 

His rx)rse may boast its urn and narrow cave. 

And they who loathed his life nny gild his grave: 

Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 

Whfn Ocen 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 danjer'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 71010.'" 

U. 
Such were the notes thit from the Pirate's i'le 
Around the kindling watch fire rang the while : 
Such were the sounds that thrillM the rocks along, 
And unto ears as rugsed seein'd a song '. 
In scatler'd groups upon the gulden sand. 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 
Select the arms — to f ach his blade assign. 
And careless eye the blood (hat dims its shine; 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar. 
While others strassling muse along the shore ; 
For the wild bird 'the busy springes set, 
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
With.aU the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 
Tell o'er the tales of many a ni:;ht tif toil, 
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
No mailer where — their chief's allotment this j 
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
But who that Chief? hi, name on every shore 
Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
With these he minjles not but to command ; 
Few are his words,' but keen h's 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 uiitasted still — 
Apd for his fare — the rudesi of his crew 
Would that, in turn, have pass"d untasted too: 
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
His short repast in humbleness supply 
With all a hi;rn;it's board would scaice deny. 
But while he shuns 'he grosser joys of sense, 
His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
"Steer to that shore!"— they sail. "Do thisl" 'tis 

done : 
" Now form and follow me '." — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still. 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

HI. I 

'' A sail 1 — 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 eoes ! 
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. 

; I Hoarse o'er her side the rusUing cable rings ; 

,] The tails are fuil'd ; and anchoring round she swings. 



And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
'T is manii'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 bean's promise of festivity ! 



The tidings spread, and ga'henng grows the crowd 
The hum of voices, a d the laughter loud, 
And wr^man's gentler anxious lone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dew 

word: 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we a^k not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless? 
From where the baltle roars — the billows chafe — 
They dmbtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
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 report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our c-ming — short; 

Yet thus sincere — 'I is cheering, though so brief; 

But, Juan I instant guide us to our chief: 

Our greetin? paid, w?!'ll feast on our return, 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 

To wheie 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-staflf to that red hand ? 

" 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood. 

When strange or uninvited s'eps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ; — 

He spake not — but a sign expressed assent. 

These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 

He bends him slightlv, but his lins are mute. 

'■ These letters. Chief, are from ihe Greek — the spy, 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 

Whale'er his tidings, we can well report. 

Much that " — " Peace, peace!" — he cuts their pia« 

ting short. 
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They w.atch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

"In the pnchor'd bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your dutv — for my course prepare: 
Myself this enterprise to-night w ill share." 
" To-night, Lord Conrad ? " 

" Ay ! at set of son ! 
The breeze will freshen wl.en the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see Ihat free from rust 
Mv 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 i' more fatigued my arm than foes; 
Mirk that the signal gun be dulv fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 



Canto I.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ul 



VIII. 
They make oheisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seeli again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — su that Courad guides; 
And who dare question aujht that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with ihat comniauding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgir 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 'I hought — the nngic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
1 hat moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields wi h their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 
Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 
Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
Vet, in ihe 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 sib e curls in wild profusion veil ; 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
The haughtier thought it curtis, but scarce conceals. 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 
Still seems there something he would not have seen : 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
As if within that murkiness of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
Too close enquiry his stem glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
'Ihe 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 purpo e to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny. 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thought, than drag that chiefs to-day. 
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer. 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! » 



1 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, 
I shall attempt to prove by some historical roincideuces 
which 1 have met wilh since writing "The Corsair." 

" E^celin prisonnier," dit Rolaudmi, '•s'enfermoit dans 
un silence meoacant, il fixoit sur laterre son visage feroce, 
et oe dnnnoit point d'essor a sa profonde Indignation. De 
loutes partes cependant les soldaU et Ics peuples accouroi- 
9i!t; :!s Tculoicnt voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la 

Joie universelle eclatoit de toutes partes 

Eecclio eloit d'une petite laille; mai^s tout I'aapecl de sa 
persuone, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soUiat. — 
Son langage etoit amer, son deportemcnt superbe — et par 
son seul egard, il faisnit trembler Its plus haidis." — S«- 
mondi, tome iii. p. 219. 

Again, "Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the 
conqueror uf both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocrie, 
et equi casu claudican.", animo piofundus, sermone rams, 
Inxoriae conlemptor, ira tuibidus, habeodi cupidus. ad 
•olicilandas gentes providentissimus,' Sec. ice. Jornan- 
tti de Rebus OeliCi, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in 
countenance my Giaour and Corsiair. 



Slight are the outward signs of evil thought. 

Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought 

Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 

Betray no furlher than Ihe bitter smile ; 

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 

Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 

He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 

Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 

The clenched hand, Ihe pause of agony, 

That listens, sarting, lest the step too near 

Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: 

Then — with each feature working from the heart, 

With feelings loosed to stiengtheu — rot depart : 

That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow 

Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 

'J hen — Stranger I if thou canst, and tremblest not. 

Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 

Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sean 

The scathing thought of esecr.ited years ! 

Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 

Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XL 
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilVs worse instrument — 
His soul vias changed, before his deeds had drives 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
III 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 tint gifis bestow'd on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
Fear'd — shunu'd — belied— ere youth hid lost btf 

force. 
He hi ted man loo 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'J 
The rest no belter than the thing he seem d; 
And scorn'd the best as hypocriles who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself delested, but he knew 
The hearts that loalh'd 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 dired 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. 

XH. 
None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
One sofTer feeling would not yet depart; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of '. f'ol or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly s'ill he strove, 
And even in him it asks Ihe name of Love ! 
Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged. 
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 

[ He shunn'd, nor sought, but'coldly pass'd them by; 

! Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love— if thoujhis of tenderness. 
Tried in temptation, s'rengthen'd by distress, 
Unmovt-d by absence, firm in everv' clime. 
And yet — Oh more than all '. — untired by time ; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile. 
Could render sullen were she near to smile 
Nor ragi 
On her 
Which 
Lest that 



render sullen were she near to smile, I 

age could fire, nor sickness fret to vtnl | 

T one murmur of his discontent ; I 

h still would meet wilh joy, with calmress part, j 

hit his look of grief should reach her heart ; J 



112 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto I 



=1 



Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there he love in moruls — this was love ! 
Ke was a villain — ay — re|)roaches shower 
On him — but not the passi-jn, nor its power, 
Whict only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XIII. 
He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
"Stranie tidings 1 — many a peril have 1 past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followeis find me taller here. 
T is rash to meet, but surer de.ith 'o wait 
Till liere they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We '11 furnish mourners for OL:r funeral-pile. 
Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be thuir dreims 
Morn ne'er awoke Ihem with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to nii;ht (but blow, thou breeze .) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to Medora — Oh : my sinking heart. 
Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 
Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we share, 
Thit owes its deidliest eUorts lo despair, 
Small merit claims— but 't was my nobler hope 
To leach my few wi-h numbers still to cnpe; 
Long have I led ihem — not lo vainly bleed : 
No medium now — we perish or succeed '. 
So let it be — it irks not me to die; 
But thus lo urge Ihem whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had li tie oi my care, 
Bat chaTes m^ pride thus baffled in the snare : 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at bst 
Hope, power, and life upon a sfngle cast? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 
Thus with himself communion held he, fill 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard loo oft ; 
Through the high lattice fir yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 

1. 
'' Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells. 

Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
Save when to thine my heart resp^msivb 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 it bad never been. 
3. 
" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 

Without one thought whose relics there recline: 
The only pang my bosom dare not brave 

Must Le to find forgetfulncss in thine. 



" My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 

Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 
Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 

The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! " 
He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridor, 
And reach'd ihc chamber as the strain gave o'er: 
"My ow n Medora ; sure thy song is sad — " 
" In Conrad i absence would'st Ihnu have it glad ? 
Without thint ear to listen to my lay. 
Still must my song my thnughlsj my soul betray: 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heirt unhush'd —although my lips ivere mute! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined. 
My dreaming fear with storms bath wing'd the wind. 



And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sul 
The murmuring [jrelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it secni'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That niourn'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 out« atch'd each star, 
And morning came — and s'.ill thou werf afar. 
')h ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view. 
And sliil 1 gazed and"gazed — and not a prow 
Was gianled 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 I n ilt thou ne'er, 
!.ly Conrad 1 learn the joys of peace to share? 

ure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
1 hou know'st it is no^ peril that I fear, 
I only iremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flie- from love and lansui-hes for strife- 
How strange that heart, lo me so tender still. 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " 

"Yea, strange indeed- that heart hath long been 

changed ; 
Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Vet the same feeling which ihbu dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate lo them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee w hen 1 love mankind : 
Yet dread not this- the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love w ill last ; 
But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart ; 
1 his hour again — but not for long — we part." 
" This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this : 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot br— this hour away ! 
Von bark harh hardly anchor'd in the bay': 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and woaldtt 

steel 
My breast before the lime when it must feel ; 
Biit trifle now no more wiih my distress. 
Such mirth hath less of piay than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad : — dearest ! ctime and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guenM 
At such as seem'd the fairest ; thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes! thy sherbet to-ni»ht will sweetly flow. 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears; 
Think not I me.in to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
Est 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, sh'uld it vex thine ear, 
We 'II turn the tile, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.« 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost danasel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I 've ^een thee smile. 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while: 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
Lest Time should raise that doiibt to more than dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main: 
And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 



1 Orlando Furioso, Canto : 



Canto I.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



113 



" A?ain — again — and oft again — my love! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The lime of partinj with redoubled wi::g: 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell 1 

Yet would 1 fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not —these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall witch 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 thv comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shill m.ike repose more sweet. 

List ; — 't is the bugle '' — Juan shrilly blew — 

"One kiss — one more — another — Oh! Adieu!" 

Shs 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 agouy. 

Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 

In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 

Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 

So full — l/iai feeling seem'd almost unfell ! 

Hark — peals the thunder of the sign ilgun ! 

It told 't was sunset — and he curbed that sun. 

Again — again — that form he madly press'd. 

Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 

And tottering' to the couch his bride he bore, 

One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 

Felt — that for him earlh 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 giish'd ; 
Uig- bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
But still her lips refused to send — '• Farewell ! " 
For in that word —that f ital word— howe'er 
We promise — hope — believe — there breathes des- 
pair. 
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 causht a glimpse of him, 
A'ld then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim 
Throueh those long, dark, and glis'ening lashes dew'd 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew 'd. 
" He 's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is driven, 
ConvuUed 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 windinss of his way 
Forced on his eve what he would not survey. 
His lone, but lovelv dwelling on the steep. 
That hail'd him first when homeward from (he deep: 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
Whose ray of beiuty retch'd him from afar. 
On her he mu>.t not gaze, he must not think. 
There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink : 
Yet once almost he s oppd — 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 erief. 
He sees his bark, he note* how fair the wind, 
And sternly pilhcrs all hi- misht of mind : 
Again he hurt ies on — and as he heirs 
The clang of tumult vibra'e on his ears. 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore. 
The »ho'ut, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 



As marks his eye the sea boy on 'he mast, 

The anchors rise, tie sails unfurlinj fast, 

1 he waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge j 

And more than all, bis blood-red flag alolt, 

He marveli'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 files- until his toolsteps reach 

The verge where ends the cliti; begiiis the beach, 

There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 

Than there his wonted st.atelier step renew ; 

Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 

For well had Conrad leain'd to curb the crowd, 

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the pr^ud ; 

His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 

That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 

The solemn aspect, and the hiihborn eye, 

That chtcks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy; 

All these he wielded to command assent: 

But where he wished to win, so well unbent, 

Thit kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 

And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 

When echo d to the heart as from his own 

His deep yet tender melody of tor.e : 

But such was foreign to his kou ed mood. 

He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued: 

The evil passions of his youth had made 

Him value less who loved —than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared?" 
*' They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

'• My sword, and nay capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and l.ehtly slurg. 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung: 
"Call Pedro here 1" He comes — and Conrad benu, 
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 : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haujhty gesture sprung. 
Flash 'd the dipt oars and sp rkling with the stroke 
Around the waves' phosphoric > brightness broke; 
Thev gain the vessel —on the deck he stands,— 
Shrieks the shnll 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 vouns Gonsalvo turn — 
I Why doth he star!, and inly seem (o mourn ? 
I Alas I those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
I 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 — 
Aeain he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them bums the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all tnat speaks and aids the naval art ; 
Thev to the midnight watch prolract debate; 
To anxinus eves what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew. 
And fast and falcon-fike the vessel flew; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long— long ere morning smile: 
And soon the night gh.ss Ihr ush the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedle.s Moslem shine. ^ 

1 By night, partirularlv in a warm lotitode, every 'troto 
of Ibe nar, evpry miliou of the bnat or etiip, in follow** 
tiy a slight flash like «hect ligtitning from the water. 



10 



8 



114 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto II. 



Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie; 
Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
'Ihal rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duly — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the freiling flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



■Conosceste i dubiuBi desiri 7 ' 



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 :ind his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His summnn'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the l/oast; 
Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the dis'ani fr>c 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 lurban'd brave 
To bnre the sabre's edge before a slave '. 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay. 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in prictice for the con.ing foe. 
Bevel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilatf — 
Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice i 
The slaves bear round for rigid Mo.-lems' use ; 
The long chilmuque's^ dissolving cloud supply, 
While dince the Almas 3 to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark ; 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep : 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must. 
And less to conqueit than to Korans trust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than ev'n the Pacha's boast. 

III. 
With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wnit, 
Bows his bent head— his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
"A c«ptive Dervise. from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here— himself would tell the rest." « 

1 Coffee. 2 ••Chilwuiiue," pipe. 3 Dancing girls. 

4 It has been observcil, that Conrad's entering disguised 
•s a Rpy is out of nature. Perhaps so. I And something 
uot unlike It in history. — " Anxious to explore with his 
own eyes the slate of ihe Vandals, Majorian ventured, 
after disguising the colour o( his hair, tovihit Carlhage in 
the character of his own hmbassadnr; and Genseric was 
afterwards mortified hy the discovery, that he had enter- 
taiDed ond dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such 



He took the sign from Seyd's asserting eye, 
A lid led Ihe holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark green vest. 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Vet worn he seem'd of hardship more than yeut, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fean. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er: 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd. 
He calmly met Ihe curious eyes that scinn'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

" Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 
" From Scalanovo's port to Scio s isle. 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won ; our limbs have worn iheir chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
Be. ond the wandering freedom which I lost; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and ofl'er'd chance of flight ; 
1 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 p'undered wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, dooni'd 
To view wilh tire their scorpion nest consumed ?" 

" P.acha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye. 

That ueeps for flight, but ill cm play the spy; 

I only heard the leckless waiers roar. 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; 

I only mirk'd the glorious suu and sky. 

Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 

And fell — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 

Must breik my ctiain before it dried my tears. 

This nny'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 

They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 

Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the ch ince 

That le.ads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 

The careless guard that did not see me tiy, 

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 

Pacha ! — my linibs are faint — and nature craves 

Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 

Permit my absence — peice be « illi thee : Peace 

With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — slay, 
I do cnmniand thee; — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shall no; pine where all are bariqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mys'ery." 
'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man. 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd high relish for the banqi:et prest, 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
'T was hut a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and ti-anquillised as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the ca!mne-s 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, 
Melhinks he strangely spares Ihe rich repast. 
" What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or riiy friends Ihy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once pariaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 

an anecdite m y Iw rejected as an improbable fiction; bur 
it is a riction which would not have ln-en imagined uiileH 
in the life of a hero." — See GIBBON'S Decliu UMl Fali, 
vol. vi. p. IBO. 



Canto I[.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



115 



Makes ev'n contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem bielhren to the si^ht ! " 

"Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my d:ink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order s » laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save aloie ; 
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 ques ion answer ; then in peace depart. 
How m^ny ?— Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire I — away — away ! 
Ho.' treachery I my guards I mv scimitar! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar '. 
Accursed Dervise! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him 

Up rose the Dervise wi!h that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appali'd the sight: 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a war: ior bounding on his "barb, 
Dash'd bis hiih cap, and lore his robe away — 
Shone his niail'd breast, and tiash'd his sabre's ray I 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittermg eye, and black brow's sibler sloom. 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afiit sprite, 
Whose demon deaih-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of tiames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shrink 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 shves 
Behold but bloody shore and' fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded ihey the Pacha s angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise '. — seize on Zatan'ai ! a 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there. 
Since far too early and too well obcv'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their terror— from his baluric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew; 
'T is answer'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
VVhy did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem desi-rn had Icf' me single here ? " 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway, 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Com[]letes his (ury, what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And saarce an arm dare rise to guard Its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, sur- 
prise, 
Retreats before him, thoujh he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreids the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe! 
Hi« bhzing galleys still distract his sight. 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight; 3 
For now the pirates pass'd the Hirem gate. 
And burst wiihin — and it were death to wait; 
Where wild Anu.emeut shrieking- kneeling — 

throws 
The <word a.ide — in vain — the blood overflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where wiihin 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 

1 The Dfrvises are ia colleges, anil of Uilferent orders, 
■8 tile mnaks. 

2 "Zatanai," Salao. 

S A common and mit »pry nnreX eff-rt of Mussulman 
anger. See Prime Eugene's Memoirs, page 2t "The 
Seraskier recei»eil a woumI ia Ihe It)i;li; he plucked up 
hit l>eanl by the rooU, t>et»uw: be was obliged to quit the 



Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did "he work of sltife, 
1 hey shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
Bui short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
" 'T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die- 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?'' 

V. 
Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye. 
But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
"Oh ! burst the Harem — wrong not on your livei 
One female form — remember — we have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe. andsuch 't is ours to slay : 
But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will no; forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
Follow who will — 1 go — we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs Ihe crackling stair — he bursts the door. 
Nor feels his feet ghiw scorching with the floor ; 
His breath choked gasping w ith the vnluined smoke^ 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
Wi'h all the care defenceless beauty cliims: 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
And check Ihe very hands vvilh gore imbrued. 
But who is she? w'hom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 
The Harem queen— but still the slave of Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* 

Few words to re-assure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause eompassion snatch'd from war, 

The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their foo's'eps unpursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then witlistnod. 

This Seyd perceives, then first perceives liow few, 

Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 

And blushes o'er liLs error, as he eyes 

The rui'i wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il Alia! Vengeance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must alone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blo.od for blood must tell, 

The tide of triunif'h ebbs that flow'd too well — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife, 

And those n ho fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 

" One eflfort — one — to breik the circling host ! " 

They form — unite — charge — waver — all is loit i 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah I now they fizht in firmest file no more, 

Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled 

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 ! 

vn. 

But first, ere came the rallvine host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hind to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Harem handmaids freed, 
Safe in Ihe dome nf one who held their creed, 
Bv Connd's mmdate sifelv we'-e les'ow'd. 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 



116 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto II. 



And when thai dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 

Recall'd those thoughts late wauderiug m despair, 

Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 

That sniooth'd his accents; soflen'd in his eye : 

'T was strange — l/i(it robber thus with gore bedew'd, 

Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 

The facha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 

Must seem delii^hleJ wiih the heart he gave; 

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed adright, 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

"The wiih is wrong — nay, worse for female — rain: 

Vet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If bu" 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, 
Feird— bbeding— 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 ponderd o'er new pl-.ns of pain, 
And stauch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutled eye 
Would doom him ever dying —"ne'er to die ! 
Can th;« be he ? triumphant late she saw. 
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, alaw! 
'Tis he indeed — disarm'd but undepresf, 
His sole regret the life he still possest; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will. 
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given. 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
Who mn-e than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel. 
When ihiis reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tor'ure? to repay the debt — 
He deejily, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
Siill in his sern and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than cap'ive's air is seen, 
Though famt with wasting toil and stiB'ening wound. 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd. 
Their 'remorso'er. rose insolen ly loud, 
The better warriors who beheld him near, 
Insulied U'l ihe foe who taught Ihem fear; 
And Ihe grim gmrds that to his durance led. 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 
The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there. 
To noe how much the life yet lef! could bear; 
He found enoujh to load with heaviest chtin, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-mnrrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs besun. 
And rising with Ihe wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill ihose panss are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst. 
Which adds all other a'onv to thirst, 
That day by day dea'h still' forbears to slake. 
While fimish'd vu tures flit around Ihe slake. 
"Oh! water — water ! " — smiling Hale 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. 



'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubiful If Iheir victim knew. 
There is a unr, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
Lie dark and jarring with per urbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'er. 



Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And, 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, 
Eudanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst Ihose who fain would triumph in our^.i 
The hopeless past, Ihe hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd DOl 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things light or lovely in their acted lime, 
But now to slera reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unreveald, 
Not cankering less because the more couceal'd — 

in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
That opening sepulchre — the nnked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break 
Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
Each hath some fear, and he who least tjetrays, 
1 he only hypocrite deserving praise: 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and fliet ; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
So sleei'd by pondering o'er hi.- far career, 
He half-way meets him should he menace near! 

XL 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 

Sate Conrad, fetter'd in Ihe Pacha's power. 

His palace perish'd in the f!ame — 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 h id 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 — liis cl inking hands he raised, 

And slrain'd w ilh rage the chain on which he gazed 

But so >n 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 leed of rest to nerve me fu the diy ! " 

This said, with languor to his mat he crept. 

And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 

'T was harJly midnight when th it'fmy begun. 

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done; 

And Havoc loaihes so much the waste of time. 

She scarce had left in uncommitted crime. 

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 

Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'eu — con- 

demn'd — 
A chief on land — an oulliw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

Xll. 
He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd sn deep— Ah I happy if in de.ath ! 
He slept — Who o'er his pi'cid slumber bends? 
His foes are zone — and here he hath no friends; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 't i-i an earthly form with heavenly face! 
lis whie arm raised a lamp — yet erently bid, 
Lest the ray f-lash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain. 
And once unclosed — but once may close ajain. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair. 
And auburn waves of eemm'd and braided hair; 
Wilh sh'peof 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 lil:e thee, Gulnare ! 
She could not steep — and while the Pacha's re«t 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 



Canto 1 1.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



117 



She left hi side — his signet ring she bf.re. 

Which oft in spurt adorn d lier hanJ belore — 

And with it, scarcely quesiiou'd, won 1 er way 

Through dniwsy guards Iha' must tl at sign obey. 

Worn out wilh toil, and tired with chauging blows. 

Their eves had envied Conrad his repo e ; 

And chi'll and nodding at Ihe turret door, 

They stretch iheir listless limbs, and watch no more ; 

Just raised Iheir heads to hail tl e signet-riug, 

Nor asJi or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 
She gazed in wonder : " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage «eep ? 
And mine in reitletsness are wai.dering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 
True— "t is to him my life, aid moie, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe: 
'T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks - 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes ! " 
He raised his heai — and dazzled with the light, 
Ilis eye seeni'd dubious if it saw aright : 
He moved his hand — he grating of his chaio 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
'' What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!" 
" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remembei her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more feaiful band. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why - 
Vet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
"If s^, kind lady ! thine the only eye 
That would not here in that gayhnpe delight : 
Theirs is the chance — and let them use Iheir right. 
But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 
That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 
Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 
Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief— 
Thit playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
And siDiles in bitterne s — but still it smiles; 
And sometimes wilh the wises! and the best. 
Till even the scaff .Id • echoes with their jest ! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whate'er it was that Hash'd on Conrad, now 
A laughin; wildness half unbent his brow : 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his iia'ure- for through that short life. 
Few thoughts bad he to spare from gloom and s.rife, 

XIV. 

" Corsair ! th v doom is named — but I have power 

To soothe the' Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee 

But this — time — hope — mr even thv strength allow ; 

But all I can, I will : at least, delay 

The sentence that remits thee scree a day. 

More now were ruin —even thyself were loth 

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

" Yes ! —loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all. 
Or fAll'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope. 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope: 
Unfit to vanq'ijsh —shall I meanly fiy, 
The one of all my band that would not die? 
Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softoess springs. 

1 In Sir TtiomaB More, for instance, on the sraffiW.and 
Anne Bnlevn, in ihe Tower, when, grasping tier nei k, dtie 
rrmaiked.'that it "was ti!0 slender to trouble Itie heads- 
man muih." During one part of ilie French Revolution, 
it Ijecame a fastiion to leave some " mot " as a leEacy ; and 
Uie quantity nf hcelinus last words spoken during ttial 
period wouM form a melancholy jest )ook of a consider 



My sole resources in the path I trod 

wire these- my Lark — my sword — my love — my 

Godl 
The last i left in youth !— he leaves me now — 
And Man but works his will io lay me low. 
I have no ihought to mock his throne with prayer 
Wrung from the cowaid croucliing of despairj 
It is enough — I breathe — and 1 cm bear. 
My sword is shiken from the woilhless hand 
That ii.ighl have belter kept so tiue a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or cap ive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my \cice would mount above: 
Vh I she is all that t'.ill o earth can bind — 
And this will bre^k a heart so more than kind. 
And blight a form — till thine appear'd. Gulnarel 
Mine eye ue'er ask'd if others were as fair." 
'• Thou lov'sl another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 'I i< nothing— nothing e'er can be: 
But yet — thou lov'st— ai.d — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose heails on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — Ihe wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine bath wrought." 
" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem d thee from a fiery tomb." 
"My love stern Seydsl Oh — No — No — not my 

love — 
Yet mLch this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — wilh the free. 
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
in share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 
Oft must niy soul the question undergo, 
Of — 'Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, ' No !♦ 
, Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
i And strujgle not to feel averse in vain ; 
I But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
j 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 diops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest. 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er Ihe rest. 

— had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The chan?e to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes umiiourn'd — returns unsought — 
And oft when present — ab.ent from my Ihought. 
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 dotaje of his breast would cease I 
Or seek another aiid elve mine release, 
Bui yestcrdiy — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes— if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
Remember — captive I 't is to break thy chain ; 
Repay Ihe life that to Iby hand I owe; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
Who sh<re such love as I can i.ever know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away; 
'T will cost me dear —but dread no death to-day ! » 

XV. 
She press'd hi» fetter'd fingers to her heart, 
And bow'd her head, and luri.'d her to depart. 
And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
And w as she here ? and is he now alone ? 
What gem hath dropp'd and sjiarkles o'er his chain? 
The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. 
That starts at occe — bright — pure — from Fify^ 

mine, 
Alre,ady polish'd by the hand divine '. 
Oh I too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye Ihe unanswerable tear ! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
To save, subdue — at once her spwr and shiCid : 
Avoid it —Virtue elihs and Wisdom errs. 
Too fondly gazinj on that srief of hers ! 
What lost' 1 world, and bade a hero fly ? 
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 



118 



THE CORSAER. 



[Canto III. 



Tet ue the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 

By this — tiow many lose not eirtti — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to iiiin's elernil foe, 

And seal their oh n to spare some wauton's woe ! 

T is morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams— without the hope of yesteiJay. 
What shall he be ere ni?ht? 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 evenin» melt, 
Chill — wet — and misiy round each sliffen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



'Come vedi — £ 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,» 

Along Morel's hills Ihc setlini; sun ; 

Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright. 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

0"er the hush'd deep the yellow beini he throws. 

Gilds the green wive, that trembles as it glows. 

On old ^ijina's rock, and Idra's isle, 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering, loves lo shine, 

Though there his altars are no more divine. 

Descending fast the niountiin shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'J Salamis '. 

Their azure arches ihrough the long expmse 

More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 

And tenderesi tints, along (heir suinmi;s driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the lines of heaven: 

Till, darkly shided from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to s'eep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast. 

When — Athens ! here thy Wisest lookd his last. 

How watch'd thy better sins his farewell ray, 

That closed their murder'd sasre's 2 lates' day ! 

Not yet — not yet — Sol pnuses on the hill — 

The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 

But sad his light to agonising eyes. 

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 

The land, where Phabus never frown'd before; 

But ere he sunk below Cihaeron's her.d. 

The cup of woe was quaff' d — the spit it fled ; 

The siul "f h\:n who scorn'd to fear or fly — 

Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from hijh Hymettus to the plain. 

The queen of night ass;rts her silent reign. 3 

No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 

There the white c:lunm greets her grateful ray, 

And, brisht 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 sadleninz tiy the sacred mosque, 

The gleaming turret of the gay f£iosk.< 



1 Tlie opening lines, as far an section ii., have, pert 
little business here, an-J were annexed lo an uaputilistied 
(though printed) pnem; hut they v-ere written on the 
«poI, in the Spring of 1811, and — 1 scarce l«now why — 
the reader must excuse their appearance here — if he can. 

a Socrates drank the hemlock a siiort lime before sunset 

ithe hour of execution), m.lwithstanding the entreaties of 
Ii* disciples to wait till the sun went d'Avn. 

3 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country r the days in winter are longer, but in sum- 
mer of shorter duration. 

4 The Kiosk is a Tnrkish summer house: the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not (ar from the 



And, dun and sombre 'mid the ht.ly calm. 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary pa'loi. 
All tinged svith varied hues, arrests the eye — 
And dull were his that pas^'U them heedless by. 
Again the .S<ean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphiie and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a dis'ant isle. 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 

H. 
Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
Oh I who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its ma?ic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who thai beheld that Sun up^n thee set, 
Fair Athens ! c-iuld Ihine evening face forget ? 
Not he — whose heart nor lime nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound » i hin the clu'^teriiig Cyclaues ! 
Nor seems this homage fureigii to it's strain, 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
VVould that wiih freedom it were Ihine again 1 

HI. 
The Sun hath sunk — and. darker than the night. 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora'S heart — the ihird day 's come and gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
'I he wind wa^; fair though light ; and storms were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark relurn'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Thouzh wild, as now, far different were the taJe 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
The nizhtbreeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a ma->t; 
Sadly she ate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she vvander'd, heedless of the 'pray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away; 
She saw not — felt not Ihis — nor dared depart. 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense! 
It came a" last — a sad and shatter'd boat. 
Whose inma es first beheld whom first they sought ; 
Some Heeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped — t/iif all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear 'd lo wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's file : 
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 g'ief, 'hat loneliness of |i.t. 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high. 
That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
While vet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — 

wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber ro^e that Strength which said, 
" With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread." 
'T is more thiu nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
" Silent vnu stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — SI eak not — breathe not — for I know it well- 
Vet would I ask — almost nry lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 
" Lady ' we know not — scarce with life we f5ed; 
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 

w ilhslond : 
Her own dirk soul — these words at once subdued: 
She loiters — falls— and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave; 



L^ 



temple of Thesens, between which and the tree the w«tl 
inteivenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scaiit7, and 



fc 



Canto III.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



119 



But that n ith hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the oce.ui dew, 
Raise — fan —sustain — till life returns anew ; 
^wake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which ihey 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, re-cue, and revenge; 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whale'er his fate — the breas's he form'd and led, 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes I there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are dariug, as their hearts are true. 

V. 
Within the Harem's secret chamber sate 
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Ciptive's fate; 
His lhou?hts on love and hate alternate dwell, 
Now wit'h Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 
Here at his feet the lovely shve reclined 
Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind ; 
W^hile many an anxious ghnce her large dark eye 
Sends in its idle search for sympithy, 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,* 
But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
" Pacha : the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his f \te 
VVas eam'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Melhinks, a short release, for ranst)m 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, weihen'd by this faal fray — 
Walch'd — folio w'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 eich drop of blood a gem 
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
If for each hiirof his, a massy mine 
Of virgin ore should supplicitinz shine; 
If all our Arab tales divulge or drenm 
Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
It had not now redeem'd a single hour; 
But ihit I know him fetler'd, in my power; 
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 
" Nay, Seyd 1 — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to as~uaje ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free . 
Disabled, shorn of hilf his mishi and band. 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

" His capture couH ! — and shall I then resign 

One diy 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 anrl thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the pri7e 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 Serii — 

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not aus'^er — thy confession speaks, 



'T is not kit life alone may claim such cai 
Another word and — nay — I need no moi 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 



1 The eomhotoio, or Matinmetan rosary ; the beads sre 
Id uuml>er nioety-nine. 



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 1 can clip thy wanton wiugi 
In words alone 1 am not wont to chafe : 
Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe!" 
He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Raze in his eye and thie its in his adieu : 
Ah'! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew^ 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, ditiering but in name ; 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That s:rife of thought, the source of woman's woes! 

VI. 
Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the saoM 
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 J 
When everv vice that grated on his ear 
Might be Ilie last that he could ever hear; 
Could 'error lame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
•T was worn — perhips 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 J 
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 comine 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, 
Antl blot life's latest scene with calumny; 
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare. 
Vet doub's how well the shrinking flesh may bear; 
But deeplv feels a single cry would shame, 
'I o valour's praise thv last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monop lists of heavenly love; 
And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thv loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sus'ain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still \ 

VII. 
The first dav pass'd — he saw not her— Gulnare — 
The second — third — and still >he came not there; 
But » hat her n ords avouch'd, her charms had done 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth dav roll d alonj, and with the night 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. 
Oh I how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
And his wild spirit wi'der wishes sent, 
Roused bv th>* roar of his own element ! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved iu roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near \ 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud. 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flash'd the lish'nine by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star: 
Close to the glimmerini grate he dragg'd his cbaiB, 
And hoj ed thai peril might not prove in vain. 
He rai ed his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
The pitying flash to mar the form >t made: 



J 20 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto III. 



His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groaii ! 



The midnight piss'd — and tn the massy door 

A lisht steji cime — it piused — it moved once more; 

Slow turns the gralin" bolt and sullen key: 

'T is as his heirt foreboled — that fair she ! 

Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 

And beauteous s ill as hermit's hope can paint ; 

Yet changed since last uiihiii that cell she came. 

More pile her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 

On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 

Which spoke before her accents — '• Th'U must die ! 

Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 

The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none— my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim d they — Conrad still the same: 
Why should"st thou seek an ouilaw'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 
Redee'm my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
Why should I seek ? — ha'h misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woram's mind? 
And must I say ? albeit mv heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is movej : 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — 

loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, f >rm more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heirt to hers were truly dear. 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here ; 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now — o'er Ihine and o'er ray head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and woi.ld'st be free. 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me ! " 
*' Ay — in my chains 1 my steps will gently tread. 
With these adornments. o"'er each slumberin? head! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flisht ? " 
Or is that instrument more lit for tight ?" 
" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard. 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain : 
Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
If in aught evil, for thy 5 ike 'he crime: 
The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 
That hated tvrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
Too faithful, though to bi'ter bondage chain'd. 
Yes, smile I — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then— nor thou too dear: 
But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempi ing to rebel. 
Deserve the fate their fretfinj lips foretell. 
I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 
Since wiih me came d heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring; he hath said. 
But for his rescue 1 with thee had fled. 
T was false thou know 'st — but let such augurs rue, 
Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; 
This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
Mine too he threitens ; but his dotase still 
Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 
When wearier of these fleeting charms and me. 
There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the eea ! 



What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away? 

1 saw thee— loved thee — owe thee ail— 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 h.ad saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — (or all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worsl, 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh '. could'ift thou prove my truth, thou would'st not 

start. 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eistem heart} 
'1' is now the beacon of Ihy safely — now 
I; points wiihin the port a Maiuofe prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
'J'here sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 

Seyd ! " 

"GuVnare — 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 wi h open hand, 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smile the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not j^lumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem th.at mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee v.ell — 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 stjke. 

I heard the order —saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, 1 will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this ca^t — Corsair ! 't is but a blow 1 

Without it riihl v*ere 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 'II try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd — on? moment all were o'er— 

Corsair 1 we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish 'd ere he could reply. 
But his glance followed far with eajer eye ; 
And gathering, a= he ciuld, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
Since bar and boll no more his steps preclude, 
He, fast as fetler'd limbs allow, puisued. 
'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
He sees a du-ky 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 hst star of night, the clearing sky: 
1 Y'et 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 s'ep a figure outward past. 
Then paused — and lurn'd — and paused — 't is She at 

last! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
"Thanks to that softening heart- she could not killl" 
Again he look'd. the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd —threw back her dark far floating hair, 

Thai nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair; 

As if sh<; late had bent her leaning bead 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot.— 

Her hurrying hand bad left — 't was but a spot — 



Canto III.] 



TEIE CORSAIR, 



121 



Its hue was all he saw, ani scarce withstood — 

Oh 1 slight but certain pleJge o( crime — 't is blood ! 



He liad seen brittle — he had brooHed bne 

Oer promised pan;s to sen enced guili foreshown ; 

He had been tempted — chisten'd — and he chaio 

Yet on his arms miiht ever ihere remain : 

But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thriird — so hudJer'd every creeping vein, 

As now they froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 

Had banish'd all the beauty frnni her cheek ! 

Blood he had viewM— could view unmoved — but 

then 
It fiow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

"'T IS done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindica'e my hand. 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 
She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
But 01 his heavy heart such sadness sate. 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are ulter'd — at her si;n, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dincing nn Ihe yellow' beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared be 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 contemphtion. till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd reard its giant shape. 
Ah! — since that fital night, (hough brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, eiief. and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'J above the mast. 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
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 I 

XIV. 
She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air. 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eve, 
Fell qnench'd in tears, too hte to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
<• Thou may'st forgive though Allah's fe]( detest; 
But for that deed nf 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 — thoush less my guilt. 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 

XV. 

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, thougl undesijn'd, Ihe wretch he made; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and urexpresf, 
They' bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
Still onward, fair Ihe breeze, nor rough Ihe 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 arnied deck ! 



Their little birk her men of watch descry. 

And ampler canvass woos the wind from high J 

She beai-s her down majestically near. 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 

A flash is seen — the ba'l beyond her bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the dt:ep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gl idness in his glance; 

'"T is mine — my tiiood-red flag! again — again— 

I am not all deserted on Ihe main ! " 

'i'hey own the signal, answer to the hail, 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

'• T is Conrad ! Conrad : " shouting from Ihe deck, 

Command nor duty could their transport check! 

With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's side; 

A smile relaxing in each rngged face, 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace; 

He, halt forgetting danger and defeat. 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 

Wrings with a cordial grasp .4nselmo's hand, 

Aud feels he yet can conijuer and command! 

XVT. 
These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
■yet grieve to win him back wi hout a blow ; 
They sail'J prepared for vengeance — had they known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their qneen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, arid wondering stare, 
They vvhisper round, and s^aze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meeklv f.dded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe— to fite resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVIf. 
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 an'ry day : 
But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt. 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; 
And he was free 1 — 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 beiiea'h the glance he gave. 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faiut and 

meek, 
But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That feirful spot which stain'd it from the de.ad ! 
He to-k 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, an! his voice its tone. 
"Gulnare ! " — butshere|)lied 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 res'inK-place, 
j His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
{But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
j Perchance, but for the bodinss of his breast, 
I His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the ftiss 
jThal ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
I The lirst, the Last that Frailly stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavi'sh'd all his breath, 
J To lips— whose broken sighs such fragrance lling, 
I As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

I XVIII. 

1 They gain by Iwilieht's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the' very rocks appear to smile ; 



II 



122 



THE CORSAIR. 



[Canto III.' 



The haven hums ivith miny a cheering sound, 

The btiacons blize their wonted sations rouuJ, 

The boats are darting o'er the cuily bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them ihrnuih the spny ; 

Even he hoarse sei-bird"s shrill, discordant ^hrick, 

Greets like thi; welcome of his luneless beak : 

Bejieath each I imp ihit throui^h its 1 ittice gleams, 

Their fancy paiutsllie friends that trim the beams. 

l)h '. what can sanctify the joys of home. 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are hi^h on beacon and from bower. 

And 'midst Ihem' Conrad seeks Medoja's tower: 

Ue looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 

T is strange — of yire its welcome never fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, exinguish'd, only veil'd. 

With I be (Irst boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the hngering oar. 

Oh 1 for a wing bevoud the falcon's tlight. 

To bear him like .an arrow to that height ! 

VVith the first piuse the renting rowers gave, 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the viave. 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sounl 
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 ; 
Hesnaich'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor. 
Another clieciuers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
AH that his heart believed not — jet fore'.old ! 

XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 

And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 

He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain. 

And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 

In life itself she was so still and fiir. 

That death with sentler aspect wither'd there ; 

And the cold flowers • her colder hand contain'd, 

In that last grasp as tenderly were s'rain'd 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 

And made i' almost mockery yet to weep : 

The lonj dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 

And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below _ 
Oh ! o'er the eye Dea'h 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 — 
Te*, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while; 
But the whi'e shroud, and each ex'ended tress, 
Long — fair — but spread in uiter lifelessness. 
Which. 1 ite the sport of everv summer wind, 
Esaaped the baffled wre>th thil strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

XXI. 

He ask'd no question — all were answer'd 

By the first glance on that still ' '- ' 

It was enough — shi 



.. — marble brow, 
what reck'd it how ? 



The love of youth, the hope of Letter years, 
The source of softest wishes, lenderest fears. 
The only living thing he c.mid not hate, 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
For pc.ce, those reiluis where guilt can never soar: 
The proud — the wayward— who have tii d below 
1 heir joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
I But who in palfence parts with all delight? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 
By those, that deepest feel, is iil exprest 
The indistinc ness of the sulfering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one. 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all elnquetice to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And s'upor almost luH'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 1 

XXIH. 
His heart was form'd for sof'ne<s — warp'd to wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled loo long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping de:v 
Within the grot; like that had harden'd too; 
Less clear, pe- chance, its earthly trials pMs'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and ligh'ning 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 sheltered — saved till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: 
The gen'le plant hath left no It-af to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'rl where it fell; 
And of iis cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIV. 
'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; thoush now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen nlong the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd. their isle is traversed o'er: 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away. 
And Conrad conies not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
VVhere lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none coulJ mouin 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other limes, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.* 



1 In the J^vant it i 
bcdien n( the dead, ai 
place a amegay. 



*'er8on the 2 That the point of honour which ia repreeented in one 
the hau(l8 of young persons to instance )f Conrad's character, hns not been carried be- 
yond the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some 



Canto III.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



123 



degree confirmed by the following anerdnte of a brother 
buctanei-r, in the year IfeU: — "Our readers have all seen 
Ihe accoui.t of the enterprise iigain"t the piraies of Darta- 
taria: but few, we believe, weie infnrmed of the situation, 
history, or oiitiire of that establishmeul. For the inf^r- 
malion of such as were unaequainltd with it, we have 
procured from a friend the following interesting narrative 
of the main (acts, of which he has persoual knowledge, 
and whiih cannot fail to interest some of our renders. — 
Barralaria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of Mexico; 
it runs through a rich but very tldt Vouutry, until it 
reaches Within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen 
miles bekiw the city of New Orleans. The b2y has 
branrheg almost inniimeiable, in which persons can lie 
concealed from Ihe severest scrutiny. It communicates 
with three lakes which lie on the sonlh-west side, and 
these, with Ihe lake of the kame name, and which lies 
contiguous to Ihe sea, where there is an island formed by 
Ihe two armsof this lake and Ihe sea. The east and west 
points of this island were fortifi<d, in the year 1611, by a 
b.ind of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La 
Fitte. A large m^ority nf these outlaws are of ihat cla.ss 
of the population of Ihe stale of Louisiana, who fled fn.m 
Ihe island of St. Domingo, during the troubles there, and 
took refuge in Ihe i.<land of Cuba; and when the last war 
between France and Spain commenced, they were ccm- 
pelled to leave Ihat island with the short notice of a few 
days. Without ceremony they entered Ihe United Stales, 
the most of them the slate of Louisiana, with all the 
negroes they had possessed in Cuba. Theywere notified 
by the Governor of that Stale of the clause in Ihe con- 
stitution which forbad ihe importation of sl.ives; but, at 
the same time, receivi'd the assurance of Ihe Governor 
that he would obtain, if possible, the apprfibation of the 
General Government for their retaining this property.-- 
The island of Barralaria is situated abiut lat. 29 deg. 13 
min., Ion 92. 30.; and is as remarkable for its health as 
for Ihe superior scale and shell fish with which its waters 
Pbnund. The chief of this h^rde, like Charles de .Moor, 
had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the 
year 1813, this party had, from its tuipitude and boldness, 
claimed the atten'ion of the Governor of Louisiana; and 
to break up the establishmrnt he thought proper to strike 
at Ihe head. He therefore .ilfered a reward of 600 dollars, 
for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known 
to Ihe inhabitants of the city of Ne« Orleans, from his 
immediate connection, and his once having been a fencing- 
master in thai city of great reputation, which art he 
learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The 
reward which was offered by Ihe dovern<.r tor Ihe head 
of La Fitte. was answered hy the otTer of a reward from 
the latt»r of 15.000 for the head of the Governor. The 
Governor ordered out a crmpany to march from the city 
to La Fitte's island, and lo burn and destroy all the pro- 
perty, and lo briug lo Ihe < ity of New Orleans, all his 
banditti. This company, under the command of a man 
whi had been the intimate associate of ihis bold Captain 
approa hed very near lo the fortified island, before he saw 
a man. or heard a sound, until he heaid a whistle, not un- 
like a boatswain's cnll. Then it was he found himself 
surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the 
secret avenues which led into the Bavou. Here it was Ihat 
the modern Charles de Mo >r developed his few noble 
trails; for to this man, who had corne lo destroy his life 
and all Ihat was dear to h^m, he n.it only spared his life 
but otTered him that which would have made the honest 
■oldier easy for Ihe remainder of his days; which was in- 



dignantly refn.sed. He then, with the approbation < hia 
captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some 
concomitant events, proved that Ihis baud of pirates was 
not lo be taken by l.nd. Our naval force having always 
been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction 
of Ihis illicit eslablishmeut coiild not be expected from 
them until augmented; for on officer of Ihe navy, with 
most of the gun-boats on that stati-iD. bad to retreat from 
an overwhelming foice of La Filte's. So soon as 
augmentation of Ihe navy authorised an attack, one 
made: Ihe overthrow of this banditti has been Ihe result ; 
mid now Ihis almost invulnerable point and key to New 
Orleans, is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped Ihe go- 
Teininent will hold it by a strong mililaiy force." 
American Newspaper. 



iugular 



In Noble's < 
tory, there is 
bishop Blackbuurue; and < 
wilh Ihe profession of Ihe 
cannnt resist the lemptalio 
something mysterious in II 



of Granger's Biographical His- 
assage in his account of Aicb- 
as in some mea-nre connected 
;ro of Ihe foregoing poem, 
if extrat ting it. --••There ia 
us in the histoiy and character 'f Dr. 
Blicitbourne. The former is but imperiectly known ; 
repoit has even abseiled he was a biictaneer; urd that 
one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on 
his arrival in England, wh^l had bee me of his old chum, 
Blatkbourne. was answered, he is Archbishop of Yoik. 
We are informed, that Blai khoiiriie was in't.lled sub-dean 
of Exeter, in ie;94, which office he resigned in 1*02; but 
after his succe.'-sor Lewis Bariiet's death, in 1704, he 
gained it. In the following v.-ar he bcciinie dean : aii( 
1714, held wilh it the archrteaueiy of Coinwa'l. He 
consecrated bi~hop of Exeter, F»bri.aiy i4, 171d; and 
transldled to York. November 28. 1724, as a rewaid, 
cording In court scandal, fur uniting George I. to 
Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved 
with great prudence, and was equally respectable as Ihe 
guardian of Ihe revenues of the see. Rumour whispered 
he retained the vices of his youth, and that a paxsion for 
the fair sex formed an item in Ihe list of his ueaknesses; 
but so far from beine convicted by seventy witnesfca he 
does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. 
In short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of 
mere malice. How is it pcgsible a buccaneer should have 
been so goixl a scholar as Bla' kb uiiie certainly was? He 
who had so perfect a knowledae of Ihe i lassies (particn- 
laily of the Greek tragedians), as tt be a^le to read them 
with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, must have 
taken great pains to acquire Ihe learned languages; and 
have had both leisure and gorjd masters. But he was ui 
doiibtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. H 
is allowed to have been a p'easaul man: this, howeve 
was turned against h.m, by ils being said, ' he gained more 
hearts than souls.' " 



"The only Toire that conid soothe the passions of Ihe 
savage (Alphonso III ) wa-i that of an amiable and virtu- 
ous wife, the sole t-lyect of his love ; the voice of Donna 
I>ahella, the daughter of Ihe Duke of Savoy, and Ihe 
grand-daughter of Pliipp II. King of Spain.— Her dying 
words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce sp'rit melt- 
ed into tears; and after Ihe last embrace. Alphonso re- 
tired into his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and 
t'l meditate on the vaiiily of human life." — GIBBON'S 
Miseellaneous U^orA «, vul. iii. p. 473. 



LARA/ 



CANTO THE FIRST. 
I. 
The Serfs' ^re ?hd throtijh Lars's wide domain, 
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain; 

1 Published in August, 1814. 

3 The reader ia apprised, ihat Ihe name of Lara heing 
Spanish, and no circumstonce of local and natural descrip- 
tion fixing Ihe scene or hero of Ihe po»m to any country 
or age, Ihe word 'Serf,' which conld not be correctly ap- 
plied to the lower classes in Spa'n. who were never vas- 
sals of the soil, has nevertheless been emploved to desig- 
nate the followeis of our fictitious chieliain.— [Lord 
Byron eSewhcre intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief 
of Ihe Morea ; and the poem is almost universally deemed 
aconlioualiOD of the Corsair. — E.] 



\ He, their unhnped, but unforgotteti lord, 
I The Ions self-exiled chieftain, is restnied : 
There be brisht fices in the busy hall, 
Bonis on Ihe board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er Ihe pictured window, plays 
The unwonted fngnis' hr>spit.ible blaze ; 
And giy ret.iiiiers ^ither round the hearth, 
Wilh tongues all louduess, and with eyes all mirtb. 

i II- 

1 The chief of Lara is refurn'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? 
Left bv his sire, too v"ung such loss to know, 
Lord tif himself ; — thni heri'aee rf woe. 
That fearful empire which the human birazt 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! — 



124 



LARA. 



fCANTO I. 



With none to check, and few to point in time, 
The thousand paibs that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he mi)st leqiiiied commandment, theu 
Had Liri's daring boyhwd giivern'd men. 
It skills not, boois not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the ujazes of its race; 
Short was the course his resiessness had ruu, 
But lobg eoough to leave him half undone. 

III. 
And Lara left in youth his falher-hnd ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Hid nearly cea^ed his memo.y to recall. 
His sire was duit, his vassals could declare, 
T was all they knew, thi Lara was not there j 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the fe.v. 
His hall scarce echoes with his won'ed name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief cons 'led his des ined bride, 
The yiun; forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live ! " excl lims the impatieut heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Liris' last and longest dwelling-place j 
But one is absent from the mouldering file. 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 
He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 
And whence they know not, why they need not guess; 
They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 
Not that he came, but came not long before: 
No train is his beyond a single page, 
Of foreign aspect,' and of lender age. 
Years had roll'd on, and fast Ihey speed away 
To th'.se that wander as to those that stay ; 
But lack ot tidings from another clime 
H.ad lent a (lagging wing to weir)- Time. 
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's i)rime. 
Though -ear'd by toil, and s^nnthing touch'd by timei 
His faults, whatever they "ere, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nir good nor ill of laie viere known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet hardeu'J in their course, 
Might be redeemed, nur ask a long remorse. 

V. 
And thev indeed were changed — 't is quickly seen, 
Whaie'er he be, 't was not what he had been: 
That brnw in furrow'd lines h.ad fix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
A high demeanour, and a glance that look 
Their thoughts from others by a single look; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue. 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
Thai darts in seeming phvfulnes around. 
And makes tho'e feel that'will not own the wound; 
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath 
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
Ambition, glorj-, love, the common aim. 
That some can'conquer and that all would claim, 
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive. 
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; 
And some deep feeling it were vain lo trace 
At moments lighteud o'er his livid face. 

\l. 
Not much he loved long que tion of the past. 
Nor told of wondro s wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander d lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown: 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 



, But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show. 
As hardly worh a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such enquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VH. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm wa^ his welcome lo the haimts of men; 
Born 3f high liiie.age, link'd in high command, 
He miiisled wiih the magnates of his land j 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay. 
And saw them smile or sigh iheir hours away; 
But still he only saw, and d;d not share, 
The common pleasure or the genenil care ; 
I He did not follow what Ihey all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd; 
' Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
j Nor beiuty's preference, and ihe riv.al's pain: 
I Around him some mys-eri.jus circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him s'ill alone; 
Upon his eye sit something of reproof, 
j That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
! And things more timid that beheld him near, 
j In silence gazed, or wh siierd mutual fear ; 
I And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
j They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 

VIII. 
'T was sfrarze — in youth .all action and all lifSj 
' Buriiir'g for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave. 
In turn he tried — he raiisack"d all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or woe. 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had g.azed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high. 
And ask'd if greater dwell beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme. 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wilher'd heart that would not break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
! With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
I And oft', in sudden mood, for many a day, 
, From all communion he would s'art away: 
! And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 
i Throuzh night's long hours would sound his hurried 
I tread 

O'er the dark gallery, where his fa'hers frown'd 

In rude but antique portraiture around : 

They heard, but whisper'd — " that must not be 
krown — 

The sound of words less earthly than his own. 

Y'e<i, they who chose mizht smile, but some had seen 

They scarce knew what, but more than should have 
been. 

Whv ga ed he so upon the gha=tlv head 

Which hands profane had sather'd from the dead, 

That still beside his open'd volume lay. 

As if to startle all save him away ? 

Whv slept he not when others were at rest ? 

Whv heard no music, and received no guest.' 

All was not well, thev deem'd — but where the wrong ? 

Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too loi^; 

And such besi es were too discreetly wise. 

To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 
JBut if they would — thev could " — around the board, 

Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 



II was Ihe night — and Lara's glassy stream 
The stars arc sttiddinj, each with imaged benna; 
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 
And yet Ihfcy glide like happiness away ; 
ReMecting far and fairy-like from high 
The immortal ligh's that live along the sky: 



Canto I.] 



LARA. 



125 



Its banks are fringed willi many a goodly tree, 

Anil flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chajilet infa'nt Dian wove, 

And Innocence would oHer to her love. 

These deck the >hore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was &.- still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there j 

Secure that nought of evilcould delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate: 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 

N# — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 

XI. 

He turn'd within his solitary hall, 

And his high shadow shot along the wall : 

There were the pamted forms of other limes, 

'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes. 

Save vague tradllion ; and the gloomy vaults 

That hid iheir dust, their fiibles, and their faults; 

And half a column of the pompous page, 

■| hat speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 

Where history's pen its prai.'e or blame supplies, 

And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 

He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 

Through the "dim lattice o'er the floor of stone. 

And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 

O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 

Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 

Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 

His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 

And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 

Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 

His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the Icne light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice— a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
Th it frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the snuiid invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And saatcli'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIH. 
Cold as the marble where his length wis laid, 
Tale as the beim that o'er hi« feaiures play'd, 
W.as Lara strelch'd ; his h ilf-drawn sabre near, 
Drnpp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear j 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiuice knit his gatlier'd brow ; 
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
Some half-form'd threat in u'tennce there had died. 
Some impreca'ion of desjairing pride ; 
His eye was almost seal'd, but not fr>rsook 
Even in its trance the glidiator's lo k, 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 
And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
They r.iise him — bear him ; — hush ! be breathes, he 

speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolonrs in his cheeks. 
His lip resumes it's rt-d, his eye. though dim. 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recills its funclhn, but his (vords are stiung 
In terms 'hat seem not of his native tonsue ; 
Distinct but stranje, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of "another land ; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 



11 



XIV, 



His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words :hry heaid 
And, by the charges of his cheek and brow, 
'J hey 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 prostra e form he bent beside. 
And in that tongue wh'Ch seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those toi es that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus could overthiow 
A breast that needed not ideal woe. 

XV. 
Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld. 
If yet remember'd, ne'er to be reveal'd, 
Rests at his heirt : the cus'oni'd morning came, 
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he urne from priest nor leech, 
And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As here:ofore he fill'd the pissing hours, — 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers. 
Than these were wont ; and it the coming night 
Appear'd less welcome now lo Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not. 
Whose shuddering iiroved rAeir fear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonisli'd slaves, and shun the fated hall j 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor; 
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 grey walls. 

XVI. 
Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgelfulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed nor less al'iaid — 
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesure of their loid 
Bctray'd a feeling that recail'd 'o these 
That fcver'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'erlabour'd heart 
That ce,ased to be it, the look hat made them start ? 
Could he who ihus had sutier'd so forget. 
When such as saw (hat suli'ering shudder yet? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the etFect, but not the cause? 
Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of Ihouihis that mortal lips must leave half told; 
They choke the feeble words th it would unfold. 

XVI L 
In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
Much to be loved and hated, siusht and fear'd; 
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
In praise or "railing ne'er his name forgot : 
His silence form'd a theme for others' jirate — 
1 hey guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know 

his fate. 
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown. 
Who walk'd 'heir world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
Wi'h them he could seem eay amidst the gay ; 
But oun d that smile, if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirlh, and wi'her'd to a sneer; 
That smile might rench his lip. but pass'd not by, 
None e'er could trace its I 'Ugh'er to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard. 
At times, a heart as no' by nature hard, 
Bnl once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unwor'hy of its pride, 
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt fiom others' half withl eld esteem; 



126 



LARA. 



[Canto I. 



In self-inflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness nii?ht once have wrung from rest; 

In vigilance of griel ihat would compel 

The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 
There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'r. which ciiuld befall, 
He stood a siranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
A thing of dark iniaiinings, 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 
Bes.ows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His e\ily dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
And fiery passions that had pnur'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path. 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his sloimy life ; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame. 
He cali'd on Nature's self to shire the shame, 
And chxrged all f lults 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 templing time. 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
So much he soar'd beynrid, or sunk beneath. 
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 
And long'd by eood or ill to se|>arale 
Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
His mind abliorring 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 fiow'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 otTend the view. 

XIX. 
With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen. 
He had (if 't were not mture's boon) nu art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor h ite — nor aught 
That words can image to express the lh^ught; 
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 lisht, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce ar'^uiid the hearer's mind ; 
1 here he was siamp'd, in likins, or in hate, 
If creeled once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew. 
Still there within the inmost ltiou?ht he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
Despite your wonder to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted s'ill ; and from the breast 
He forced an all uiiwiliins interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net. 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 
There is a festival, where knighls and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 



Appear — a highborn and a %velcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
T he 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; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth. 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to yonth| 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth 1 

XXI. 

And Lara gayed on these, sedately glad, 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 

Whose s:eps of lightness woke no echo there: 

He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long atentive eye, 

Nor mark'd a glance so sernly fix'd on his — 

111 biook'd high Ijira scrutiny like this: 

At length he caught it, 't is a'face unknown, 

But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 

I'rving and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen: 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen enquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara's glance emotion ga hering grew. 

As if dis:rusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the stranger's as|)ect, fix'd and s'em, 

Fiash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXIL 

" 'T is he ! " the stranger cried, and those that heard 

Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

" 'T is he I " — " 'T is » ho ? " they question far and 

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 guzed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
" 'T is he I — how came he thence? — what doth he 
here?" 

XXIII. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, 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 1 — further wo'uldst thou mark or ask? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
" Thou shnnn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shuK ? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel hilf her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget.'' 
With slow and searchinj stance ujxjn his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
Thev knew, or chos^e 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 sern stringer moiion'd him to stay. 
'' A word : — I charse thee s'ay. and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou n ble. were thy peer. 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
But as 'hou wa'it and art, on thee lorks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

«' Whate'er 1 1«, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee. 



Canto I.] 



LARA. 



121 



I list no further; those with whom thev weigh 

May hear the rest, ii'ir venture to gain-ay 

The woudroui .ale 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 ihoughts shill be express'd." 

And here Iheir wondering host hath interpOied — 

" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 

Thii is no time nor titling place to mar 

The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 

If thou, Sir Ezzeliii, hast aught to show 

VVhich it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 

To-ra irrow, 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, wiw returu'd alono 

From o her lands, almost a stranger grown; 

And if from Lara's blood and gentle biith 

I augur right of courage and of worth. 

He will not that untainted line belie. 

Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

" And here our several worth and truth be tried , 

I gage my life, my falchion to atest 

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 ot many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gathered, seeni'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 m flashing anger broke ; 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 

Which show'd res ilve, determined, though unknown, 

He seized his cloak — his head he sligh ly bow'd, 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd; 

And as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown, 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear bim 

down : 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot bide; 
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.speech ; 
From deeds, ind deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrmgs the unpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 
And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
His only follower from those climes afar. 
VVhere'the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lira left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty pa'ient, and sedate though young; 
Sijent'as him he served, his fai'h appears 
Above his s:alion, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard connnaml ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come. 
When Lari's lip breathed forth the words of home: 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 
Awake their alisent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abiured, for one — his friend, his all . 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 
Ugfit was his forfii, and darkly delicate 
TJSit brow whereDn his native sun had sale, 



But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shooc 

through ; 
Tet not such blush as mounts when health would ibow 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; 
But 't was a heciic 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 bhck 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 pleised not him the spons that please his age, 
'I he tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 
As all-forgotten in that watchful tr.iuce ; 
And from his chief wi hdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none; 
His walk the wood, liis >port some foreign book; 
His resting place the bank that cuibs the brook: 
He seem"d, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVIL 
If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 
His failh 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. 
Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 
His zeal, though more than that of servile bands, 
In act alone obeys his air commands ; 
As if 't was Lira's less than Ins desire 
That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
To hold the stirrup, or lo bear the sword ; 
To tune his lue, or, if he will'd it more. 
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore; 
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 
To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain. 
But that well-worn reserve which proved he kne\7 
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 cheek, 
But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays; 
A latent fierceness that far more bec.ime 
His fiery climate thin his lender 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 unfamili ir, or, if roused agiin, 
Start to the sound, as but ren.ember'd then ; 
Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake. 
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awak& 

XXVIIL 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 

And nnrk'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 

And when the cr'^wd 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 sirai ger doubly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek nf flame ; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heirt-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 

That rises .as the busv bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts' from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be ihinirs which we must dream and dare, 

And execute ere thought be half aware . 



128 



LARA. 



[Canto II. 



VVhate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To se.ll his hp, but agimse his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelm till Lara ca t 

That sidebn» smile upon ilie knight he past : 

When Kaled saw th:it smile his vi,a,'e fell, 

As if on somcihing recognised right well : 

His memory re\d 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 aloae j 

Each had so fix'd hi* e3e on Lara's mien, 

All had so mix'd their feelings wilh that scene, 

That when his 1 'ng dark shadow tnrough the porch 

No n.ore relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Becau .e the worst is ever nearest truth. 

And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 

Wilh thoughtful visage and imperious air; 

But long remaind 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 guest, 
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
Anil man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strifi;. 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
Hale's working brain, and luli'd ambition's wile; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What belter name may slumber's bed become ? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline; 
Gild for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake lo wrestle with the dread of death. 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increised, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past. 
And mumiurs rise, and Othi's brow 's o'ercaist. 
" 1 know my friend 1 his faith I cannot fear. 
If ve he be'on earth, expect him here; 
The ro f that held him in the villey stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands : 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd. 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd. 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him lo 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 frum a stranger's tongue. 
Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 
But that I deem"d him scarcely less than mad. 
Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
In lands where — but I must not trifle too: 
Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge; 
1 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's ^ge." 



CAN'lO THE SECOND. 
I. 

Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'i 
Melt into mom, and Light awaken 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 ! b=hnld her glories shine. 
And cry, exulting inly, '• They are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier. 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a ingle tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more^ nor leaf shall fall. 
Nor gile breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
Bu' creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 

n. 

Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 

The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 

'T is now the promised hour, that mns' proclaim 

The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 

When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 

And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 

His fiith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 

To meet it in the eye of mm and heayen. 

Why comes he not ? Such truths lo be divulged, 

Metbinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 
The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
Wilh self-confiding, coldly natieut air; 



1 Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 

I His glove on earth, and forth his sabre tiew. 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

I W^ith cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

j However near his own or other's tomb ; 
With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke; 

I WiTh eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

I Did Lari too his willing weapon bare. 
In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

1 For Otho's frenzy would not be oj.posed ; 

I And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

I 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
j Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
He bled, and fell ; but not ivith deadly wound, 
Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
" Demand thy life ! " He anwer'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 angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow J 
Then all was stern collectedness and art, 
Now rose the unleaven'd haired of his heart ; 
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 
That when the approaching cr0"d his arm withheld, 
He almost tiirn"d the thiisty point on those 
■Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
But to a moment's thouzht that purpose bent ; 
■Vet look'd he on him still wish eye intent. 
As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
That left a foe, howe'er o'erlhrown, with life ; 
As if to search how far the wound he gave 
Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
I Forbade all present question, sign, and speech, 
j The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
! And he, incensed, and heedless of them all, 
1 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
I In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
! He bick'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
I Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 

VL 

I But where w.as he ? that meteor of a nishf, 
I Who menaced but tn disappear with light. 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went, 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Olho long ere morn. 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 



Canto II.] 



LARA. 



129 



Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nousht, 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A ch.iniber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, hii niuriiiurinj squires distress'd ; 
Their search extends along, around the path. 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are tliere, and not a bralie haih borne, 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle toi u ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced ihe grass, 
Which Btill relains a marls where murder was: 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale. 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
When pgonised hands that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang Ihe smoothness of Ihe sward. 
Some s'ich had been, if here a life was reft. 
But these were not; and doubling hope is left; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
I Now daily mutters o'er his bl;icken'd fame ; 
Th in sudden silent when his form appear'd, 

iAv aits the absence of ihe thing it fear'd, 
Again its wonted wondering to renew. 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 
I VII. 

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are he.il'd. 
But not his pride ; and hale no more conceal d : 
He was a mah of power, and Lara's foe, 
The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 
And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence? who had made him disappear, 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
The seeming friend lessness of him who strove 
To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
The sweeping lierceness which his soul belrav'd, 
The skill with which he wielded his keen bla'de; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 
For it was not the blind capricious ra^je 
A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
But the deep working of a soul nnmix'd 
With aught of pily where its writh had fix'd ; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that 's merciless : 
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gatheiing raised at length a storm, 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 
Within that land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
Who work'd his wantonness iri form of law; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sm, 
That wai'ed but a signal to begin 
I New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but f;ies or friends ; 
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord. 
In ^vord and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
Thus Lara had inheriieJ his lands. 
And with Ihem pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
But that long absence from his native clime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime. 
And now, diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt Iheir usual awe alone. 
But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 
And eich long restless night, and silent mood, 
Was traced to sickne«s, fed by solitude ; 
And though his lonelv habits threw of late 
Glcom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 



For thence the wre'ched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, I f 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew, [I 

Cold to Ihe great, contemptuous to ihe high, I 

1 he humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; | 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And'they who waich'd might mark that, d'.y by day, 

Some new reiaintrs galher'd to his sway ; 

But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 

He pliy'd the courteous lord and bounteous host: 

Ferchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared f r his obnoxious head ; 

Whate'er his view, his favour moie obtains 

With these, the people, ihnn his fellow thanes. 

If this were policy, so far 't was sound. 

The million judged but of him as they found ; 

From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven, 

i 'J hey but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 

I By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 

t And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot; 

i With him old avarice found its hoard secure. 
With him cintempt forbore to mock the poor; 
You h present cheer and promised recompense 
Uetain'd. till all too late to part from thence: 
To hale he oftVr'd, « i h the coming change, 
The deep reversion of delav'd revenge; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match. 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but lo proclaim 
That slavery nothing which was slill a name, 
'J he moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at hst the vengeance which he sought: 
His suii.mons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 

! Fresh from their feudal fettei-s newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

j That morning he had freed the soil bound slaves, 

I Who dig no land for tyrants but Iheir graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right ; 
Religion — freedom ~ vengeance — ivhat you will, 
A word 's enough lo raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread. 
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed t 

i IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 

I The Serfs contemn'd the one, and haled both : 

I They waited but a leader, and they found 
One lo their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compell'd lo plunge again. 
In self defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut oft by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes. 
Hud Lara from that nijht, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but hot tilone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Enquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he slill delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm lh.at long his bosom kept. 
The sorm that once had spent itself ani slept. 
Roused by events that seem'd foredocir.'d to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 
Burst forth, and made him all he once iiad been, 

: And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game: 

I He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 

! And mock'd at ruin so they shared hia fate. 

j What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 

I He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 

I He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 

I But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 

! And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 

j Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 

j But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 



130 



LARA. 



[Canto II 



la voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladia or broke. 

X. 
What boots the ofl-repeated tale of strife, 
The feast of vultures, and the \va;le of life? 
The varyiug fortune of each separate field, 
The tierce thit vanquish, and ihe faint that yield? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
In this the struggle was the fame uiih all ; 
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
In bitternesa that banish'd all remoise. 
None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-plain : 
In either cause, one rage alone pnssess'd 
The empire of the alternate victor's breast; 
And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
Deem'd few were slain, while more remaiii'd to slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 
The torch was lighted, and Ihe flame was spread. 
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XI. 
Fresh with the nerve the new born impulse strung, 
The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 
But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 
They form no longer to their leader's call : 
In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
And think to snatch is to secure success. 
The lust of booty, and the thirst of bate, 
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 
To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 
In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
The hand that kindles cannot quench the tiame; 
The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 
And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the tight delay'd, 
The long privation of the hoped supply. 
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that mocks the ler\guer's art, 
And palls Ihe patience of his baffled heart. 
Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
But more preferred the fury of the strife. 
And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
And fimine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent. 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand. 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 
And thence they may escajie from native war ; 
And bear within them to Ihe neighbouring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
Hard is the ta^k their fatherland to quit. 
But harder still to perish or submit. 

XIL 
It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight; 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank? 
Away f 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear? 
'T is Otho's banner— the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those Ihe shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight: 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil. 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIIL 
A mcment's pause — 't is but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 



Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours '. to wait for their assault 
Weie fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed. 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Laia's githering breith 
How many shall but hear the voice of death 1 
i XIV. 

] His blade is bared,— in him there is an air 
' As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
■ A something of indit'.erence mon^ than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel f^r men. 
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
' And still too f lith^ul to betray one fear ; 
Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tin: expreas'd 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on bis : 
It trembled not in such an hour as this; 
His lip was silent, bcarcely beat his heart. 
His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee. 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to ibee ! " 
i The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
I Pours the liuk'd band thiough ranks asunder riven ; 
I Well has each steed obey'dUie armed heel, 
I And liash Ihe scimilat^, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumber'd. not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is miiigled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beaju. 

XV. 
Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Whe^e foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
Cheers I.nra's voice, and waves or strikes his stee., 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to I'eel. 
None fied, for well they knew that flight were vain , 
But those that waver turn to smite agnin. 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leider's look and blow: 
Now girt with numbers, now almoit alone, 
He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own ; 
I Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly— . 
I Now was the lime, he waved his hand on high, 
I And shook — Why sudden droops that plum.ed crest? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 
That fatnl gesture left the unguarded side. 
And Death" has 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 liis 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 Ihe slain ! 

XVI. 
Day glimmers on Ihe dying and the dead. 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody gir!h; 
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 pantinj thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death. 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last— to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept. 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such striigsles waste. 
But vet they reach Ihe stream, and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake— 



Canto II.] LA R A . 

It is unquench'd, ;iud yet they feel it not ; 
It \va» an agony — bu; now forget ! 

xvn. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

Where but for him that strile had never beeD, . 

A breathing but devoted warrio'- lay : | 

T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now bis only guide. 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 

And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint bre ithing waxes low, • 

In feebler, not less fatal tricUlings flow : | 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, I 

And merely arlds another throb to pain. ] 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, ' 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, i 

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, i 

Held all the light that shone on earib for him. ! 

XVIII. 
The foe arrives, who lone had search 'd the field. 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield : 
They would rennve him. but they see 't were vain. 
And he regards them with a caln»' disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate: 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed. 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed. 
And questious of his state ; he answers uot. 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue. 
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spike 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 the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 



131 



XIX. 
Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deemM young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near : 
Put from his visage little could we guess. 
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last. 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
Rose Laras hand, and pointed to the East : 
Whether (as then the breiking sun from high 
RoU'd back the cloud) the morrow ciught his eye. 
Or that "t was chance, or some remember'd scene, 
That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away. 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light. 
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
Yet sense se-m'd left, though better were its loss ; 
For when one near displayed the absolving cross. 
And prolTer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
He look'd upon it wi'h an eye profane. 
And smiled — Heaven pardon! it 'twere with dis- 
dain : 
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 ttie Wiud which held the sacred gift, 
As if'such but distuib'd ihe expiring nian. 
Nor serm'd to kaow his life but then begaL, 
1 h it life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
And dull tFie tiim along his dim eye grew ; 
His limbs stre ch'd fiUtteiiiig, and his head droo; d O'W 
The weak yet still un iriug knee ihat bore; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It btats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain. 
For that faint throb which aiis-wers not apin. 
" It beats ! "— Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXL 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And fhose around have rou.sed him from his trance, 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms Ihe 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 bis raven hair. 

But strove to sand and gaze, but rtePd and fell. 

Scarce brealhinz more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe! 

That trying moment hath at oice reveafd 

The secret long and yet but half coiiceal'd; 

In baring lo revive that lifeless breast. 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex conffss'd; 

And life return '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 mor'al slumber less profcund. 
Though priest nor bless'd cor marble deck'd the 

mound ; 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the pa>-t, 
And vain e'en menace — silent lo the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still- 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness : the stern 
Have deeper Thoughts than your dull eyes discern. 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that forni'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold. 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told, 

XXIIL 
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
Thev 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 vanisb'd in a land of strife; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood wa8^pilt, 
And Ezzeiin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his Ixt:. 

XXIV. 
Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that oross'd the intervening vale,« . 



133 LARA. 



[Canto II. 



Whei Cynthia's light almost give way to moTD, 
And nearly veiPd in mist her waning born ; 

dia. The most inlereslinE and particular arcount of it is 
given by Bunhard, and is in substance as follows: — "On 
ttie eighth day of June, the Cardinal of Valeuza and the 
Duke of Gandia, sons i.f the Pope, supped with their mo- 
ther, Vanozza, near the church of S. Pietro ad vincula; 
several other persons being present at the entertainment. 
A late hour approaching, and the cardinal having reminded 
his brother, that it was time to return to the apostolic 
palace, they mounted their horses or mnies. with only a 
few attendants, and proceeded together as far as the palace 
of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the Duke informed the 
cardinal that, before he return*-d home, he had to pay a 
visit of pleasure. Dismissing, therefore, all his attend- 
ants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a person in 
a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at supper, and 
who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, previous 
to this time, had called upon him almost daily, at the 
apostolic palace, he took this person behind him on his 
mule, and proceeded to the street of the Jews, where he 
quitted his servant, directing him to remain there until a 
certain hour; when, if he did not return, he might repair 
to the pilace. 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 hiving 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 befallru 
his master. In the morning, the Duke not having re- 
turned to the palace, his servants beg^n to be alarmed : 
and one of them informed the pontiff of the evening ex- 
cursion nf 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 hud been attracted by 
some courtesan to pais the night with her, and, not 
choosing to quit the house in open day. had wailed till the 
following evening to return home. When, however, the 
evening arrived, and he found himself disappointed in bis 
expectations, he became deeply atHicted, and began to 
make enquiries from different person*, whom he ordered 
to attend him for that purpose. Amongst these was a man 
named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some 
timber from a baik in the river, hud remained on board 
the vessel to watch it ; and being interrogated whether he 
had seen any one thrown into the river on the night pre- 
ceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who 
came down the street, and looked diligently about, to ob- 
serve whether any person was passing, that seeing no 

came, and looked around in the same manner as the for- 
mer : no person still appearing, they gave a sign to their 
companions, when a man rame. mounted on a white 
horse, having behind him a dead b-idy, the head and arms 
of which hung on one side, and the feet on the other side 
of the horse; the two persons on fo'>t supporting the txKly, 
to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded towards that 
part, where the tilth of the city is u.-ually dischaigcd 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 all their strength flung it into the river. 
The person un 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 float- 
ing on the stream, he enquired what it was that appeared 
black, to which they answered, it was a mantle ; and one 
of them threw stones upou it, in consequence of which it 
sunk. The attendants of the pontiff then enquired 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 enquiry being made respecting 
them; and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a 
matter of any importance. The fishermen and seamen 
were then collected, and ordered to search the river 
where, on the following evening, they found the body of 
the Duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his 
purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which 
was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and 
limbs. No sooner wag the ponlifT informed of the death 
of his son, and that he had been thrown, like tilth, into 
the river, than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself 
up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Se- 
govia, and other attendants on the Pope, went ti the 
door, and after many hours spent in persuasions and ex- 
hortations, prevailed upon him to admit them. From the 
evening of Wednesday till the fnllowing Saturday the Pope 
took no focyd; nor did he sleep from Thursday moining till 
the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, 



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 L-^ra'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 head, and hidden was his brow. 

Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 

And some foreboding that it might be crime, 

Himself unheeded walch'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, 

'Ihen paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd l« 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that f.ow'd, 
As if even yet too much its suiface sliow'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 gatherd there. 
And slung them w ilh a more than common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely maik what this might mean; 
He cnught a glimpse, as of a floatiug breast, 
And something gliiter'd s'arlike on the vest; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant Irunki 
A imssy fragment smo e it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view. 
And left the waters nf a purple hue. 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
Till cbb'd the latest eddy it had raided ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
Such is the badge that knishthood ever wore, 
And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon Ihe night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he pet ish'd. Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiicover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwi;U 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone. 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all eSbrts vair.Iy strove to wean 
1 From lingering where her chiefiain's blood hai been ; 
Grief tiad so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious wou'd 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 wcary moments there. 
She talk'd all idly unio shapes of air. 
Such as the busy brain nf Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond com[>Uints: 
And she would sit beneath Ihe very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall. 
His words, his looks, his dyini 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 Ihe ground, 
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and becKon him to fly 
From sonie imasined spectre in pursuit; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her vis'ge with her measre hand. 
Or trace stranse characters along Ihe sand — 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 

giving way to the entreaties of his nttendants, he began to 
restrain his sorrow, and to consider the injury which his 
own healih might sustain by the further indulgence of his 
grief.-- nOSCOE'S Leo Tenth, vol. i. p. 265. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



133 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH/ 

TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, Esq. 
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BYHIS FRIEND. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

•' The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di 
Romania, the most considerable place in all that coun- 
try,' thought it best in ihe first place to attack Corinth, 
upon uhich they made several storms. The garrison 
bein» weakened, and Ihe governor seein; it was im- 
possible to hold out against so nii;hty a force, thought 
it fit to beat a pirley: but while they were treating 
about the articles, one nf the magizines in the Turkish 
camp, wherein they h\d six hundred barrels of pow- 
der, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hun- 
dred men were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, 
that they would not grant any capitulation, but storm- 
ed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and 
put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the 
governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio 
Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners 
of war."— /fulory of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



In the year since Jesus died for men, 

Eighteen hundred years and ten, 

We were a gallant company. 

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh 1 but we went merrily ! 

We forded the river, and'clomb the high hill, 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, 

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 

Or stretch'd on Ihe beach, or our saddles spread 

As a pillow beneath Ihe resting head, 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow: 

All our thoujh's and words had scope. 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, or I mi«-say, of neither ; 
Yet throujh 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, 



1 Publisbi!d in January, 1816. 

i Napoli di Rnmanla is n»t now the mnst ronsiderable 
place in Ihe M.rea, but Trip..litza, where the Pacha re- 
Bidea, and maintains his government. Napnii is near 
Argos. I visiied all three in 1810-11 ; and, in the course 
of journeying through the country front my firj^t arrival 
in lt09, I cro sed the Isthmus eig"it limes in my way 
from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains; or in the 
other direction, when passing from Ihe Gulf of Athi-ns to 
that of Lepanto. Both Ihe routes are picturesque and 
iKantiful. though very different : that by sea has moie 
sameness; but the voyage being always within sight of 
land, and often very near it, presents many attractive 
Tiews of the islands Salamis, Egina, Poro, ice, and the 
eoaet of the Continent. 



And some are rebels on the hills 3 

That look along Epirus' valleys. 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far countree. 
And some all resllessly at home ; 

But never more, oh I 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 main, 
And bear my spirit bick again 
Over Ihe earth, and through the air, 
A wild bird and a wanderer. 
'T is Ibis 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 novy, 
And sit with me on Aero- Corinth's brow ? 

I. 

Many a vanish'd year and age, 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 

Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet <he stands, 

A fortress form'd to Freedoms hands. 

The whiihvind's wrath, the earthquake's sbiKk, 

Have left untouched 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'erfloiv 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all Ihe slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon tower capp'd Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cilhasron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore f>f ei'her 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 ; 
Ard far and wide as eye can reach 
The turband cnhnrls I'hrong Ihe beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels. 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 



3 The last tidings recently heard of Dervish fone of the 
Arnaoulswho follnwed me) state him to be in revolt upon 
the mountains, at Ihe head of some r.f the bands 
in that country in times of trouble. 

4 Turkish holders of milit.iry fiefs, which oblige thi 
to join the army, mounted at their own expense. — E. 



12 



134 



THE SIEGE OF CORIP^TH. 



The Turcoman hath left his herd, i 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smooiher to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's brea h 
Wings ihe far-his-in^ gl )Ue of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wail 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 vrall 
Of those who wi-^h and work iis fall, 
With deeper skill in wars black art. 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever Mood"" 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sillying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Alighting clieerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
The first and fre-hest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
Or whirl around the bickering blade j — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade I 

IV. 
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 manv a change had Corinth pass'd 
With Greece to Venice* rule at last ; 
And here, before her walls, with those 
To Greece and Venice ei]ual foes, 
He stood a foe, with all 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 — " Ihe Free ;" 
And in the palace of St. Mark 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the " Linn's mouth' had placed 
A charge against him unelfaced : 
He tied in time, and saved his life, 
To waste his future years in strife. 
That taught his land" bow great her loss 
In him who tnumph'd o'er the Cross, 
'Gains' which he rear'd the Crescent high. 
And battled to avenge or die. 

V. 
Coumourgi 3 — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 



IThe life of Ihe Turrnmana is wandering and patri- 
arrhal : tlivy dwell in lenta. 

2 Ali Coumourei, the favonrite cf three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier tn Act met III., after recovering Pelrponue- 
8U8 from Ihe Venetians in one campaign, was mortally 
wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the battle 
of Peterwaradin (in l*ie plain of Carlnwilz). in Hungary, 
endeavnuriuK tn rally his guard*. He died of his wnnnds 
next day. His la.^t order wa» the decapitation of General 
Brenner, and some other Germac pri^-nners; and his last 
words, **Oh that I rould thus serve all the Christian 
dogs ! " a speech and act not unlike one of CaliRula. He 
was a younc man of (>rcat ambition and unbniiuded pre- 
sumption • on beine told that Prince EiiRene, then opposed 
to hira. " vfas a great general." be said, ■■ I shall twcome a 
ireater. and at bis expense," 



When on Carlowitz' bloodv plain, 
he last and mightiest of the sUia, 
He sank, regretting not to die. 
But cursed the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can hi- glory cease. 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restora 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roli'd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway j 
And now he led the Mussulman, ' 
And gave Ihe guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid Ihe trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust ; . 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them pourd the ceaseless shot. 

With un.ibating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder like the peiling din 

Rose from each healed culverin; 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb J 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The fiame, av loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 

Imi)ervious to the hid'den sun, 

With volumcd smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 

But not for vengeance, Inng delay'd. 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
The Moslem wirriors s ernly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach: 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win, wiihout consent 
Of that inexorable sire. 
Whose heart refused him in its ire. 
When Alp, beneath his ChrisTjan name, 
Her virgin hand aspired lo claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time, 
VVhile uninipeich'd for traitorous crime^ 
Gayest in goi.dola or hall. 
He gliiter'il through the Carnival; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

Vlll. 

And many deem'd her heart was won , 
For sought by numbers, given to none. 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds uuehain'd : 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lnnciotto to the Paynim shore. 
Her wonted smiles were seen lo fail, 
And pensive wax'd the miid and pale; 
More constant at confessional. 
More rare at m.asque and festival : 
Or seen at such, " i h downcast eyes. 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize. 
With listless look she seems lo gaze : 
With humbler care her form arrays; 
Her voice less lively in the song ; 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The pair.', on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated witn the dance. 

IX. 

Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand. 
While Sobieski tamed his piide 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



35^ 



The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Eubcei s bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying: eye of Peace 
Pmiled o'er her long-forgolten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
With him his gentle daughter came ; 
Nor there, since Meiielau^' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love. 
Had fairer form adornd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 



The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass ^liall vault 
The foremost of the tierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
I'he full of hnpe, misnamed " forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
And win Iheir way with falchion's force, 
Or pave the way with many a corse. 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 

XI. 

'T is midnight : on the mountnins brown 
The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky- 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining 
And turn'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce Iheir foam the pebbles shook. 
But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
The banners droop'd along their staves, 
And, as they fell around them furling. 
Above them shone ihe crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was utibroke, 
Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
And echo answer'd from the hi!!. 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Kustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
T was musical, but sadly sweet, 
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet. 
And take a long unmeasured tone, 
To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
It seem'd to those wihin the wall 
A cry prophetic of their fall : 
It struck even the besieger's ear 
With something ominous and drear, 
An undefined and sudden thrill. 
Which makes the heart a moment still. 
Then be.at with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 
The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 
The watch was set, the night-round made, 
All mandates issued and obey'd : 
T is but another anxious night, 
Hi« paius the morrow may "requite 



With all revenge and love can pay, 

III guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters rolU 

He stood alone among the host; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 

The stern exaltedness of zeal. 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betray'd ; 

He stood alone amidst his band. 

Without a trusted heart or hand : 

They follow'd him, for he was brave. 

And gre^t the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will : 

But still his Christian origin 

With ihem was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 

Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 

When baffled feelings withering droop; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stem; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the wont, 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 

The jackal point's, he fells the prey. 

Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 
His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
'1 he quick successive throbs convulse ; 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose; 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunkfn heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd. 
The mail %veigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy. 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed. 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Wilhin his tent to wait for day. 
But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
Where thousand sleepers strcw'd the stran I. 
What pillow'd them? and why should he 
More wakeful thT.i the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A niirht of sleep, perchance their last. 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 
He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent skv, though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepaiito's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly goae< 



136 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Along the §ulf, the mount, the clime; 
It will not mell, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swe[)t away, 
Less forniM to wear before the riy ; 
But ihat whi'e veil, the lightest, frailest. 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled. 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh ! still her s!ep nt moments falters 
()"er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars. 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token : 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remeniber'd rays, 
Which shone upon the Persian Hying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
And through this night, as on he wander'd, 
And 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 and 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 I hem to the lawless siege, 
I Whose best success were sacrilege. 

I Not so had those his fancy number'd, 

i The chiefs whose du^t around him slumber'd ; 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain. 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying ; 
The very gale their names seem'd sighmg ; 
The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and grey, 
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain. 
Their memory sparkled o'er the founlaiu ; 
The meanest rill, the mijhtiest river 
Roird mingling with their fame for ever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears. 
That land is gloiy's still and theirs! 
'T i^ 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 Ihat tideless sea,' 
Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
So Ihat 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 biy, 
On their c^>urse 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 mav be seen below, 
On the line that it left long ag-s ago : 
A smooth short space of yellow sand 
Between it and tha greener land. 
He wander'd on, along the beach. 
Till within the range of a carbine's reach 



Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grown stitf, or their hearts wax'd 

cold ? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash 'd no tire, and there hiss'd no bail. 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That tlank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
Though he heard Ihe sound, and could almoit fell 
The sullen words of the sentinel. 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er Ihe dead their carnival, 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and lirab ; 
They uere loo busy lo bark at him I 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 
As ye peel the fig when it's frui! is fresh ; 
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter 

skull, 2 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge 

grew dull. 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When thev scarce could rise from the r-pot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for ihat night's repast 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roU'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,3 
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 tum'd him from the sickening sight : 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight; 

But he better could brook to behofd 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 dc itb may lower ; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead. 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air. 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 

All regarding man as their prey. 

All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 
Fashion"d by long forgotten hands ; 
Two or three columns, and many a stone. 
Marble and srariite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
Of the things to come than the things befoi^e ! 

2 Tliis spectacle I have seen, Buch as described, tienrath 
the wall of (tie Seraelio at Cr>n^talllinnple. in Ihe lillle 
cavities worn by Ihe Bnspliorus in Ihe rock, a narrow ter- 
race of which projects between the wall and llie water. 
I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhou>e's Travels. 
The bodies were probibly those of some refractory Jani- 
zaries. — ["The sensations produced by the stale of the 
weather, and leaving a cumforlable cabin, were in unison 
with Ihe impressions which we felt when, passing under 
the palace of the Sultans, and gazins at the gloomy 
cypresses which rise above the walls, we saw two dog» 
gnawing a dead body."— HOBHOUSE. — E.) 

3 This tuft, or lonp lock, is left fnm a superstition thd 
Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



137 



Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

flul enough of the past lor ihe fulure lo grieve, 

U'er that which halb been, and o'er tliat which must 

be: 
What we have seen, our sons shall ses ; 
Remnants of things that have pass"(l away, 
Fragmeats of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 
He sate him down at a pillar's base. 
And pass'd his hand athwart hi^ face; 
Like oue in dreary musing mood, 
Declining was his attitude ; 
His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd ; 
Ai.d o'er his brow, so downward ben , 
Olt his beating fingers went, 
Hurriedly, as you may see 
Your own run over the ivory key, 
Ere the measured tone is taken 
By the chords you would awaken. 
Tliere he sate all heavily. 
As he heard the night-M ind sigh. 
Was it the wind through some hollow stone, 
Sent that soft and tender moan ? i 
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 liag lay still, 
So did the le ives on Ci hasron's hill, 
And he felt not a breath corne over his cheek J 
What did that sudden souud bespeak ? 
He turn'd to the left — is he suie of Mght ? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up with 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 aniiament ? " 

His Iremblmg hands refused to sign 

The cross he ueem'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 Francesci by his side. 

The maid who might have been his bride! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wav.; it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill. 

Around her form a thin robe twining. 

Nought conceil'd her bosom shining; 

Through Ihe puling 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. 



1 I mu8t here acknowledge a clnRe. though uninten 
tional. resemblance in llicne twelve lines to a passage in I 
an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Chrisla- 
bel." It was not till after these lines were written that 
I beard that wild and eingutarly original and beautiful i 
P'jem recited: and the MS. of that prodoclion I never 
saw till Very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge i 
himself, who, I hope, ietonvinced that I have not been a I 
wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains 
to .Mr. Coleridge, whise poem has been comi<«ed atxjve 
fourteen years. Let me conclude by a h>pe that he will 
not '.onger delay the publication of a production, of which 
I can only add my mite of approbation to the opplause of 
far more competent Judges. 



XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best. 

That 1 may be liappy, and he m ly be bless'd. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 

Sought thee in saiely through foes and all. 

'T IS said the lion will turn and hee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Fower on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 

Hath extended its mercy to giiard me as well 

From the hands of the leagiiering iulidel. 

1 come — and if I cjme in vain, 

Never, oh never, v.e meet again! 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

In falling away from tliy fathers' creed : 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; 

Wring llie black drop from thy heart. 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

" And where slwuld our bridal couch be spread? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 

For to niorrow we give to Ihe slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Chrisliau name. 

Noi;e, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Shall be kfl upon the morn: 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be joiu'd, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yel shall be my bride. 
When once again I 've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her haled race 
Have felt Ihe arm they would deba-ie. 
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 chillness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start 

Though slight was Ihit grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on Ihe pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin hngers long and white. 

Froze through his blood by their tuuch that night. 

The feverish gloi\- of his brow was gone, 

And bis heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the f^ce, aid beheld its hue, 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faii.t — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each featuie play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 

'J hough her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd. 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'tl 

With aught of change, as Ihe eyes may seem 

Of Ihe res less who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like Ihe figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Siri'd by Ihe breath cf Ihe wintry air. 

So seen by Ihe dyii g lamp's fi ful light. 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful lo sight; 

As they seem, through the dimness about to come 

down 
From the shadony wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
As the gusts on Ihe tapestry come and go. 

" If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,— 

Again 1 say — that turban tear 

From off I'hy faithless brow, and swear 

Tli;ne injured country's sons to spare. 

Or th'iu art lost ; and never shall see — 

Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost .accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 'I is thine lo meet. 

That doom shall half absolve thv sin. 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within t 



12 



138 



THE SIEGE OF CORIJSTH. 



But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, aud see 
lis love f;)r ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — i 
'T is passing, and will pass full soun — 
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 aveiijed ; 
Dark will thy doom be, dirker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

1 he sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and luru'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

Rolld like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy '. Ht 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 cliud were thunder's worst. 

And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He wach'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— 'I is too late : 

The reed in storms may bovr and quiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

Wh>t Venice made me, I must be, 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fiy with mel " 

He turn'd, but she is jone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 

He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there. 

XXII. 
The nizht is past, and shines the sun 
As if that morn were a jocund one. 
Lightly and brightly bre iks away 
The Morning from her mantle grey. 
And the Noon will bok on a sultry day. 
Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn. 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hunu 
And the clash, and the shout, •' They come ! they 
come ! " 



1 1 have been told that the idea expressed in this and 
Ihe five following lines has been admired by those whose 
approbation is valuable. I am elad of it : but it is not 
original — at least not mine; it may be round much better 
expressed in pages 182-3-4. of ihe EiiKlish version of 
" Valhefc" (I forget the precise page of the French), a 
work to which I have before referred; and never rerur to, 
or read, without a renewal of gratification. — [The follow- 
ing is the passage:— "• Deluded prince!' said the Genius 
addressing the Caliph. Mo whom Providence hath confided 
the rare of innumerable suhjecls; is it thus that Ihou 
fulfilleit thy mission 3 Thy crimes are already compiled ; 
and art thoa now hastening to thy punishment 3 Thou 
knowe^t that beyond those mountains Eblis and his 
accursed dives hod their infernal empire ; and, seduced bv 
a malignant phantom, thou art proceeding to surrender 
thyself to them'. This moment is the last of grm e 
allowed thee: give back Nouronahar to her father, who 
gtill retains a few sparks of life: destroy thy tower, with 
all its abominations: drive Caralhis from thy councils: 
be just to ihy subjects: respect the ministers of the pro- 
phet: compensate for thy impieties by au exemplary life; 
and, instead of squanderinz thy days in voluptuous indul- 
gence, lament Ihy crimes on the sepulchres of Ihy ances- 
tors. Thou behoklest Ihe clouds that obscure Ihe sun : at 
Ihe Instant he recovers his splendour, if thy heart be not 
cbaoged, the time of mer:y assigned thee will be past 
for eTer. "•] — £. 



The horsetails i are pluck'd from the ground, and 

the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for 

the wo.d. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your ten s, and throng lo the van ; 
Mouut ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
'i'hat the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breiks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bloodstain Ihe breach through which they pass. 
The seeds are all bridled, and snort to the reinj 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam ot their champ on the bit ; 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed and ready tu 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 Ihe blade of his scimitar ; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
T he vizier himself at the head of the host. 
When the culveiin's sign.al is fired, then on j 
Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

f;iil ? 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! " 
Thus utier'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
The reply wos the brandish of sibre and spear, 
And the shout of tierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
Silence — hark to the signal — lire ! 

xxin. 

As the wolves, thit headlong go 

On the stately buffalo, 

1 hough with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore. 

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 

'1 he foremos', who rush on his strength but to die: 

Thus against the wall they went. 

Thus the first were backward bent; 

Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 

S:rew'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 Ihe 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. 

XXIV. 
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
From the clitfs invading dash 
Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
Till white and thundering down they go. 
Like the avalanche's snow 
(tn the Alpine vales below ; 
Thus at length, ouibreathed and worn, 
Corinth's sons were downward borne 
By Ihe long and oft reuew'd 
Charge of ihe Moslem multitude. 
In firmness ihev stood, and in masses they fell, 
Heap'd by Ihe host of the infidel, 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
Stroke, and thrust, and tlash, and cry 
For quarter, or for victory, 
Minzle there with the volleying thunder, 
Which makes the distmt cities wonder 
How the sounding battle goes. 
If with them, or for their foes ; 



1 The horeetails, fixed apnn a lance, a pacha's 



Jl 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH, 



139 



If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice. 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You mi;ht hive heird it, on thit day, 

O'er Silamis and Mejrira ; 

(We have heaid the tiearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus' bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encouoterin; blades to the hilt. 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; 

But the rampirt is won, and the spoil b^^n, 

And all but the after carnige 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 j 

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 brun" of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounde< 

Though retreating unsuiro-.m td. 

Many a scar of former tight 

Lurk"d beneath his corslet bright ; 

But of every wound his body bore, 

Each and ail had been tn'en before: 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb. 

Few of our youth could cope wi'h hiir 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at tuy, 

Outnumber'd his ihin hairs of silver grey. 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore. 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire: 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath m.ide many a childle^ foe; 

And since the day, when in the st<:aitl 

His only boy had met his fate. 

His parent's iron hind did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotii's son. who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before I 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore ; 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; 
But Ihey live in the verse that immortally saves. 

XXVI. 
Hark to the Alhh shout ! a band 
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand: 
Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
Swif'er to smi'e, and never to spare — 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; 
Thus in the fish! is he ever known : 
Others a gaudier earb may show, 
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; 
Many a hand 's on a richer hilt. 
But none on a s'eel more ruddily gilt ; 
Many a loftier turban may wear. — 
Alp is but known bv the white arm bare ; 
Look through the thick of the fight, 't is there! 



There is not a standard on that shore 
So well advanced the ranks before; 
There is not a banner in Moalem war 
Will lure the Delhis half so far; 
It glances Ifke a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen. 
The bravest be, or la'te 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, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! 

Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

«' She is safe."—" Where ? n here ? " — " In heaven ; 

From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled. 



" Oh God ! when died she ? " — " Yesternight - 

Nor weep 1 for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Maijomet and thee — 

Come on ; " — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp 's already with the slsin ! 

While Minot'i's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the lime 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 ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel. 

Round he spun, and down he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise. 

And then eternal darkne&s sunk 

Through all the palpi-aring trunk ; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slizh'ly shivering: 

They lurn'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 therf. wis 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, 

UnanePd he pass'd away, 

Without a hope from mercy's aid, 

To the last — a Renegade. 

xrvm. 

Fearfully the yell arose 
Of his followers, and his foes; 
These in joy, in fury tho^e : 
Then again in conflict mixing. 
Clashing swords, and speirs transfixing. 
Interchanged the blow and thrust. 
Hurling warriors in the dust. 
Street by itreet, and foot by foot, 
Still Minciti dares dispute 



140 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



The latest portion of the hnd 
Left beneath hi* high coinniand ; 
With him, aiding heart and hand, 
The remnant of liis valiant bind. 
Still the church is enable. 

Whence iss-jed late the fated ball 

That half avenged the city's fall, 
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell: 
Thither bendin? sternly back. 
They leave before a bloody track j 
And, with their faces to the foe, 
Dealing wounds with every blow. 
The chief, and his retreating train. 
Join to those within the fane ; 
There they yel nny breathe awhile, 
Shclter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time! the turban'd host, 
Wi!h adding ranks and laging 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 ine Christians yielded not ; 
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and fiy ; 
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 unthmn'd, though slaughter'd still j 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still reuew'd attacks: 

And now the Olhmans gain the gate; 

Still resists its iron weight. 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower: 

But the portal wavering grows and weak 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar stone: 

Madonna's face upon him shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

Wi h eyes of light and looks of love , 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine, 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles. 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles; 

Minoiti lifted his aged eye. 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Then seized a torch which bhzed thereby ; 

And still he stood, while with steel and tlame, 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaulls 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 cres's, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins iliti'use, 

Were smear'd, and slipiierv — stainM. and strown 

With broken swords, and helms o'erhrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a cofl'in'd row ; 

You might see tliem piled in sable state. 

By a pale light through a gloomy gra e; 

But War had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treisures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 



Here, throughout the siege, had been 
T he Christians' chiefest magazine; 
To these a late form'd train'now led, 
Minotii'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 lifele-s head, 
And fell the statues from their niche. 
And sp'il the shrines of olFerings rich. 
And froni each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
To the high altar on they go ; 
Oh, but it made a gl^nous show ! 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold ; 
Massy and deep, a glitlerini; prize, 
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
That morn it held the holy wine. 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
Whi^li his woi shippers drank at the break of day, 
To shrive their souls ere they join'd io the fray. 
Still a few drops within it lay; 
And round the sicred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast; 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

xxxin. 

So near they came, the nearest stre'ch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd. 

When pld Minotti's hand 
Touch'd wi h the torch the train — 

'T is fired ! 
Spire, vaulls, the shrine, the spoil, the slain. 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
HurI'd on hisrh with the ^hiver■d fane. 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a mnnjent backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand slnpeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

Bv that tremendous blast — 
Procla'im'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too lo g 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 spri lUai 
With a thousand circling wrinkles; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, vihich 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, 
Li'tle deem'd she such a day 
Wmild rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more; 
That one moment left no tr:ice 
More of human form or face, 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and manv a falling stone, 
I in the clay. 
1 there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
The deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 



PARISINA. 



141 



The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And ho.-vling left the unburied dead ; 
The cajnels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh. 
Deep niouth'd arose, and doubly harsh; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
Where echo'roU'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gatherd cry,l 
Bay'd from afar complaiaingly. 



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 assailM his startled beak. 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor he«:d 
ttiese animiils; but amoi/g the ruins of Ephesus I ha»e 
heaid them by hutiitUs. They haunt ruius, and follow 
I believe I have taken a poetical license tc transpluut j armies. 



PARISINA/ 



TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES,Esa 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED 

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times, the 
delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek 
dramatists, and some of the best of our old English 
writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and 
Schiller hive also been, more recently, upon the Con- 
tinent. The following extract will explain the ficts 
on which the story is founded. The nime of Jzo 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- 
sina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant 
youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sen- 
tence of a father and husband, who published his shame, 
and survived their execution.s He was unfortunate, 
if they were guilty : if they were innocent, he was 
still more unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situ.a- 
lion in which I can sincerely approve" the last act of 
the justice of a pirent." — GIBBON'S Miscellaneous 
Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 

The facts on which the present poem was grounded 
are thus given in Frizzi's History of Ferrara : — 

" This turned out a cilamitous year for the people of 
Ferrara ; for there occurred a very tngical event in 
the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed 
and in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolish 
ed and nesrligent work of Sardi, and one other, have 
given the following relation of it,— from which, how- 
ever, are rejected many details, and e5f>ecially the nar- 
rative of Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, 
and who does not accord with the contemporary his 
lorians. 

'• By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the 
Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a 
beautiful and ingenuout youth. Parisina Malatesta, 
lecnnd wife of Nicco'^, like the generality of step- 
mothers, treated him wilh lit;le kindness, to the infinite 
I regret of the Marquis, who regarded him with fond- 

2 Publiahpd in January, 1818. 

S '-Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated; but the 
castle still i-xists entire: and I saw the court where Pari- 
•ica and Hugo were bcheadeil, according to the annal of 
Gibbon."— Cjron'i Letters, 1817. — E. 



partiality. One day she asked leave of her husband to 
undertake a certain journey, to which he consented, 
but upon condition that Ugo should bear her company ; 
for he hoped by lhe,e means (o induce her, in the end, 
to lay .aside the obstinate aversion which she had con- 
ceived against him. And indeed his intent was accom- 
plished but too well, since, during the journey, she not 
only divested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the 
opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis had 
no longer any occasion to renew his former reproofs. 
It happened one day that a servant of the Marquis, 
named Znese, or, .as some call him, Giorgio, passing 
before the apartments of Parisina, saw going cut from 
them one of her chimber-maids, all terrified and in 
tears. Asking the reason, she (old him that her mis- 
tress, for some slight otience. had been beating her: 
and, giving vent to her rage, she added, that she could 
easily be revenged, if she chose to make known the 
criminal familiarity which subsisted between Parisina 
and her step-son. The servant tofik note of the words, 
and related them to his mister. He was astounded 
thereat, but. scarcely believing his ears, he assured 
himself of the (act, alas 1 loo clearly, on the 18lh of 
May, by looking through a hole made in the ceiling of 
his wife's chamber. Ins'antly he broke into a furious 
rase, and .arrested both of them, together with Aldo- 
brandino Rangoni, of Modeiia, her gentleman, and 
also, as some say, t"o of the women of her chamber, 
as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pro- 
nounce sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the 
culprits. This sentence was death. Some there were 
that bestirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, 
and, amongst others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all 
powerful wi'h Niccolo, and also his aged ard much 
deserving minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, 
th.-ir tears flowing down their cheeks, and upon their 
knees, implored him for mercy ; adducing whatever 
reasons they could suggest for sparing the offenders, be- 
sides those motives of honour and decency which 
might persuade him to conceal from the public so 
scandalous a deed. But his rage made him inflexible, 
atd, on the instant, he commanded that the sentence 
si )uld be put in execution. 

" It was, (hen, in the prisons of the castle, and ex- 
actly in those frightful dungeons which are seen at thii 
day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot 
of the Linn's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, 
that on the iiicht of the 21st of May were beheaded, 
first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that 
accused her, conduced the latter under his arm to the 



142 



PARISIJN A, 



place of punishment She, all along, fancied that she j 
was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, | 
whether she was yet come to the spot ? She was told 
that lier punishnieut was the axe. She enquired what 
was become of Ugo. and received for answer, that he 
was already dead, at the wiiich, sighiug grievously, 
she exclaimed, ' Now, then, 1 wish not myself to 
live ;' and, bemg come to the bl^cli;, she s ripped her- 
self with her mvn hands of all her ornaments, and, 
wrapping a cloth round her bead, submitted to the 
fatal stroke, which terminated the cruel scene. The : 
same was done with Rangoid, 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 ihe women. 

•' The Marquis kept watch Ihe whole of thit dread- 
ful night, and, as he was walking backwards and for- 
wards, enquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo 
was dead yet ? who answered him, yes. He then gave ; 
himself up to the most desperate lamentations, ex- 1 
claiming, 'Oh! that 1 too were dead, since 1 have, 
been hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo I ' : 
And then gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had ; 
in his hand, he p.issed the rest of the night in sighs and ; 
in tears, calling frequently upon his own dear Ugo. I 
On Ihe following dav, calling to mind that ii would be 
necessary to m.ke public his justification, seeing that, 
the transaction could not be kept secret, be ordered the , 
narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it tOi 
all the courts of Italy. 

•'On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice,! 
Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing, 
his reasons, that slop should be put to the preparations . 
for a tournament, which, under Ihe auspices of the 
Manjuis, and at the expense of the city of I'adua, was ; 
about to take place, in the square of St. Ma'ik, in order i 
to celebrate hi^ advancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquii, in addition to what he hid already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, I 
commanded Ihat as many of the married women as 
were well known to him to be faithless, like his Pari- 
sin.a, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, 
Barberim, or, as some call her, Laodamia Rjmei, wife 
of the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the 
usual place of executi n ; that is to say, in the quarter 
of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond 
St. Paul's. It caDLOt be told how strange appeared 
this proceeding in a prince, who, considering his own 
disposition, should, as ii seemed, have been in such 
cases most indulgent. Some, however, there were 
who did not fail to commend him." 

The above passage of Frizzi was translated by Lord 
Byron, and formed a closing note to the original edi- 
tion of "Parisina." — E. 



PARISINA. 



I. 

It 13 Hie liour when from the boughs 

The nightingale's high note is heard j 
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 Ihe st.irs are met,' 
And on the wave is deeper blue, 
And on the leaf a browner hue, 
And in the heaven that clear obscure. 
So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
Which follows Ihe decline of day. 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away, l 

IThe lines coD'ained in this section were printed as set 
tt music some time since, but belnuged to the poem where 
they now appear ; the greater pari of which was com- i 
potei prior lo " Lara." 



II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall 

And it is iiot to ga/e on Ihe heavenly light 

That the .ady w .Iks in 'he shadow of night j 

And if .ne sits in Este's bower, 

'1 IS not for Ihe sake of its full-blown flower — 

She: listens — but not for the nightingale — 

'I'hough her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There gl.dei a step through the foli-.ge thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and hir heart beati 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her b jsom heaves : 
A moment more — and they shall meet — 
'X is paa — her lover 's at her feeU 

III. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things— its eaith and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath; 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for e;ich other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

'1 he hearts which feel its fiery sway ; 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In Ihat tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas ; we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 

IV. 
With many a lingering look they leave 

1 he spot of guilty gladness past : 
And th jugh they hope, and vow, they grieve, 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that the e would cling for ever, 
While gicams on P risina's face 

The Heaven she fe rs w ill not forgive ber, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afa:- — 
The frequent sigh, Ihe long embrace, 
Vet binds them to their trystingplace. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of he,irt. 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of lU. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed. 

To covet here another's biide; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trutting heart beside. 
But feverd in her sleep she seems. 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her uurest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her Lord unto the breast 
Which panis 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. 

VL 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart. 
And listened to each broken word : 

He hears — why doth Prince Azo start. 
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 



r 

! 


PARISINA. 143 i 


( 


And well he may — a deeper rioom i 


A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 


1 


Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 


And made her quarrel all their own. 


1 


When lie shall wake to sleep no more, 


Now,— what is she ? and « hat are they ? 


1 


And stand ibe eternal throne before. 


Can she command, or these obey ? 




And well he may - his earthly peace 


All silent and unheeding now, 




Upon that sound is dooni'd to cease. 


With downcast eyes and knitting brow. 




'1 hat sleeping whisper of a name 


And folded arms, and freezing air. 




Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 


And lips that scarce their scorn forbeir. 




And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 


Her knights, her dames, her court — is there : 




Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 


And he, ihe ctiosen one, whose lauce 




Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 


Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 




And dashes oi, the pointed rock 


■\Vho — were his arm a moment free — 




The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 


Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 


1 


So came upon his sjul the shock. 


The minion of his father's bride,— 




And wliose that name ?— 't is Huso's,— his — 


He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 


' : In sootb he had not deem'd of IhF, ! — I 


Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 




'T is Huso's,— he, the child of one 


Less for her own despair than nim : 




He loved — his owu all-evil sou — 


Those lids— o'er which the violet vein 




The oBspring of his wayward youth, 


Wandering, leaves a tender stain. 




When he beiray'd Bianca's truth, 


Shining through the smoothest white 




The maid whose folly could confide 


That eer did softest kiss invite — 




In him who made her nut his bride. 


Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 




VII. 


Which glance so heavily, and fill. 




He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
But sheath'd it ere the point was bare 


As tear on tear grows gathering still. 




XI. 

And be for her had also wept. 




Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, uotsmiling — 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 dimp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd - 




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 w ould not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he d;.red not look on her; 
Remembrance of Ihe hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 




While, in his thought, her days are uumber'd. 


His father's wrath- all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fite — 




VIII. 


And hers,— oh, hers ! he dared not throw 




And with the morn he sought and found, 
In many a tale from those around, 
The proof of all he fear'd to know, 


One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 




Their present guilt, his fu ure woe ; 


XIL 




The long-conniving d .msels seek 
To save themselves, and would transfer 


And Azo spake : —"But yes'erday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass'd away ; 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone; 
Well,— let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 




The guilt — the shame — the doom — to hers 
Concealment is no more — they speak 




All circumstance which may compel 
lull credence lo the lale they tell : 




And Azo's tortured henrt and ear 




Have nolhing more to feel or hear. 


'J hose ties are broken — not by me ; 




IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 


Let f hat too.pass ; — the doom 's prepared ! 




Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
And then — thy crime's reward ! 

Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
Before its evening stars are met — 

Learn if thou there canst be forgiven : 




Within the chamber of his state. 
The chief of Eite's ancient sway 




Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 




His nobles and his guards are there,— 


Its mercy may absolve thee vet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath. 




Before him is the sinful pair; 




Brith young,— and one how passing fair ! 


There is no spot where thtiu and I 
Together for an hour could breathe : 
Farewell ! I will uot see thee die — 




With swordless belt, and felter'd hand. 




Oh, Christ ! that thus a sou should stand 




Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 


But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head- 
Away ! 1 cannot spe;(k the rest : 
Go ! woman of Ihe wanton breast ; 




And hear the sentence of his ire, 




The talc of his disgrace ! 


Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 




And yet he seems not overcome, 


Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give." 




Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 




X. 


XIII. 




And still, and pab, and silently 


And here stem Azo hid his face — 




Did Parisina wait her doom ; 


For on his brow the swelling vein 




How changeil since last her speaking eye 


Throbb"d as if back upon his brain 




Glanced gladness round the glittennj room, 


The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 




AVhere high born men were ))roud to wait — 


And therefore bow'd he for a space. 




Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 


And pass'd his shaking hand along 




Ikr gentle voice — her lovely mien — 


His eve, to veil it from the throng ; , 




And gather from her air and gait 


While Hugo raised his chained hands, | 




The graces of its q teen ; 


And for a brief delay demands 




Then,— had her eye in sorrow wept, 


His father's ear : Ihe silent sire 1 




A thousand warrioi-s forth had leapt. 


Forbids not what his words require. J 



144 



PARISINA 



" It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by Ihy side 
All redly through the battle nde, 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hind 
Hath shed more bio id in cause of thine, 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which I Ihanii thee not ; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot. 
Her sligh'ed love and ruin'd name, 
Her offspring's heriiage 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 o'her victim of thy pride, 
Thou know'st for me was' destined long. 
Thou saw'st and coveled'st her charms - 
And with thy very crime — my birth. 
Thou taunted'st me — as little worih; 
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 sunniiers mine. 
My name should more than Este's shine 

Wi'h honours all my own. 

I had a sword — and have a breast 

That should have won as h lught ' a crest 

As ever waved along the line 

Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 

Not always kniahlly spurs are worn 

The brighiest by the betler born ; 

And mine have' lanced my courser's flank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank. 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of ' Esle and of Victory ! ' 

I will not plead the cause of crime, 

Nor sue thee lo redeem from time 

A few brief hours or d.ays that must 

At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 

Such maddening moments as my past, 

'J hey could not, and they did not, last. 

Albeit my birth and name be b.>se, 

And thy nobility of r.ace 

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 Ihee — this tamelessness of heart — 

From thee — my, wherefore dost thou start?— 

From thee in all their vigour came 

My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 

Tliou didst nit give me life alone, 

But all that made me more thine own. 

See what thy guilty love hath done ! 

Repaid thee with loo like a son ! 

I am no bastard in ray soul. 

For that, like thine, abhurrd control ; 

And for my breath, that hasty boon 

Thou gav'st 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 pist is nothing — and at last 

The fu'ure can but be the past ; 

Tet would I that I then had died : 

For though thou work'ds' my mother's ill, 

And made Ihy own mv destined bride, 
I feel thou art my father si ill : 

And harsh as sounds Ihy hard decree, 

'T is not unjust, although from thee. 



I 1 Hausht- 
I iMultiDg me.' 



Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
My life begun and ends the same: 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view. 
But God must judge between us too ! " 

XIV. 
He c?ased — and stood with folded arms, 
On %vhich the circling feters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded. 
Of all ihe chiefs thit there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting claok'd: 
Till Parisin ri's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die '. 
She sood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had lurn'd to ei:her side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close. 
Or shade the ghnce o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid. 
It was a thing to see, not hear 1 
And those who saw, it did surprise. 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — ihe imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat. 
Yet se"m"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 slone 
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 despiir. 
But yet she lived — and all too soon 
Kecover'd from that deathlike swoon — 
But scarce 'o reason — everj- sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense j 
And each frail fibre of her Ijrain 
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
The erring arrow lanch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
The past a blank, 'he futL'e black, 
With glimpses of a .-ireary track. 
Like lightning on the desert path. 
When midnight storms are mustering wra(h< 
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 firgolten : — 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 alljarr'd and wandering mind; 
A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
And now in laughter, now in tears, 
But msdly 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 slowj 
In the grey square turret swinging. 
With a deep sound, to and fro. 



PARISINA. 



145 



Heavily to the heart they go ! 

Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
The son:; for the dead below, 
Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 

For a departing being's soul 

The d^ath hymn pe^ls and the hollow bells knoll : 

He is near his mortal goil ; 

Kneeling at the Friar's knee: 

Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 

Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 

With the block before and the guards around- 

And the headman with his hire arm ready, 

That the blow may be both swift and steady, 

Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 

Since he set its edge anew : 

While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 

To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 

XVI. 
It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shiU 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 chestnut hair 
CurI'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 hst minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 

'T is done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parrsina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eves the kerchief tied j 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelinss seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renew'd. 

When headman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind i 

As if they dared not look on death, 

'• No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands arechain'd — but let me die 

At leist with an unshackled eye — 

Strike : " — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accen's Hugo spoke : 

"Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'M and heaving trunk, 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died, as erring man should die, 

Wilhnut display, without parade; 

Meekly hid he' bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 



And while before the Prior kneeling. 

His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 

His wrathful sire — his paramour — 

What were they in such an hour? 

No more reproach — no more despair; 

No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 

Save the few which from him broke, 

When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 

He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 

His sole 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 ended ; 

And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 

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 sbock| 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill,— so passing wild? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow. 

To the sky these accents go. 

Like a soul's in endless woe. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's s-hriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, fmm 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 tears; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if. upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she siw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headman's shock, 

In quicken'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shattered frame. 

None knew — and none can ever know: 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Her life began and closed in woe'. 

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 smoiher'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended. 

And never smile his brow unbended ; 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wroofU 

The intersected lines of thought ; 



13 



10 



146 



THE PRISOJNER OF CHILLON. 



Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs urilimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirih or woe : 

Nothing more remaiu'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, 

Intensely thought — inteu-ely felt : 

The lee'pest 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, 
ilnd resting in iheir 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 j 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet ihem where 
United souls shall gladness share, 
With all .he consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
Yet Azo's age wis 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 wildly free: 
But If the lightning, in its wrath. 
The waving bough's with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON: 

A FABLE.i 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal Spirit of the 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 mirlyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Cbillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



When this poem was composed, I was not suffi- 
ciently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
have endeivoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
to celebrate his courage and his virtues. With some 
account of bis life I ha've been furnished, by the kind- 
ness of a citizen of that republic, which is still proud 
of the memory of a man worthy of the best age of 
ancient freedom : — 

" Francois de BnnDivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, ori- 
ginaire de Sfyssel rt Svigneur de Lunes, iiaquit en 1496. 
II fit 8e« eludeii a Turin: en 1610 Je.in Aimr de Bf:uui- 
Tard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieurc de Si. Victor, qui 
aboulis-ait anx murs de Geneve, et qui furmait uu bene- 
fice considerable. 

"Ce grand homme — (Bonnivard merile ce litre par la 
force de sun arae. la droilure de son i oeiir, la nob'esse de 
ses intentions, la sagense de ses conseils, le courage de sea 
deraarcties. I'etenclue de ses conuaissances, el li vivacile 
de son esprit).— re arand homme, qui excilera I'admiia- 
tinn de tons ceux qu'une vertu heroquc peut encore emou- 
Toir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance itans leg 
coeurs des GeneTois qui aiment Geneve. Bonnivard en 
fut tnujoura un des pins fermes appuis : pour assurer la 
liberie de uotre Republique, il ne trait^iiil pas de perdre 
■ouvent la si^-nne ; il oublia s'ln ri-pns; il meprisa ses 
richesses; il ne negligea ricn pour atlermir le bnnheur 
d'une patrie qu'il houura de son choix : des 



Lord Byron wrote this beautiful poem at a smal 
I In the little village of Oucliy. near I.auganHe, wlie 
I btppeoed. in June, 1816, to be detained two days by i 
j of weather.— E. 



la cherit comme le plus z^ de ses citoyens ; il la eervit 
avec I'lnlrepidited'un heros, et il ecrivil son Hisloire : 
la naivete d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'uii palriote. 

"II dil dans le commencement de non 
Deve, que, det qu*il cut commence de lire Vhistoite de$ 
nationst il se aentit entraine par sun euut pour let Re- 
publiquet. dont il cpousa tovjours let intertts : c'est ce 
gout pour la liberie qui lui fit sans doute adopter Geneve 



Hist'iire de Ge- 






ipair 



•' En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie : Le 
Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avcc cinq cent 
hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressenlimenldu Due; il vr 
lut se retirer a Friboarg pour en eviter les suites; mi 
il Tut irahi par deux hommes qui racrompagnaieul, 
conduit par ordre du Prince a Grolee, nu il restu prisonnier 
pendant deux ana. Bonnivard elait malheureux dans ses 
voyages: comme sea malheurs n'avaient point ralculi son 
zele pour Geneve, il elait toujours un ennemi redoulal'lu 
pour ceux qui la menacaienl. et par C(in8equpnt il devait 
etre expose a leur» coups. II ful rencontre en 1530 sur le 
Jura par des vuleurs, qui le depouillerent, et qui le mirent 
encore entre les mains du Due de Savoye: ce Prince le lit 
enferraer dans le Chateau de Chillon, ou il resia saus etre 
iolerroge jusques en 16S6; il fut alors delivre par les Ber- 
n:.i8. qui s'emparerent du Pays de Vaud. 

"Bonnivard, en eortant de sa caplivite, eut le plaisir de 
trouver Geneve libre et reformee : la Republique s'em- 
pressa de lui temoi^ner sa reconnaissance, et de le ded<-m- 
mager des maux qu'il avoit soufferts; elle le recut Bour- 
geois de la ville au mcis de Juin. 1536; elle lui donna la 

I maison habilee autrefois par le VicaireOeneral, et elle lui 
assipua une pension de deux cent ecus d'or tant qu'il 

leejournerait aGeneve. II fut admis dans le CoDseil de 
DeuxCent en 1537. 

I "B.inuivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile: apres avoir tra- 
vaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tolc- 
raiile. B.)nnivard entagea le Conseil a accorder aux eccle- 

I siastiques et aux paysans un lems suflisant pourexsminer 

lies propositions qu'on leur faisait; il reussit par sa < 
ceur : on prei he toujours le Christianisme avec succea 
quaiid on le preche avec charite. 

"Bonnivard ful savant - ses manuscrits.qui soni dans la 
biblioiheque publique, piouvent qu'il avail bien lu 
auteura classiqiiea Latins, et qu'il avail appriifondi la Iheo- 
V>gie et I'hislorie. Ce grniid homme aiinait lea sciencea, 
et i! croyait qu'ellea pouvaient faire la gloire de Gen< 

; ausst il ue n.-gligea rien pour les fixer duns cetle ville i 
sanle; en 1551 tl donna sa bit^liothequeau public ; elle fut 
le commencement de notre biblioiheque publique; et cm 
livres snnt eo parlie les rares et belle* etiitioua du qaia- 

i zieine siecle qu'on voit dans notre collectioo. Enfia, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, 



147 



rtant la meme annee, ce brn patriDte institua la Republiqu 
•ot herilierr, a conUilion qu'elle employcrait see bieUH 
entretenir le college doi.t ou pr<ijettdil la fondalion. 

II parail que Bonuivard mourut en 1670: iaa.:a on n 
peut ra8»urer. parceqj'il y a une lacuna dans le Secrc 
loge depuia le moia de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1S71." 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



I. 

My hair is zrey, but mt with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single nighl,i 
As men's have gi-ov%-n from sudden feam . 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they h ive been a dunjean's spoil, 

And mine has been the late of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and birr'd — forbidden fare; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the slake 
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 ngej 
One in tire, and two in tield, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd. 
Dying as their f ither died, 
For the God their foes denied j — 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

11. 
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And throush 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 drnop'd and died. 
And I lay living by bis 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 m hand, but pined in heart ; 
'T was >till some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To heaken to each other's speech. 
And eich turn comforter to each 

1 Lodoviro Sfnrza. and others. — The same is a.<«erted of 
Marie Antoinette's, the wife of lyiiiis the Si.\leenth, 
though not in quite eo bhort a period. Grief ia vaid to 
have the same elTect : tu such, and uut to fear, this change 
is 4«r« was to be attributed. 



With some new hope, or legend old, 

Or song heroically tjolj ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a drwry tone, 

An echo of the duuiteon stone, 

A grating soun3 — 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'niother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress'd 
I'o see such bird in such a nest j 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful tome 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till Its summer 's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The sr.owclad oirspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in bis natural spirit gay. 
With tears for mught but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhoiT'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his fi-ame, 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 withei'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in soo'.h did minei 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a honi= so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

L^ke Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth tielow 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-while battlement,! 

Which round about the ivave inthrals. 

IThe Chateau de Chilton 
and Villeneuve, which last 
Lake of Ueneva. On its 1 
Rhone, and oppo.site are the heights of Meillerie and the 
ranee of Alps above Boverel and St. (Jingo. Near it, ( 
a hill behind, is a torrent: below it. waebing its walls, the 
lake has been fathomed to the depth of SOD feel, French 
measure : within it are a range of dungeons, in which the 
early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of slate, were 
confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with 
age, on which we were informed that the condemned 
were formerly executed. In the cell» are seven pillars, 
or, lather, eight, one being half merged in the wall : in 
some of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered: 
in the pavement the steps of DonniTard have left their 
traces. He w s confined here several years. It is by 
this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his 
Heloise, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie 
from the water; the shock of which, and the illnesa pro- 
du'-ed by the immersion, is the lause of her death. The 
chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great dis- 
tance. The walls are while.— [•• The early history of 
this castle," says .Mr. Teniiant, who went over it in J 



lory of 

nisn. 



THE P RISONER OF CHILLON. 



A double dungeon-will and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below ihe surface of the lake 
The dark vault lijs wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er nur heads it knock'd ; 
And 1 have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the birs when winds were high 
And vvan;on in the happy sky ; 
And then the very rock halh rock'd, 
And I have felt ii shake, unshock'd, 
Because 1 could have smiled to see 
Tiie death that would have set me free. 

VII. 
I said my nearer brother pined, 
I Slid 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 goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's 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 bad grown cold. 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steej) 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 mv bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop"d for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spired my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and bid him there: 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love j 
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. 
The infant love of all his race. 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his miijht be 
Less wretched now, and orje day free; 
He, too, who yet hid held un ired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, loo, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 



-in, I believe, involved in doubt. By some historians it 
is said to be bnilt in the year 1120. and actorrting to others, 
in the year 1236 ; hut by whom it was built seems not to 
be known. It is said, however, in hi.story. that Charles 
the Firih. Duke of Savoy, stormed and took it in 1536; 
that he there found great hi<lden treasures, antl many 
wretched beings (iiuing away their lives in the.se frightful 
dungeons, imoiigst whom was Ihe good Bonnivard. On 
the pillar to whi.h this unfurluiiale min is said to have 
ben . htined. I observed, cut out of the stone, the name 
of one whipie beiutifiil poem has done mwh to heighten 
the interest of this dreary spot, and will, perhaps, do 
more towards resouing from oblivion the names of • Chil- 
ton' and ■ Bonnivard.' than all the cruel eutferings which 
ihut iniuied man endured witbiu Us damp and gloomy 
walla."] — E. 



Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul lake wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

1 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slowi 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so lender — 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 aw:iy 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all Ihe most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

1 lislen'd, but I could not hear — 

I caird, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I calPd, and thought 1 heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound. 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breith 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 had ceased to breathe : 

I look thit hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not' strength to stir, or strive, 

But fell that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

1 could not die, 
I had no ear hly 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 lo>sof light, and air, 

And then of darkness too: 
I had no Ihousht, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was. scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey, 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even Ihe dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness— vvithout a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time- 
No check — no change — no good — no crime - 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stignant idleness. 
Blind boundless, mute, and motionleat I 



A light broke in upon my brain,- 
It was the carol of a bird ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



149 



It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song eir 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 foud and t^vme, 

And lamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that s.iid a thousand things. 

And seeni'd to say them all for me ! 
I never siw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was no* half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so agiin. 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back" to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! 1 could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For— Heiven 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 lo 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 cor-e wiihin its shroud. 
Lone — as a soli'ary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That halh no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XL 

A kind of change came in my fate. 
My keepers grew compas^ioflate; 
I know not wlnt had made ihem so. 
They were inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfa^teu'd did lemiin, 
And it was liberty to s'ride 
Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every pirt; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Retuning where my walk begun. 
Avoiding only, as I trod. 
My brothers' graves w ithnut a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
I My breath came gas- ingly and thick, 
' And my crush d heart fell blind and sick. 

XIL 
I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not Iheret'rom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole eanh would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I 
No partner in my misery ; 



13* 



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 eye. 

XIIL 
I saw Ihem — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in trance; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high— their wide long like below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
1 heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-wali'd distant town, 
And whiter siils go skimming down; 
And then there was a litile isle,» 
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 if blew the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle brealh and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all; 
The eagle rode ihe rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when 1 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 opprest. 
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 thern of their dreary mote; 
At last men came lo set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fctler'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus v% hen they appear'd at last 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A he milage — 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 inmaies of one place, 
And I. the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — ye', strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew fr ends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



1 Between the entrancen of the Khone nnd Villenetive, 
not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only one 
I rould per'eive, in my voyage round and over Ihe lake, 
viithin its cirrumference. 'it contains a few trees(I th ok 
not above three), and from its singleness and 
Bize has a peculiar effect opun the view. 



150 



BEPPO. 



BEPPO:* 
A VENETIAN STORY. 



Rttmtini. Farewell. Monsieur Traveller: Lonk. you lisp, and wear strange 
own country s be out of love with yi>ur Kalivily, and almoiit clndi- Gml for ma 
I will scarce think that you have swam in a Guiii 



You Like It, Act IV. Sc. 



Annotation of the Commentators. 



limes, and -wu tbei 



BEPPO. 



I. 

'T is known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Calh ilic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
The people lake their fill of recreaiion, 

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However hi?h their rank, or low iheir station, 

With fiddling, feasting, dancins, drinkin;, inasquing, 

And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 
The moment night with dusky mintle covers 

The skies (and the more duskily the better) 
The lime less liked by husbinds ihan by lovers, 

Begins, and prudery tlings aside her fetter; 
And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
And there are songs and quavers, ro-»ring, humming, 
Guitars, and every olher sort of struiniuing, 

HI. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical. 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, wjih feats eymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee doodles, and'Hindoogj 

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. 

IV. 

Tou 'd better walk about besirf with briars. 
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon fri irs. 
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 caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 



But saving this, you may put on whafe'er 
You like by wav of doublet, cape, or clo-ik. 

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 name in softer accents spoke. 

For, baling Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that 's call'd '• Piazza" in Great Britain. 

VI. 
This feast is named Ihe Carnival, which being 

Interprefed, implies " farewell to flesh :" 
So caird, because the name and thing agreeing. 

Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 
But why they usher Lent with so much glee in. 

Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

1 Written at Venice io October, 1817, and Tublished ic 



I 'T is as we take a glass with friends at parting. 
In the stagecoach or packet, just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes. 
And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes. 
Because they have no sauces to Iheir stews, 

A thing which causes many '■ poohs" and "pishes," 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse), 

From travellers accuslom'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

I VIII. 

And therefore humbly I would recommend 

'■ The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
The sea, to bid Iheir 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), 
Keichup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord 1 a Lent will well nigh starve ye; 

I 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 i'n sin on a ragout — 

Dine and be d d 1 I don't mean to be coarse. 

But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 



Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore, 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 

And at the moment when I fix my story, 

That sea-born ci;y was in all her glory, 

XL 

They 've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still ; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill j 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's 

(The best 's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 

They look when lenning over the balcony. 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XH. 

Whose tints are truth and beauty at Iheir 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: 
'Tis but a portrait of his son and wife. 
And self: but such a woman ! love in life ! 



BEPPO. 



I5ll 



XIII. 
Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, ihal fine uanie, 
But something better still, so very real. 

That the sweet model must have been the same; 
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or sleal, 

Wer 't not impossible, besides a ^haule : 
The face recalls some faca, as 't were with pain, 
Y>: once have seen, but ne'er will see again j 

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, uor shall know, 

Like the lost Pleiad i 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 siy, they're mostly very pretty, 
And rather like to show it, more "s the pity 1 

XVI. 

For glances beget ojles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
Which flies on wings of lightheel'd Mercuries, 

Who do such things because they know no better; 
And then, God knows what mischief may arise. 

When love links two young people in one fetter. 
Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, 
Elopenieuls, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

XVIL 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdeniona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
And tn tliis day from Venice to Verona 

Such m liters may be probably the same, 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suifocale a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a " cavalier servente." 

XVIII. 

Their jeilousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of^a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty dtvil of Othello's 

Which smothei-s women in a bed of feather, 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows. 

When wearv of the matrimonii! tether 
His head for siich a wife no mortal bothers. 
But takes at once another, or another's. 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 

Vou should not, 1 '11 describe it you exactly : 

'T is a long cover'd Iwat that 's conmion here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but cmpaclly, 

Row'd by two rowers, each cili'd •' Gondolier," 
It glides along the wa;er looking blackly. 

Just like a coffin cbpt 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, 
Thev wait in their dusk livery of woe, — 

But not to them do woeful things belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral 's done. 



XXI. 



li'Quae M-ptem dirl sex tanien esse solenf."— OVID. 



But to my story. — 'T was some years ago, 

It may be thirty, foriy, more or less. 
The Carnival was ai its height, and so 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
A certain lady went to see tlie show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please. 
Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXI L 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a "^ertam age,'" 

Which yet the nioat 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. 

xxin. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and lime velurn'd the compliment, 

And treated lier genteelly, so that, dre.-s'd. 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went; 

A prettv woman is a welcome guest. 
And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent ; 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman — 't is convenient, 
Bec^iuse in Christian countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
Whereas if single ladies play the fool, 

(Unless within the period intervenient, 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 

I don't know how they ever can get over it. 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 

And when he lay in (juaraiitine 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 iiierchan; trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, cali'dmorc briefly, Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He was a man as duskv 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 ihe. although her manners show'd no rigour. 

Was deem'da woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVIL 

But several years elapf ad since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt. 

And did not like the ihoughts of steering hODie; 
And there were several ofler'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 
Thit they should never more each o.her see, 

(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
! Which I have known occur ir two or three), 

When kneeling on the shore upiin her sad knee. 

He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 



152 



BEPPO. 



XXIX. 
And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of weiring weeds, as well she might; 
She almnst Inst all appelile for victual, 

And could not sleep w ith ease alone at night ; 
She deem'd ihe window frames and shutters brittle 

Against a daring housubreiker or spri e, 
And so she thought it prudent to connect tier 
With a vice-huiband, cfiitjly to protect Iter. 

XXX. 

She chose, (and what i; there Ihej^ will not choose, 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 

Till Beiipo should re urn from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man tome women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb w IS he by ilie public voice ; 

A Count of wealth, they said, as vvell as quality. 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a Count, and then he knew 

Music, and dancing, tiddiing, French and Tuscan; 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 
For feiv Italiins speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura ! ' 

XXXII. 

His " bravo" was decisive, f )r that sound 
Hush'd " Acidemie" sigh'd in silent awe ; 

The fiddlers trembled a^ he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's delected flaw ; 

The " prima donna's" tuuefo.1 heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah I " 

Soprano, basso, even Ihe contra-alto, 

Wish'd hiin five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronised the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italiins can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield Ihe palm to that which France has; 
In short, he was a perfect cr.valiero, 
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 ns, 

Wax to receive, and marble to relain. 
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 heid, however sage and steady — 

Wifii 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 wai:ed several years already ; 

And really if a man uon't let us know 

That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God kn iws, it is a grievous sin,) 

'T is, I may say, permitted to have Iwo men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But " Cavalier Serventes" are quite common. 
And no one notices nor cares a |)in ; 

And we may ciU this (not to say the worst) 

A tecond marriage which corrupts the first. 



xxxvu. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a " Corlejo "» 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though 

In short, it reaches from the Po lo Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such 

Or « hat becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXX VI II. 
However, I still think, with all due deference 

To the fair si7igle part of the creation. 
That mariied ladies should preserve the prefereice 

In t€le-a-lele or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or ^iny other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease. 
And being natural, naturally please. 

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 Perlness, and half Pout ; 
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there 's barm in 

What you, she. it, or they, may be about, 
The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
Beoides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 
But " Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who says 

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 sbawl. 

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 lo walls) from tree lo 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, 
lu vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about. 

Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
I know loo that, if s'orp'd upon my route. 

Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — 
In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray, 

XLIIL 
I also like to dine on becaficas. 

To see the sun set, sure he 'II rise to-morrow. 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eve in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t'hiniself ; the day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced lo borrow 
That sort of f irlhing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 

XLIV. 
I love Ihe language, that soft bastard Latin, 

Which mels like kisses from a female mouth, 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 

With syllables which br&aihe of the sweet South, 
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 

That not a single accent seems uncouth, 



1 Cortejo is prnnonnced Corte?!o, with on aspirate, ac- 
cording to tlie Arabesque guitural. It means what tber« 
is as yet nu precise name Tor in England, tliough the 
practice is as commoa as in aoj tramoataoe country 
wliatever. 



BEPPO. 



153 



Like our harsh northern whistlinj, grunting guttural, 
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 

XLV. 
I like the women loo (forgive my foil}'). 

From Ihe rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, 
And large black eyes that ria-h on you a volley 

Of ravs that say a thousand thinjs at once, 
To the iiigh dama's brow, more melancholy. 

But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance. 
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes. 
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XLVI. 
Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty didst thou not inspire 
R'lphael,' who died in thy embrace, ani vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeath'd us? — in what guise, 

'I hough flashing from the fervour of the lyre. 
Would wends describe thy pnst and present glow, 
While yet Canova can create below r 3 

XLVII. 
" 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) j 
I like a parliamentary debate. 
Particularly when 't is not too late; 

XLVI 1 1. 
I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; 
I like a beef steik, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weaiher, 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 mtion's debt, 

Our litlle riots just to show we are free men, 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 
All these I can forgive, and those forget. 

And greatlv venerate our recent glories. 

And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 



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 aulhur's ease. 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 



Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Musts 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 sencimentalism, 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 

(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 
And take for ihyme, lo hook my rambling verse on, 

The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 
And when 1 can't find that, I put a worse on. 

Not caring as I ought lor critics' cavils ; 
I 've half a mind to tumble down lo prose. 
But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIIL 
The Count and Laura made (heir new arrangement, 

Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 
For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 

They had their little differences, too; 
Those jealous whitTs, which never any change meant; 

In such atlairs 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 gentlemiu was fond, the lady fair. 

Their chains so slight, 't was not worth while to 
break them : 
The %vorld 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' baita. 



1 For tlie received accounts of the cause of Raphael's 
d?ath, see his lives. 

a (In talking thus. Ihe writer, more especially 
Of women, would be un^lerstixid lo say, 
He speaks as a spectator, nut ofHcially, 

And always, reader, in a mntlesi way ; 
Pertiaps, loo, in no very ereat degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without Ihe sex, our sonnets 
Would seem ur.flnish'd, li'ie Iheir uiitrimmM bonnels. 
(Sign;d) Prinler's Devil. 



LV. 



ing: Oh! 
What would youth be without 1 



fhat without our youth 



It they were yoi 

Would love be I 
Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, t'-uth, 

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 

of few things experience don't improve. 
Which is. perhaps, the reason why old fellowi 
Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVL 
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 lo Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 

Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only diflTerence known between Ihe cases 
Is — here, we have six weeks of '• varnished faces." 

LVII. 
Laura, when dress'd, 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. 

LVIIL 
They went to the Ridotto ; — 'i is a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 
Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball. 

But that 's of no importance to mv s'rain ; 
'T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 

Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain ; 
The company is " mixed " (the phrase I quote it 
As much as saying, they 're below your notice) ; 

LIX. 

) ' For a " niix'd company" implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more 



154 



BEPPO. 



Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 

The rest are but a vulgar sel, the bore 
Of public places, where they basely brave 

The hshiooable stare of twenty score 
Of well-bred persons, call"d " The W^.rld :'''' 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 

Uf imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 
Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By I'Jve, or war, aiid now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knocked his army down with icy hammer, 

Slopp'd by the ehments, 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, 

Because, were I to ponder to intiniiy, 

The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 
She rules the present, past, and all to be yet. 

She gives u- luck in loiteries, love and marriage ; 
I cannot say that she 's done much fnr me yet ; 

Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 

How much slie 'II make amends for past miscarriage 
Meantime the Goddess I '11 no more imi>ortune, 
Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 

This story slip' for ever Ihrouzh my fingers, 
Because, ju-t 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 lime and tune like public singers ; 
But if 1 once eet through my present measure, 
I '11 take another when I am next at leisure. 

LXIV. 
They went to the Ridolto ('I is a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 
Just to divert my thoughts a'liltle space, 

Because I 'm r.alher hippish, and may borrow 
Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 
Slackens iis pace sometimes, I 'II 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 whi-^pers. others sjieaks aloud ; 

To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 
Compliins of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 

Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
She then survevs. condemns, but pi'ies still 
Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 

LXVI. 
One has false curls, another too much paint, 

A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 
A fourth 's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, 

A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 
A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh's thin muslin surelv will be her bane. 
And lo ! an eishlh appears,—" \ 'II see no more ! " 
For fear, like Banquo's kings, II ey reach a score. 



LXVII. 
Meantime, whib she was thus at others gazing, 

Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
She heard the men's h^lf-whisper'd mode of prai^ng. 

And, till 't was done, de:ermiiied not to stir ; 
The womeu only lliought 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. 

LXVIII, 
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

Why naughty women — but I won't discus* 
A thing which is a scandal to the land, 

I imly don't see why it should be thus; 
And if 1 were but in a gown and band. 

Just lo 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-dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 

With pertinacity that 's raiher rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad. 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of Iheir wives is sad ; 
'T is said they use no better than a dng any 

Poor "Oman, whom they purchase like a pad 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em. 
Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum." 

LXXI. 

Thev lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gayly 
As is supposed the case with northern nations,* 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 

Their davs are either p.assd in doing nothing. 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

LXXII. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they don't aifect the muse; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism. 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harems learning soon would make a pretty scbiaaa ! 

But luckily these beauties are no " Blues ;" 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
"That charming passage in the last new poem ;' 

LXXIU. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme. 
Who having angled all his life for" fame, 

And getting but a nibble at a time, 
I Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
! Small " Triton of the minnows." the sublime 
j Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool '. 

LXXIV. 
A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 

The approving " Good " (by no means goal m law) 
Hummin? like Hies around the newest blaze. 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
Teasing with blame, excrucia'ing with praise, 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
Translatins tongues he knows not even by letter, 
And sweating pi.iys so middling, bad were better. 



BEPPO. 



155 



LXXV. 
One hates an aulhor that 's all author, fellows 

In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jeslous. 

One don't know what to say to them, or think, 
Unless '.0 puff them with a i)air of bellows ; 

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 
Tbesi unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of the?e same we see several, and of others. 
Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, KogerSj Moore, and all the better brothers. 
Who thinK of something else besides Ihe pen ; 

But for the children of the "mis;hty mother's,'' 
The would-be wits, and can'tbe gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tei is ready," 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussul women 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 't would almost be wor^h 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 gases, 
No metaphysics are lei 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 1) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasor.s, you no doubt suppose, 

And a!, perhaps, they' would not highly flatter, 
I 'II 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 laugh than scold, though laughter 

Leave* us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, 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 wi'h such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you bath, and both shall have my praise: 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy 1 — 
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 pletse to stare, you 'II 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 

E'en at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

Lxxxn. 

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 liltle pale. 



Lxxxin. 

I 've seen some balls and revels in my lime. 
And stay'd them over for some silly reason. 

And then I look'd (1 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 pleasin?, and who still may please on, 

I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn), 

Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawo. 

LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I '11 not mention, 
Although I might, for she was nought to me 

More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see; 

But wriling names would merit reprehension. 
Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 

At Ihe 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 daylight after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a bill. 

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
And they the room were on the point of quitting. 

When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 

Is much thesame — the crowd, and pulling, hauling. 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws. 
They make a never intermitted bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keei) the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing. 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 

LXXXVU. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last. 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 

Discussing all Ihe dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by Ihe side of her Adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVHL 

"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
" Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for njyself to crave 

Its import ? But perhaps 't is a mis'ake ; 

I hope it is so ; and at once to waive 
All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 

You understand my meaning, or you sfiall." 

" Sir," (quoth the TTurk) " 't is no mistake at all, 

LXXX IX. 

" 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 outiighl; i^ 

They only call a little on their saints, ' i 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; ! 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and spl inkling -| 
f ces. 

And culling stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 

She said, — what could she say ? Why, not a word i 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The s'ranger, much appeased by what he heard ; | 

"Such things, perhaps, vve 'd b. st 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." 



156 



MAZEPPA. 



xci. 

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 

A beverage for Turks ana Christians both, 
Although the way they make it 's not the s ime. 

Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
To speak, cries " Beppo 1 what 's your pagan name? 

Ble s me ! your beard is of am;izing growth ! 
And how came you to keep away so long ? 
Are vou not sensible 't was very wrong ? 

XCII. 
"And are vou really, tntly, now a Turk ? 

With any other women did you wive? 
Is't true thev use their fingers for a fork ? 

Well, that 's the prettiest shawl — as 1 'm alive ! 
You 'II give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so manv years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver? 

XCIII. 

" Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I hid forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? 
How do I look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord! how giey it 'sgrown: 

XCIV. 

What answer Beppo made to these demands 

Is more than ! 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 T\ith 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, is 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. 

XCV I. 
Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten !) cash 

He then embark'd with risk of life and limb. 
And got clear off, al 'hough the attcn)pt was rash ; 

He said that Providnice protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing— lest we clash 

In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 
Set snil, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

xcvn. 

They 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 1 've forgot 'em. 

However, he got off by this evading. 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot bim j 

And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, bouse, and Christian name. 

XCVIH. 
His wife received, the patriirch 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 smallclothes for a day : 
His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 

Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay. 
With dinners, vthere he oft became the laugh of them. 
For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er bis youth had suffer'd, his old age 
With wealth and talking made him some a 

Though Liura sometimes put him m a rage, 

I 've heard the C'lunt and lie 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. 



MAZEPPA/ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

"Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gen- 
lilhomme Polonais. nomme Mazeppa, lie dans le pala. 
tinat de I'odiilie: il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casi- 
iiiir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque leinture des belles- 
lettres. Une intrieue qu'il eut dans sa jeune^se avec 
ia femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete decou- 
verte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, 
et le laissa al er en cet etat. Le cheval, qui elait du 
pays de I'Ukraine, y relourna, et y porta Mazeppa, 
demi mort de fatigue et de faim Queiques paysans le 
secoururent : il resia longlems parmi eux, et fe signala 
dans plusieurs courses conire les Tartares. La supe- 
riorite de ses lumieres lui donna une grande considera- 
tion parmi les Cos.iques : sa reputation s'augmentant 
de jour en jour, obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de 
I'L'iraine."— VOLTAIRE, Hist. de. Charles XII. p. 

" Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue 
sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son 
sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a 
cheval, dans la fuite, ce cnnquerant qui n'avait pu y 
monter pendant la bataille."— P. 216. 

1 Written in the autumn of 1818, at Ravenna. 



"Leroi alia par un autre chemin avec queiques cava- 
liers. Le carrosse, ou il etait, rompit dans la marche ; 
on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'e- 
gara pendant la nuif dans un b 'is ; la, son courage ne 
pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, les dou- 
leurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par 
la fatigue, son cheval etant tombe de lassitude, it se 
coucha queiques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger 
d'etre surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui Je 
cherchaient de tous cotes."— P. 218. 



MAZEPPA, 



I. 

'T was after dread Pullowa's day. 

When fortune left the niyal Swede, 
Around a slaughtered army lay. 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war. 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men. 
Had p.ass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year. 



MAZEPPA. 



157 



Should give to slaugliter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name; 
A greater wreck, a deeper Ml, 
A shock to one — a tbuuderbolt to all. 

II. 
Such was the hazard of the die ; 
The wounded Charles wa- taught to fly 
By day and night through field and flood, 
St'ain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 
For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
Ambition in his humbled hour, 
When truth had nought to dre-id 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 fores s, darkling 
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling- 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay liis limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiti' — his limbs were stark- 
The heavy hour was chill aid dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid; 
And thus it was ; but yet through all. 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill. 
His pangs Ihe vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 

III. 

A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it; but Ibis 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. 
Amoni the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold ; 
But first, oulspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse. 
And made for him a leafy bed, 

And sinooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 

And slaik'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 spiri'ed and docile too ; 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and s'rong of limb, 
All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
And knew him in Ihe midst of all : 
Thoush 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 haa well withstood — 
K still the powder fill'd the pan. 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabres hilt and scabbard felt. 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 



And next the venerable man, 
Frou} out his havresack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stcck 
And to the monarch and his men 
The w hole or portion ofter'd then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a Ijanquet 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 fiim of heart and strong of band, 
In skirmish, march, or lorage, none 
Can le«s have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birlh, 
Since Alexander s days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
AH Scy'hia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
M izeppa answcr'd — "III betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! " 
Quoth Charles — " Old Helman, wherefore so, 
Since thou hast learn'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 ease. 
Beyond Ihe swift Boryslhenes : 
And, Sire, your limbs have need of rest. 
And i will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop."— " But I --equest," 
Said Sweden's monarch, " tht^J wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this Ihe boon of sleep ; 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

" Well, Sire, with such a hope, I 'II track 
My seventy years of meuiory back : 
I think t was in my twentieth spring,— 
Ay, 't was, — when Casimir »vas kiug — 
John Casimir,— I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age : 
A learned monarch, faith I was he, 
And most unlike your majesty ; 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lo<e them back again ; 
And (save deba'es 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 somelimes these so froward are, 
They made him wish himself at war; 
But soon h s wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
All Warsaw galher'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 jous's and mimes, 
Where eveiy courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ; " 
And he was proud, ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he hid been sent 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 



1 Tlii» comparison of a ••$atl-m\ae" may, perhapi, 
permitted to a Hole, as the wealth of the couLtry 
greatly in the salt-mioes. 



14 



158 



MAZEPPA. 



And lie would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 

He thought their merits were bis own. 
His wife was cot of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew diily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears. 

To viituc a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual cliances. 
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 
Uf these, who have deserved them most. 

V. 
" I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say. 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me; 
For / had strength, youth, gaiety, 



For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavowed 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compire my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind. 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 

But let me on : Theresa's form 
Methiiiks it glides bef.)re me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 

The memory is so quick and warm; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye. 

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood. 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light. 
Like the first moonrise of 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 s'ake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As thouih 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. 



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. 

VL 
" We met we g.azed — I siw, and sigh'd. 
She did not spesk, 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 miuds} 
Conveying, as the electric wire. 
We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 
And still reluct mt distance kept. 
Until I was made known to her, 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then 

I long'd, and 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 ne while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chmce, which 1 forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to her, and oh '. to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I vvatch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 

Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers 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 1 i^ten'd — 't is enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuif. 

VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 

They tell me. Sire, you never knew 

Tliose 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 yoi; 
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 ciiuld not o'er myself evince 
The like control — But to rCiume ; 

I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in ])aiD.— 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Wliich led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights 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, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gtft of youth and health.— 
We met in secret— doubly sweet. 
Some siy, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not tha — 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 wc could only meet by stealth. 



MAZEPPA. 



159 



VIII. 
*♦ Tot lovers there are many eyes, 
And such there were on us ; — the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I 'm 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-apie 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 almoat on the break of day j 
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 deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath ! with a page — perchance a kmg 
Had reconciled him to the thing; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I fell — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 
•' ' Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brought ; 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'T was but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane. 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born wns led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng. 
Upon his back with many a thong; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dish ! — 
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 diy. 
And on he fnahi'd — away ! — away ! — 
Tne last of human sounds which rose. 
As I was dirted from my foes. 
Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
Which on the wind cnnie roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout : 
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 
And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And, wriihing half my form alioul, 
Howl'd back niy curse' ; but 'midst the tread. 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 



I paid it well in after days : 

1 here is not of that caslie gate. 

Its drawbridje and portcullis' weight, 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 

JS'or of its fields a blade of giass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 

Where stood ihe hearth-stone of the hall; 
And manv a lime ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was ! 
I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
Their crackling battlements all clett, 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From oft' the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thousht that day of pain. 
When lanch'd, as on Ihe lightning's Hash, 
They bade me to destruction d.ish. 

That one day I should come again. 
With twice five thousand horse, lo thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank : 
At length 1 play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

'Ihere never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong 

XI. 
"Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind. 

All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling souuJ the nii^ht 
Is chequer'd with the northern light: 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlcmeDt 
On distant heights of some strong hold. 
Against the Tartars built of old. 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod. 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and grey. 

And a low breeze crept moaning by^ 

I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we tied, away, away — 
And I could neither sish nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon Ihe courser's bris'ling mane ; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his fir career : 
At limes I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slacken'd in his ^peed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spiir became : 
Each motion which t made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice, — 't « as 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, cozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
And in my tongue Ihe thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

" We near'd the wild wood — 't was so wid 
I saw no bounds on either side ; 
i 'T was studded with old stuidy tree*, 
That bent not to the roughest breeze 
Which howls down from Siberia's irute, 
And strips the forest in its haste, — 



160 



MAZEPPA. 



But these were few, and fir between 
Set thick filh shrubs more young and green, 
Luxuriant »ith iheir annual leaves, 
Ere strown by th >se au umnal eves 
That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
Discolour'd with a lifeless red. 
Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
Upon the shin when battle's o'er, 
And some long winter's night hath shed 
Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
So coli and stark the raven's beak 
May peck uiipierced each frozen cheek : 
'T was a wild waste of underwood, 
And here and there a chestnut stood. 
The strong oik, and the hardy pine; 
But fir apart — and well it were. 
Or else a ditferent lot were mine — 
The boujhs gave way, and did not fear 
My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wound's, already scarr'd wiih cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled thri ugh the leaves like wind. 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By niijht 1 heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
Wiih their long gallop, which can tire 
The houi.d's deep hate, and hunter's fire; 
Where'er we flew they follow'd on. 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At day-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how 1 wish'd for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courier's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
H id 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 still— 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XllL 
" The wood was past ; 't was more than Doon, 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
Pnilong'd endurance tames the bold ; 
And I was then not what I seem. 
But headlong as a wintry sVeam, 
And wore my feelings out before 
I well could count their causes o'er: 
And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
The tortures which beset my path, 
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
Thus bound in nature's nakedness; 
Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
When slirr'd beyond its calmer mood. 
And trodden h<rd upon, is like 
The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 
What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
The earth give way, the skies roll'd round, 
I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
But err'd, for I was faslly bound. 
My heirt turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
And Ihrobb'd awhile, then beat no more ; 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
Which saw no firlher: he «ho dies 
Can die no more than then I died. 
O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 



I felt that blackness come and go. 
And s:rove to wake ; but could not maks 

My seuses climb up fnm below : 

I telt as on a plank at sea. 

When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 

At the same lime upheave and whelm, 

And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 

My undulating life was as 

The fancied lights that flitiing pass 

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, 

D) ing, to feel the same again ; 

And yet I do suppose « e must 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 

No matter; I have bared my btow 

Full in Death's face — before — and now. 

XIV. 

" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 

Life resumed its lingering hold. 

And throb by throb : till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse. 

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chil! ; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang. 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 
And ihicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 
S'udded with stars ; — if 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 arid silent shore- 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 

My stiffen'd limbs were rebnptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
And dashes off the ascending waves, 
And onward we advance I 
We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear, 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; 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 strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 
Spreads through the sh'dow of the night. 

And onward, onward, onward, seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams, 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light. 
As rose the mnnn 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 hospitnble star ; 
Not even an ignis-faluus rrse 
To make him merry with my woes: 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
Althouzh detected, welcome still. 
Reminding me, through every ill. 

Of the abodes of men. 



iMAZEPPA 



161 



XVI. 
"Onwjrd we went — but slack and slow j 

His sava^^e force at length o'erspenl, 
The drooping courser, faint and bw, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me : 
His new-b^ru tameness naujlit avail'd *- 
My liir.":/! wen bound ; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble etfort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly lied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the ille strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolong'd iheir pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas 1 he came ! 
Metbought lli it mist of dawning grey 
Would never dapple into day j 
How heivily it roUd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Ro^>e crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And cali'd the radiance from Iheir cars, 
And fiird the earth, from his deep throne. 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 

rv'ii. 

" Up rose the sun ; the mis's were curl'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around —'behind — before ; 
What boo'led 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 air was mute ; 
And not'an insect's shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb uor thicket. M.nny 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, 
Me:hought I ueard a coui^er neijh, 
From out yon tuft of bhckening'tirs. 
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 guioe ? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride I 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 
Mouths bhndiess to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod. 
And tianks 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 re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, 'feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh. 

He answer'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 

And reeking limbs immoveable, 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him s'oop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 
They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment herj and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound. 



Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seem'd the palriirch of his tretd, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
They snort — Ihey foam — neigh — swerve ;sija, 
And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. — 

They left me theie to my despair, 
Link'd to ihe dead and stitfeniog wretch. 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence 1 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 to twilight bound, 
I felt Ihe heavy hours toil round. 
With just en-iiigh of life to see 
My last of suns go down on me. 
In hopeless certainly of mind, 
That makes us feel at length resign'd 
To that which our foreboding years 
Presents the wor>t and last of fears 
Inevitable — even a boon, 
Nor more unkind for coming soon; 
Yet shunu'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, olt than he 
Whose heritiige was misery : 
For he who lialh in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new. 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as their nerves may be endued.) 

With nought perhaps to grieve : — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, lo his dislemper'd eyes, 
Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, repiir'd his fall ; 
To-morrow would have been Ihe first 
Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning yean, 
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 — st il 1 1 lay 

Chain'd to the chill and slitlening 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 bolh should die. 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
1 saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me'he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the sti 
But the slight motion of my hand. 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 



14 » 



11 



162 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE, 



The exerted throifs faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be cil ed"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 c»me 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 thri'll, 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 ? 
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, 
That watches me with gentle glance ? 

I closed my own again once more. 
As doubtful that my former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender »irl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
The aparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying elance 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 a'pproach'd, and made 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength shnuld 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 lo fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call. 

And she would not delay 
Her due return : — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX. 
" She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more ? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest. 
Since 1 became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brousht me into life again — 
Me — one day o"er their realm to reism ! 

Thus the vain f ^ol 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 lo a throne, — 

What mortal his own dooni may guess ? — 

Let none despond, let none despair 1 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I ^hall yield when safely there.' 
Comrades, good night ! "— The Hetman threw 

His length beneith the oak-tree shade. 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



1 "Charles, having perceived that Ihe day was Inst, and 
that his only <-hance nf safety wrs to retire with Ihe 
utmost precipitation, sutTered himself lo be mounted on 
horseback, and with the remains of his army fled to a 
place called Perewolochna, situated in the angle formed by 
the junction of Ihe Vorskla and the Borysthenes. Here, 
accompanied by Mazeppa, and a few hundreds of his fol- 
lowers, Charles swam over the latter sreat river, and pro- 
ceeding over a desolate country, iD .larger of perishing 
with hunger, at length reached the Bog. where he waa 
kindly reieived by Ihe Turkish pacha. The Russian en- 
voy at Ihe Sublime Porte demanded that Mazeppa should 
be delivered up to Peter, but Ihe old Helman of the Cos- 
sacks escaped this fale bv taking a disease which hastened 
his death." — BARROW'S Peter the Great, fp. 190 — 
203. — E. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE, 



'T is the sunset of life fives me mystical lore. 
And coming events cast their shadows before." 

CAMPBELL. 



DEDICATION, 



here 1 «as born, but where I would not die, 
Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
I dare to build Ihe imitative rhyme, 
Harsh